7. Tess
SEVEN
TESS
Most days in our family’s shop, I’m grateful for short breathers between customers. Brief moments when the baking’s complete, the display cases are stocked, and I can lean against the back counter and relax.
Today, those breaks mean questions from Wren. A line of cranky customers snaking out the door would be more relaxing.
She slides over next to me as soon as the bakery’s empty again. “What did he say when you gave him the cupcakes?”
I don’t need to ask who she’s talking about. Ian’s been her subject of conversation all morning.
“I already told you.” In the most innocuous way possible, but I should have known she wouldn’t give up her curiosity after I admitted I used to have a crush on him.
Used to is the part I’ve been reminding myself ever since our conversation last night.
“Yeah, but it seems like there would have been more to that.” That’s Wren, always digging for more.
“Nope, I pretty well covered it with his grumbled ‘Thank you.’”
The rest—his inability to remember if we’d dated and the tentative almost-smile he’d offered when I teased him about it—will stay with me.
“You didn’t say anything about his piercing blue eyes or devilish grin.”
He sure didn’t give me any devilish grins, but his eyes are just as intense as they used to be. Maybe even more so now that I’ve actually had them trained on me. Wait. I didn’t tell her any of that.
Wren’s looking at something on her phone, nodding in appreciation.
“I mean, look at the guy.” She spins the screen toward me.
I’m confronted with a version of Ian I’ve never seen before. Somewhere between the young man I’d crushed on and my haggard, unhappy neighbor, the picture legitimately makes me hold my breath. His jaw is covered in the barest stubble, his dark red hair just long enough to fall carelessly into his eyes. His face carries the lines of the man I know today, but he’s still got the bright spark of the younger man he was years ago. He’s grinning into the camera like he knows exactly how good he looks.
He’s also clinging to a rock face somewhere, shirtless and artfully streaked with mud.
I do not take in the planes of his pecs or his insanely muscled shoulders. I don’t notice how he’s holding onto the rock with one hand, his biceps in that arm bulging impressively. I don’t pay attention to the thick dusting of freckles that move from the tops of his shoulders down to his hands.
This image absolutely does not etch itself into my brain.
“When—” I swallow and try again. “Where did you find that?”
“Google is my best friend.” She waggles the phone at me. “There are a lot of photos like this. Want to see more?”
“I…” Do I want to see more photos of Ian Vaughn’s stunning chest and confident grin?
Yes, please .
But no. The last thing I need is to make things any weirder between us. Looking at photos of him…like that…could only bring on more awkwardness the next time we’re in the back yard together.
Not together. Just…you know. In the same place. On the lookout for rattlesnakes.
Wren smiles wider. “There are tons of articles about him, too. I didn’t read them all, but it sounds like he’s a pretty famous climber. Guide. Something. I wasn’t that focused on the details. Want me to send the links to you?”
“No.” I grab a disinfecting rag from the sink, wring it out, and start wiping down the gleaming countertops. “That’s an invasion of privacy.”
“I didn’t hire a private investigator to tail him. This is all public information.”
Still. Nothing about Ian currently makes me think he’d want me to know anything about him. He barely answered the basic questions I asked and seemed genuinely upset at the idea I remembered him from his last visit.
Although that could have been more from fearing we’d briefly dated than that I was penetrating his bubble of seclusion.
Ugh, no. Must use a different word in future.
“I’ll have them ready when you want them,” she says. “Or you could do like any modern woman would do to the man she’s interested in and look him up online yourself.”
I spin to face her. “I’m not interested in him.”
My gaze darts to the open doorway that leads to our friend’s gift store next door. With any luck, Hope’s got a customer or two in there to keep her busy so she can’t hear a word of this. I don’t need anyone else asking me pointed questions and leaping to their favorite conclusions.
Wren’s mouth twitches with smug satisfaction as though I said the exact opposite.
I relax my shoulders and ease the tension from my voice. I need her to understand and not turn this into something it isn’t. “Whatever he was like five years ago or fifteen, he’s not the same man anymore, okay? He’s grouchy and doesn’t want to talk to me, let alone…anything else.”
“You let me know when that changes.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if we had dated.” My stomach tilts, even though I have no idea exactly how he meant that. Bare minimum, it’s kind of a compliment. One that should not have popped into my head on repeat all night.
He as much as confirmed my suspicions he dated a bunch of girls when he was here last time around. I’ve been burned once by a guy like that. I promised myself I’d never repeat that mistake.
“It doesn’t matter anyway because I can’t date.”
Even if Ian were the kind of man I’m looking for—which he very vehemently is not—it’s still a non-starter. I have to put August first. Trying to have a romantic relationship would only get in the way of that.
Instead of taking my point and dropping the subject, Wren rolls her eyes. “Don’t start with the can’t nonsense. You can date. You just won’t. You ignore every man who comes in here and makes eyes at you over pie.”
I scoff. “Nobody makes eyes at me over pie.”
“Uh, yeah. They do. You just don’t register them. You haven’t paid attention to a guy in forever, and now one’s got you flustered.”
I say nothing for fear of proving her right. She’s not right. It’d be stupid to get worked up over a guy based on a crush over a decade old, on traits that are long gone. Almost-smiles and questionable flirtations are not a thing to obsess over.
So I keep telling myself.
“He’s not my type,” I say, tossing the disinfecting rag back into the sink.
Wren nods. “Okay. What is your type?”
I splay a hand, absolutely nothing coming to mind. I haven’t given it serious thought in so long, I don’t even know anymore. Nice? Funny? Sweet? But a guy who once dated my town’s population of young twenty-something girls and who now growls more than he talks is not on the list.
“See? He’s got you flustered.”
Kind of wish I’d thrown the disinfecting rag in her face.
The bell over the door chimes. I turn to greet our customer, and a tiny glimmer of sisterly spite flames to life inside me. Ha. Saved by the man who flusters Wren .
Shepherd Callahan lopes across the bakery to us, one hand shoved in his jeans pocket, the other brushing his ear-length dark hair out of his face. Both his arms are covered in tattoos, gray work with the occasional pop of color. His T-shirt has his bike store’s logo on it, a streak of dark grease marring the Get in Gear text.
Wren’s delight in poking at me snuffs out, her mouth tugging down. “Hello, Callahan.”
She bites the words out, greeting him against her will.
Shepherd gives her a curt nod. “Krause.”
“Hi, Shepherd.” I always try to be extra friendly with him to combat the “get out” vibes Wren gives off. “Good day?”
He approaches the counter in front of Wren, not me. “Busy week for rentals.”
His shop next door rents, sells, and repairs bicycles of all kinds. I’m not sure what tides him over in winter, but now that warmer days are here, I’d imagine he gets a lot of business.
“I need to come in one day this summer to get a bike for August,” I tell him.
“We have a few different beginner bikes that would be great for him. Training wheels and helmets too, if you want.”
Shepherd doesn’t look at Wren but probably knows already that she’s glaring. She’s had a hate-on for him for the last two years and doesn’t show any sign of giving up her grudge soon.
“Nice upsell,” she mutters.
“I’ll be in with him to pick something out.” I put on a cheery smile to make up for her snark.
He finally turns to her. “What’s fresh today?”
She huffs, spreading her arms out wide. “It’s all fresh every day.”
“Are you sure?” His mouth ticks beneath his short, dark beard, not quite allowing himself to smile as he challenges her.
They’re like children sometimes. They go through this back and forth every week, asking simple questions loaded with…honestly, I don’t even know what. Loathing? Business rivalry? Repressed attraction?
Wren might strangle me if I mentioned that last one. Still. The air gets charged whenever they’re together.
“Am I sure?” she seethes back. “Are you seriously that?—”
“Wren.” I don’t care if she has a thousand good reasons to hate him, she can’t take it out on him in our store. Positive reviews only in here.
She rests her fists on her hips in an unnecessarily aggressive stance. “I’m sure. That’s what we do here. We bake pies.”
Her voice has gone sugary sweet, more babyish than she’d ever speak even to August. Shepherd listens as though she’s not talking to him like he’s a toddler.
“I watched Tess make all the cupcakes and the peach, strawberry cream cheese, and chocolate mint pies. I made the blackberry, strawberry-rhubarb, and key lime pies. Is my first-hand account enough for you, or do you need a notarized statement of their freshness?”
“No, I’m good,” he says easily. He has to know his calm attitude only irritates her more.
She purses her lips together, most certainly holding back a retort about how he is anything but good .
“I’ll take one of the blackberry,” he says.
“A slice?”
“Whole, please.”
She boxes up a blackberry pie, her cheeks pink, hands trembling. She tells him the total, and he slides some cash across the counter. When she gives him his change, their fingers brush before he drops the money into the tip jar.
I don’t notice to be weird, but it’s happening right in front of me. My eyes have nothing better to observe.
“Always a thrill to see you, Krause.” He turns and nods my way. “Tess.”
I lift a hand. “See you.”
Wren stays perfectly still until he’s left the bakery and disappeared from view out the front windows. Once he’s gone, she exhales, shaking out her hands.
I step closer to her. “Did you still want to talk about men who make eyes at us over pie?”
The strange expression on her face hardens. “Oh, please.”
I wouldn’t normally push about imaginary romantic relationships, but after a morning of enduring the same, I’ve got a little to give back.
“He comes in every week like clockwork, but only on days you’re working.”
Her lips flatten into a hard line. “So he can be a jerk especially to me.”
“He always buys a pie you made.” At first it was just a theory, but now I’ve got ample proof.
She looks away. “Probably so he can do something weird to it. Like spit in it just to spite me.”
“How would that spite you?”
“Just stop. You know how I feel about him.”
Right now, when her face is flushed from talking with him, and a minute ago she shivered because their fingers brushed against each other? No, actually. I’m not sure how she feels about him.
“He stole our investor.” She returns to her favorite complaint. “He lied to me, lied to him, and ruined my relationship.”
We have very different opinions on how that all played out, but she refuses to see it my way. “You don’t know any of that.”
“It’s the only explanation for what happened.”
More accurately, the only explanation she’ll accept.
“You weren’t really seeing the guy,” I remind her gently.
She huffs, redirecting her frustration from Shepherd to me. “We’d only just started to get to know each other, but it could have been…the point is, I hate him.”
I’m not entirely sure this is hate.
“And we never needed that investor,” I add.
Mom would have rejected the idea outright if she’d ever heard of it, but Wren won’t give up her dislike for Shepherd. He’s the town villain in her mind, and that’s that.
“It’s the principle,” she says, crossing her arms over her purple Blackbird’s Bakery apron that matches mine. “He can’t be trusted. I hate his stupid, handsome face.”
Yeah. Not entirely hate.
She scowls harder at me as though that slip was my fault.
The chimes over the door ring again. I greet our new customers and lean in close to whisper into Wren’s ear.
“Maybe you should Google him.”
In the spirit of keeping things as normal for August as possible, we’re trying to have family dinners at Mom’s at least once a week. I was worried he would struggle with being in his old home and want to stay put, but I should have been more concerned about sneak attacks from my mother.
“I just wish you’d waited until you and August could find a place closer,” she says. “It’s hard having you so far from us.”
“They’re only ten minutes away.” Wren steals my answer before I can voice it.
Mom sends an affectionate look at August, who’s seated next to her and devouring the barbecue chicken salad she made. “Feels like more.”
I slump lower in my seat, the criminal who stole her grandson away. Wren nudges my shin under the table and gives me a bracing look.
I hate that I feel this guilty over something so perfectly natural. Wren’s twenty-eight, I’m a mom in my thirties—we’re grown-ups. Moving across town shouldn’t make us feel like we’re breaking the family apart.
“They couldn’t live here forever.” Wren’s defense isn’t just for August and me. As soon as she finds a place of her own, she won’t live here, either.
Mom makes a vague sound, all but admitting she doesn’t mind the idea of us living together forever. I’m sure it works for some families, but Wren and I have reached our limit.
“It’s so far out of town,” she says, even though the duplex is still within Sunshine proper. “I don’t like you being all alone out there. What if there’s an emergency?”
“We’re not alone,” August pipes up. He pauses long enough to lick his lips clean of barbecue-ranch dressing. He’s carefully eaten only the chicken and cucumbers out of his plate of lettuce and vegetables. “We live with Dutch and Ian!”
Mom’s gaze slowly tracks to me. “Is that right?”
“They’re our neighbors,” I explain before she can take August at his word. “They live in the other half of Amy and Jodi’s duplex.”
“You live next door to two men?”
August giggles. “Dutch is a dog.”
This clarification doesn’t seem to make things better in Mom’s eyes. “Tell me about Ian then.”
“He’s funny. He has a big beard and red hair, and he likes Mama and he can throw a stick really far.”
Thank you, precious child, for that unnecessary commentary.
“You hit all the important points, buddy,” Wren tells him with a grin.
Mom’s blond eyebrows lift practically to her hairline, and I can tell she’s got a hundred questions dancing on the tip of her tongue.
“He’s Amy’s nephew, and she vouched for his character. He’s pretty new to town and doesn’t know anybody here. We’ve had a couple of conversations in the back yard while August plays with the dog. That’s it.”
Best for everyone at this table to hear me loud and clear. Including me.
“I’m not sure I’ve met him.” Mom’s still watching me as though waiting for a big confession.
“You’ve probably seen him, though. He’s the guy with long red hair and a big red beard who looks like a Viking warrior.”
Wren’s ever so helpful. It’s my turn to nudge her shin under the table, but I add more zest to it than she did. She sticks her tongue out at me in return.
Because we’re grown ups.
“You said he looks like a pirate,” I mutter.
“Oh, he definitely looks like both.”
Mom’s gaze darkens as though she’s figured out who Wren means. “I don’t know how I feel about you living so close to…him.”
Her inflection makes me weirdly defensive. After our father left us when we were young, and later, when I came home pregnant on my own, our family battled countless whispers in this town. People judged us based on what little information they saw or heard. They filled in blanks from their own imagination, without ever knowing the real story. I wouldn’t have expected Mom to join that crowd based solely on someone’s appearance.
It took me a long time to hold my head high and refuse to let nosy townsfolk get the best of me. Whatever else Ian’s going through, judgmental stares and critical commentary are one more reason for him to avoid coming into town. People probably whisper about him, or even avoid him. All because his hair’s a little scruffy and he doesn’t hand out smiles like he’s running for mayor? Now more than ever, I see what Amy meant when she told me about him last month—he needs a friend. And I intend to be that for him.
He can fight my efforts, but I’m still going to try.
“Ian’s perfectly safe,” I tell her. “If anything, you should be happy we have a man living next door in case there’s an emergency.”
Even if I suspect Ian would ignore my screams for help, thinking of his eventual peace when a bear drags me off into the wilderness.