Chapter 1 #2
If her memory served, this was the youngest Steele brother. The rodeo clown—she corrected herself—the bullfighter. That was apparently what they wanted to be called these days.
Grace had heard through the impressive Cobbler Cove gossip grapevine, which knew everything about everyone in this town, that Dillon Steele, the middle Steele brother, had been putting up his younger brother out at his place for the last month while he recovered from knee surgery.
Reno.
His name popped into her head belatedly.
She’d also heard that he might be staying in Cobbler Cove long-term. The town’s gossips were split about 50/50 on whether his knee would recover enough for him to go back to getting chased around rodeo arenas by bulls.
Who voluntarily did such a thing, anyway? A faint shudder passed through her at the thought of being face-to-face with two thousand pounds of immensely strong, testosterone-fueled, bull-shaped rage.
Reno paused in the middle of the front room.
Took in the pastry case. Perused the chalkboard menu on the back wall.
His gaze landed on the bouquet of tulips she’d cut in her garden last night and arranged when she got a free minute this morning.
The brightly colored flowers formed a small, perfect mound on a cake stand at the end of the counter.
His gaze stayed on the flowers longer than most men’s did, and she thought she glimpsed his eyes registering pleasure.
From a bullfighter.
An image of Ferdinand the Bull, from the classic children’s story, flashed into her head.
She’d just read the book to Lily for the first time.
Her four-year-old daughter had been enchanted by the gentle bull who preferred to smell flowers but was chosen to fight in a bullring when he was stung by a bee.
Maybe today was just a day for weird things in her store.
“‘Morning,” he drawled. His voice was deep and had a slight, pleasant accent that might be Texan. Whatever it was, it fell easy on the ear.
“Good morning,” she replied, a bit flustered. “What can I get you?”
“I’d like a cinnamon roll. A big one, with lots of frosting.”
“They come with icing, but it’s slathered on generously. It’s one of our most popular pastries.”
“I’ll take one. And a coffee, black. And . . .” He paused, looking at the case with his head tilted slightly, as if he was listening to something he could barely hear. “Are you baking with rosemary today?”
Grace went very still.
How did he know that? Was he the person who’d slipped the rosemary under the counter?
He looked up at her. His eyes were dark brown, almost black, with crinkles at the corners that came from a lot of squinting against the sun.
He must have registered her abrupt stillness, for alarm crossed his face as if he sensed he’d done something to frighten her.
He took a quick step back from the counter with his good leg, his alarm replaced by concern.
“My apologies. Didn’t mean to startle you, Ma’am.”
“You didn’t. I was just surprised by your question.”
“My grandmother used to make the most amazing rosemary-garlic-parmesan bread, and for a second there, I thought I smelled it.”
“That does sound amazing. And it does smell like rosemary in here. But to answer your question, no, I’m not using any today.”
He looked over at the pair of big, glass-fronted coolers that contained cut flowers and a few modest bouquets for sale. He scanned the coolers as if he was looking for rosemary plants.
His gaze shifted back to her, and he didn’t fill the silence. He just stood there looking searchingly at her, waiting for her to speak or not as she chose.
She didn’t normally tell strangers her business, but for some reason, she found herself saying, “I came in this morning and the whole kitchen smelled like rosemary. I haven’t used it in five months. But I found three fresh sprigs of it tucked behind a table leg in the back.”
“Interesting. Did you file a report?”
“With whom?”
“The health department. Or maybe the police.”
“It’s three sprigs of rosemary.”
“Rosemary doesn’t generally walk into a kitchen by itself.”
“It doesn’t generally walk at all,” she replied dryly.
He shrugged. “Maybe a mouse carried it in.”
“I don’t have mice in my bakery!” she exclaimed. “I run a spotless kitchen and store all my foods meticulously.”
He took another step back, this time with his bad leg. It didn’t go well. The knee collapsed, he lost his balance, and his arms flailed as he took a couple of hops on his good leg. He finally got it under himself and rebalanced.
She lurched at his first stumble, instinctively reaching out to grab him even though he was too far away for her to catch.
When he was upright once more, he stared at her hands, outstretched across the counter, in surprise.
She looked at her hands as well, and it dawned on her how ridiculous it was of her to think she could grab onto and hold a grown man.
She was five-foot-three on a good day and had been described with words like “delicate” and “petite” her whole life.
Her hands fell to her sides awkwardly and she lifted her gaze to him.
He said ruefully, “Doc says it’ll take a few months for my leg to get full strength back. I aim to do it in a few weeks, though.”
“Are you supposed to be walking around on it like that?” she asked curiously.
He shrugged and answered evasively. “Doc said I could walk if I wear the brace.”
Uh huh. Sure. Her lips curved into the beginning of a knowing smile before she corralled them back into a neutral position. But he must’ve seen it for his eyes abruptly twinkled as if they shared a secret, now.
He said more seriously, “Do me a favor. If more rogue herbs make an appearance in your shop, tell the police.”
“I’ll be on the look out for sketchy herbs showing up.” She added lightly, “Last thing we need in Cobbler Cove is an outbreak of rogue herbs and spices.”
He smiled at her, and she about fell backward off her stool. Holy cow. That man’s smile should be registered as a lethal weapon.
She managed to choke out, “Let me pour your coffee and pack up your cinnamon roll.”
Doing the familiar tasks calmed her, and her pulse began to return to something resembling normal. She rang up the sale, handed him the bag and cup, and he handed her a twenty dollar bill.
She started to make change and he said, “Keep it.”
She looked up sharply. “That’s a twelve dollar tip.”
“You earned it.”
“For a cinnamon roll?”
“For a cinnamon roll and taking the piece of advice I’m about to give you.” He smiled faintly, only one corner of his mouth turning up, and only for an instant. “Get a camera over your back door.”
He picked up the bag and the coffee. “You have a good morning, Ma’am.”
He took two limping steps toward the door, then stopped and turned back. His expression had gone serious, the easy charm replaced with visible concern.
“And Grace? Don’t come in alone before sunup tomorrow if you can help it. Whoever left those sprigs knew exactly which counter you’d be working at this morning. They’ve watched you. They know your routine.”
He held her gaze for a beat longer than was comfortable, then tipped his hat.
When he turned and headed out, his limp was significantly more noticeable. The bell rang as he opened the door, and then he was gone.
Grace stood at the counter, still holding his twenty dollar bill and said, out loud to the empty shop, “My goodness.”