Chapter 4
four
. . .
Rhett
I slip my phone into my back pocket like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t.
Which is stupid
Talking to a woman on a dating app isn’t a crime.
Smiling at my phone because of said woman also isn’t a crime.
Feeling whatever that flutter in my chest was when I saw Bristol’s profile picture pop up?
That might be.
The heater hums behind the counter, the familiar scent of cedar, soil, and motor oil lingering in the air. This place has always been my anchor. My routine. My world in neat aisles and labeled drawers.
But right now my brain is still tangled up in the way Bristol tried to be casual but maybe wasn’t. Or the way she admitted—without meaning to—that she signed up partly out of obligation, and not because some lonely part of her might’ve been hoping for a nudge.
Not that I’d know anything about that.
I wasn’t lonely. I had plenty of friends. And family.
So why did I really sign up for the dating app?
Maybe because it felt like everyone in this town was falling in love around me.
“Morning, Rhett,” calls Mr. Willis, shuffling in with a busted snow shovel and a look that says don’t you dare upsell me. “Got anything that won’t snap in half the minute it touches ice?”
I move into autopilot— pointing out the reinforced models, and carrying one down from the display wall for him. We talk about the storm coming in and how long it will take the town council to fix the pothole out on the main road into town the last storm left behind.
He happily pays for his new shovel and leaves satisfied.
The minute the door closes behind him, I pull out my phone and check to see if Bristol is still online. She’s not.
Probably back to the library, maybe shelving books or helping someone find their next favorite read.
I picture her doing just that. Soft and caring voice, thoughtful eyes, well-manicured hands with fingernails painted in cute little Christmas designs. And damn if I don’t feel an unfamiliar warmth settling in my chest.
I rub a palm over the back of my neck and blow out a breath.
How long has it been since a woman made me feel this way?
Reba, the hardware store cat, jumps up onto the counter and purrs loudly, begging for my attention.
“I already fed you breakfast,” I remind her while petting the top of her head.
She meows and turns her face to the side, looking like she’s judging me.
“Don’t you start,” I warn.
The phone in my hand dings.
An alert from the dating app pops up.
You have a new message
My heart does a silly little flutter.
I click on the notification and read Bristol’s message.
Mistletoe_Reader: Okay. I’ve been thinking about this fancy algorithm.
Do you actually trust it?
Like—really trust it?
Because I’m looking at your profile again and, um..
I guess I’m just trying to picture how someone like you ends up matched with someone like me.
I know you said you looked at my profile but, if I’m being honest here, Rhett, you look like you belong on the cover of one of the books I shelve. All broad shoulders and confidence and “I can fix anything” energy.
And I’m not that at all.
I’m curvy.
Introverted.
Nerdy.
Quiet unless someone gets me talking about books or coffee or library funding proposals.
I’m not really buying it.
Her message is like a sucker punch to my chest.
She’s judging herself, and I haven’t even said a word.
I scroll back up, reread her words. My thumb hovers over the keyboard. This isn’t the time for teasing or witty one-liners.
I tap out my reply carefully and honestly.
RedBarnRhett: First, I don’t know a damn thing about algorithms. But I know that Luke’s app has yielded a lot of people some pretty incredible results.
Second, I think you’re underestimating yourself. Curvy and introverted aren’t turn-offs.
Honestly. You’re the sexiest damn woman in Mistletoe Bay.
You look at me and see a guy worthy of a book cover, but I’m no Prince Charming. I’ve got flaws too.
I look at you and see someone smart, funny, and sharp. Someone who notices the little things.
I’m not looking for a girl on the cover of a book or magazine. I’m looking for a woman who is going to hold me to a higher standard because she knows what those damn Booktok Book Boyfriends are capable of. Someone who believes that two small-town people are worthy of their own happily ever after.
I’m relieved that she replies almost instantly.
Mistletoe_Reader: Rhett Jennings. What do you know about Booktok?
I chuckle out loud.
RedBarnRhett: Do you know how many videos my sister has sent to me with that one lumberjack guy? So many that now half of my For You Page is filled with all sorts of Booktok shenanigans.
Tell me you’re not looking for a masked hero, though.
Biker? I could handle that. I’d go out and buy a Harley right now and learn how to ride.
Just please don’t ask me to wear a mask. Not yucking anyone’s yum, but masks give me PTSD.
I hit send, lean back against the counter, and wait for those three little dots to pop up.
When nothing appears, my stomach does a slow, confused twist.
Okay.
She’s probably busy.
Library things. Patrons. Book carts. Whatever happens in a library this time of day.
I scratch Reba behind the ears, pretending to look casual, like I’m not checking my phone every five seconds.
One second.
Five.
Ten.
Nothing.
Reba meows and bats at my hand, annoyed I stopped paying attention to her.
“Yeah, yeah. Join the club,” I mutter under my breath.
I glance at my message again.
Please don’t ask me to wear a mask. Not yucking anyone’s yum. Masks give me PTSD.
Was that too much?
Too weird?
Should I have just stuck to the “I’ll buy a Harley” joke and left it at that?
I scrub a hand over my jaw, exhaling hard.
What if the “sexiest damn woman in Mistletoe Bay” line was too forward?
What if I misread the tone and she’s sitting at her desk right now, totally mortified that I called her sexy?
God. Why am I so awful and awkward?
I have never had this problem before.
The bell over the door rings, and a customer comes in for a pack of sandpaper. I help him, then ring him up, answering a question about stain colors.
But every thirty seconds, my eyes flick down to my phone.
Still nothing.
I try to play it cool.
But I fail. Completely.
Because the truth is, I liked how she talked to me.
I liked the quick back-and-forth.
The way she teased me about BookTok.
And her honesty, the vulnerability, the way she trusted me with the parts of herself she clearly doesn’t show to most people.
So the silence now?
It hits harder than it should.
Maybe she got overwhelmed.
Maybe she re-read what she typed and regretted it.
Or did I cross a line?
Maybe she realized I’m just the hardware store guy and she could do better.
But she did say I looked like one of those guys on a book cover.
I lean both hands on the counter and drop my head forward with a low groan.
“Dude,” I mutter to myself, “you’ve only been talking to this woman for twenty minutes, tops. Get a grip.”
Reba jumps back onto the counter and headbutts my arm.
“Stop judging me,” I tell her.
The shop door opens again, and I look up, expecting another customer.
Instead my little sister, Gwen, strolls in, red curls bouncing, a drink carrier in one hand and a deli bag in the other.
“Morning, sunshine,” she announces, far too chipper for someone who’s been awake less than an hour. “I brought you coffee—black, like your soul, big bro.”
I wish I could sleep in late. I’ve been waking up with the roosters since middle school.
She plunks the cup onto the counter, then shoves the deli bag at me. “Turkey on rye. Extra mustard. If you don’t appreciate me, I’ll throw something.”
I blink at her like she has four heads. “Since when do I not appreciate you?” I ask, then promptly knock over the tiny flashlight display near the register by mistake. Shit.
She freezes.
Her eyes narrow, sharp with sibling radar.
“What,” she says slowly, “is wrong with you?”
“Nothing.” I grab the coffee, even though it’s hot enough to scald straight through my esophagus.
“Liar.” Gwen drops her giant tote on the counter and crosses her arms. “You’re doing the distant stare thing. The tight jaw. The internal crisis eyebrow scrunch.”
“I don’t have an internal crisis eyebrow scrunch.”
“You absolutely do.” She hops to sit on the counter and Reba—the traitorous little feline—immediately curls into her lap, purring like Gwen is her biological mother. “So? Did you finally sign up for that dating app?”
My jaw tics. “I never said I was doing that.”
“OH. MY. GOD. You did. I knew you would! Have you matched with someone already? Who is she? Do I know her?” The questions fire off like she’s got a semi-automatic gossip gun.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” She points at me like she’s presenting evidence to a jury. “I know you, big brother. Now spill.”
“There’s nothing to spill. You’re as bad as Evie whenever Hayes walks into Dockside and looks at Emmy.”
“It’s our little-sister radar. You’d think you’d be used to it by now.” She snaps her fingers in my face. “Anyway. Focus. Give. Me. All. The. Details.”
“No.”
She actually kicks her heels like a toddler about to melt down. “Come on, Rhett! I need something to distract me from the emotional devastation of my florist canceling. Do you know how stressful wedding planning is?”
“Florist disaster aside, how’s it going? What are we at—six and a half months out now?”
“Give or take. But it feels like time is running out to secure every vendor in New England.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “Speaking of, I finally snagged an appointment with Holly tonight. Should’ve gone to her from the start instead of hiring some fancy Boston florist I saw on Instagram.”
“Smart,” I say, because it is. Holly’s not just good—she’s Holly.
Gwen hesitates for a beat. I know that look. The soft lip bite. The widening eyes. The incoming favor.
“Do you think you could pick Matty up for hockey practice tonight?”
I arch a brow. “Can I pick up my adorable and talented nephew and take him with me to the hockey practice that I coach?” I deadpan. “I don’t know, Gwen. Sounds like a real hardship.”
“Rhett.” She whines it like she’s five.
“Yes, Gwen. I can take Matty.”
She beams, smug and satisfied with herself. As if I would have ever told her no.
I open my mouth to tell her I’ll pick him up at five when my phone buzzes on the counter.
It’s the new message alert from the app.
My pulse jumps. Which is ridiculous.
And Gwen notices. She never misses a damn thing.
Her eyebrows lift. “Is that the app girl?”
I ignore her, because the message preview alone sends my stomach dropping.
Mistletoe_Reader: Rhett, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t trying to ghost you. It’s just that the entire holiday display collapsed. There’s glass everywhere and a huge hole in the wall.
I called the Town Council office since they fund all our building maintenance. They told me to just call a handyman and send over the invoice.
But, who do I call?
It’s clear that she’s flustered and panicking.
And I was the first (well okay, the second) person she thought to message.
I’m already reaching for my tool belt hanging behind the register. “Gwen, you’re on store duty.”
She blinks. “Um—what?”
“Emergency at the library,” I tell her, while also typing a reply to Bristol.
RedBarnRhett: I’m on my way.