Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 44474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 222(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 222(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
“Be right there!”
I carried a box into the store, pausing to kiss Vicki’s cheek before rounding the register and setting my burden on the counter. I practically whimpered as I reached for the piping hot coffee and peeked into the bakery bag she’d brought me along with a mini container of her soup du jour. I cocked my head in wordless communication as I sipped the coffee.
“Leek and potato, garnished with rosemary, sage, parsley, and thyme. It’s life-changing, if I do say so myself,” she boasted, pulling out one of the stools behind the register to settle in for a chat.
“Splendiferous! I can’t wait to try it.” I peeled the top off and made a small production of sniffing the contents as per our usual morning routine.
Vicki had been bringing soup samples every day at eight a.m. since I’d bought the shop next door five years ago. I’d been too polite to decline her generous offerings at first, even though her admittedly wonderful specials like split pea and lentil with prosciutto were quite literally the last thing I wanted to eat that early on any day ending in Y.
I’d blown my top and told her how I really felt in December, which had only made me feel terrible in January. I’d had to grovel my way back into her good graces, and the price I paid now was soup. Every. Day.
On the plus side, she’d cut the portions and included a muffin and coffee, so no complaints.
The gold bangles on Vicki’s wrists jangled noisily as she lifted her cup to her red lips and eyed me over the rim. “How’d you sleep last night?”
“Fine. You?”
“Terrible. I dreamed that a giant squid slithered under the door and into my kitchen, then somehow ended up cooking in a pot on the stove. The squid seemed happy enough, but the whole town was up in arms. I agreed with them. I didn’t want to serve squid soup. I spent half the dream coaxing the squid to go read a book at your store,” she scoffed.
I chuckled lightly. “Sounds terrifying.”
“The worst part was that there was someone I wanted to talk to in the dining room, and I couldn’t get there. I thought it was your dad.”
My heart squeezed and contracted in my chest. I swallowed against the stab of pain as I picked a blueberry from the muffin top. “Oh.”
“But no…it was a cowboy,” Vicki continued, leaning across the scuffed wood counter, her bright-blue eyes twinkling mischievously. “Co-in-kee-dink? I think not. Did you meet that gorgeous hunk of man who moseyed into town yesterday? He popped into my store for lunch and popped directly into my dream.”
I coughed around a mouthful of coffee and reached for a napkin to dab the corners of my leaking eyes. “You don’t say.”
Vicki cackled merrily. “I do say! Something tells me you saw him too.”
“I might have caught a gander.”
She pursed her lips in barely contained glee. “Good gander, eh?”
“Uh, yes, as far as ganders go, it was more than satisfactory,” I replied awkwardly.
“Oh, Moody, you’re the best.” Vicki hooted, covering my hand with her manicured and heavily bejeweled one.
“Uh…thanks.”
A word about Vicki Sorensen Moody. She was a larger than life, former Vegas showgirl in her early sixties with red hair she usually wore in a loose bun. She had a heart-shaped face, mega-long lashes, and loved loud makeup and garish clothing. It didn’t matter that we lived in a tiny town where L.L. Bean casual attire made more sense than sequined jackets and faux-fur stiletto boots…Vicki didn’t subscribe to norms.
Moreover, she hated waste. She had gobs of gorgeous clothing from her former life and as long as she could squeeze her booty into her finery, she was going to damn well do so. Her words, not mine. My father had likened her to Ginger on Gilligan’s Island, the glamorous movie star who’d somehow found herself stuck on a deserted island, or in Vicki’s case, a showgirl stuck in a quaint town where it was Christmas every day.
Oh…one more thing: Vicki was my late father’s wife. Yes, my soup-loving, colorful friend was also my stepmom.
The super fun kind who supplied me with unsolicited condoms in spite of the fact that I was thirty-five years old and capable of purchasing my own—never mind that I hadn’t been on a date in ages. She also regularly brought me bottles of Pinot from her favorite local winery, even though I was a well-documented lightweight who preferred nonalcoholic beverages.
I amused Vicki, she befuddled me, and somehow that, plus a tight connection to a man we’d both adored bound us like peas and carrots, peanut butter and jelly, milk and cookies, and…you get the idea. Good thing too, since we practically lived in each other’s pockets.
Sometimes I wondered what my father would think if he could see us now, sipping coffee and chatting about cowboys and—