One

“I don’t usually do this.” Charley Scott stretched on her toes to reach the highest shelf. A long arm snaked past her to snatch the book. As it came down, she caught the faintest whiff of chocolate.

He handed the novel to her with one of those crinkly-eyed, knee-jerking grins only certain men can muster. “Do what?” he asked. “Strike up a conversation with a stranger or rattle off a list of suggested reading?” He leaned against a shelf of books and looked down at her with a mischievous spark in his brown eyes.

He was a good leaner. No, scratch that. A great leaner. He had that casual I’m-so-cool look down pat. It was hard to resist.

“No, I talk to strangers all the time.” She glanced at the book in her hands, at the elegant lines of the illustrated couple dancing on the cover. For a murder mystery, the colours were bright and cheerful, deceptively so. Discovering the shelf of books at the back of the convenience store slash coffee bar felt like finding hidden treasure. The selection consisted entirely of crime fiction and appealed to the local cottagers’ need for thrills at the dockside. “It’s recommending books that isn’t the norm for me.” Back in town for barely fifteen minutes and she was already slipping into old habits.

“Actually, I found it rather forward. I’ve always thought that one should at the very least” — he raised a finger to underscore his point, features perfectly serious — “have an intense, mind-blowing physical relationship before sharing the intimacies of one’s personal library.”

She laughed. “Nice line.”

He grinned. “Thank you.”

She took a breath of bracing, coffee-scented air. “Can I just remind you that you were the one who started the conversation?”

“Only to point out that you were blocking my way to Raymond Chandler. You don’t get between a man and the last copy of The Big Sleep.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, it just isn’t done.”

“You’re lucky it wasn’t on my list today.” She’d already deviated from her plan. But — she glanced at the mysteries crammed onto those few narrow shelves — wasn’t that what this summer was all about? Risk and adventure. “I’m a killer when it comes to books. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“Wait, wait. Hold it!” He waved an impatient hand. “You’ve read Chandler?”

“Of course. He’s a classic in hard-boiled fiction.” The 1970s edition had that unsettling and exotic cover image, featuring lush foliage and Venus fly traps. “Dark, smoky settings. Plots filled with deception and pain, not to mention a charismatic, mysterious hero. Glamorous femmes fatales. Brandy drunk ‘any way at all’ and all the time. Staccato sentences, like the firing of a gun.” She stopped, caught herself. “What’s not to like?”

He studied her in what could only be described as awe. “Hi, my name is Matt, and will you marry me?”

“I’m Charlotte, Charley for short, and I’ll have to think about that.” Grinning, she tucked the book under her arm. “Do you always propose this quickly?”

Matt scraped a hand over his chin. “This is pretty much the first time.” Casting a glance around the room, he added, “Look, if you don’t want to elope right away, at least let me buy you a latte.” He nodded at a cluster of empty tables by the window. “This place isn’t called The Coffee Nook for nothing. They’re brilliant. Java connoisseurs. Artists of the dark bean. I’d even wrangle some extra cinnamon for you, what do you say?”

Do not be charmed. “Tempting, if only I drank coffee. I prefer tea,” she lied. She loved lattes. But she couldn’t linger. She headed past the glass case of Chelsea buns and butter tarts, toward the cash.

He followed. “A parting of the minds. And I was beginning to think you were perfect.”

“Everyone has their faults.” And was that ever true. Watching the girl scan the price into the cash, Charley pulled out her wallet.

“That’ll be twenty dollars.” The girl behind the counter snapped her gum and looked at them with open curiosity.

Small towns. She’d almost forgotten what they were like.

Oakcrest had the pace of a country village, but the quaint specialty shops and vibrant arts community of a city. In the heart of the Kawartha countryside, the little village nestled on the shores of Blue Heron Lake, at a crossroads between barns and laneways, ploughed fields and sugar bush.

Only a two-hour drive from Toronto, the waterfront cottages, Adirondack chairs, and boats cruising by attracted weekenders to the peaceful getaway. The constant influx of visitors — arriving with the blackflies and staying until the first red leaves fell from the trees — provided locals with fertile ground for gossip.

Placing a hand on her arm, Matt took his own wallet out. “I got it.”

“Oh, no.” She shook her head. “You can’t. Did you hear the price?”

“It’s in my best interest.” He shot her his crooked smile. “You can repay me by buying me a cup of coffee.”

“An ulterior motive, I knew it! Sorry, but I don’t believe in debts.” She paid for the book and took the bag the girl handed to her. “Besides, that would have been a rotten deal for you, a cup of coffee in exchange for a hardcover book.”

She worked her way around swivel racks and chair legs toward the door and tried not to get distracted by the display of thrillers on the front table.

“That’s it?” He trailed after her. “Thanks, but no thanks? I’m sure they have tea, too.”

“I’m sure they do, but I’m still going to say no.” Charley turned around and smiled. “You seem nice, but that TV show about the psychotic bookstore owner has made me wary of charming men who read. It could be” — she held up the bag and quoted the title of the book she just purchased with a grin — “An Invitation To Die.”

A familiar sound came from the other side of the door behind her. A scrape, like nails against wood, and low to the ground. She was running out of time.

Matt glanced at the door. “So, you’re new in town?”

An easy guess. Her skin was several shades paler than his mid-summer tan. “You could say that.”

“Not a cottager though.”

“No.” Although, in a way, she was, wasn’t she? She had escaped the city to spend her holiday in a cottage. “Well, sort of.”

“‘Sort of a cottager.’ What does that mean?”

“Actually...” Should she? Oh, why not. She had to use every opportunity to advertise now. “I’m opening a pop-up gallery.” A warm glow of excitement spread through her.

Pop-up galleries hosted temporary exhibits in unexpected locations, like storefronts or studio spaces. She’d be able to show her work, without having the expense or commitment of a long-term lease. Although success ultimately depended on timing, marketing, and luck.

“Really? Where?” Another scrape, louder this time. And then again. Matt frowned. “What is that?”

“Who is that,” she corrected and opened the door with a flourish. She felt like she should be saying, ta da! “Meet Cocoa.”

The chocolate Labrador retriever wriggled with barely contained excitement.

“Cocoa?” The glint of amusement in his eyes earned him a demerit point, in her opinion. He asked, “Did she just knock at the door?”

“She thinks she’s a person.” Charley stepped out onto the porch and into a wall of heat, a contrast to the air-conditioned store, and felt the curls on her head expand with the humidity.

Sunlight glanced off the red brick facades of the old buildings, an unfiltered version of the smog-faded beams she’d left behind in Toronto. Narrowing her eyes against the glare, she glimpsed the wooden siding further down Main Street. The Oakcrest Mews. Her heart thudded against her ribs. Just nerves, that’s all.

Cocoa twirled in three tight circles and tried to lick Charley’s arm as she bent to untie the leash from the railing, making the whole thing more difficult. “She used to open doors, but I told her that was rude, and so she started knocking at them instead.”

“Clever.” He squatted down and held out a hand for the dog to sniff. “Well, hello.” He rubbed Cocoa’s ear and she gave what sounded like a canine sigh of bliss. Shameless hussy.

“Hey!” a man shouted.

Matt straightened. Cocoa tensed and strained against the leash, trying to get down the steps. Charley wound the leash around her hand, held on tight.

Was he yelling at them? Mid-seventies, the man had close-cropped grey hair and a crisp twill shirt rolled neatly to the elbows. He stormed down the sidewalk in their direction, scarred work boots pounding over the pavement. A flick of adrenaline shot along her spine.

But his gaze was fixed upon the man who had just stepped out of the bank. Doing his best to pretend he hadn’t heard, he fished his car keys out of the pocket of his dress slacks.

Charley leaned her elbows on the sun-cracked railing to watch. Cocoa sat at her feet, still keyed up and on alert. “Who’s that?”

“The angry-looking man is Thomas Kelley,” Matt said. “He moved here when he retired.”

The name gave her a jolt. Although she’d seen his artwork and spoken to him on the phone, they hadn’t met in person yet. His paintings had a restless quality to them, a carefully composed tension. And, right now, the full force of that tension was aimed at the man ahead of him. And there was nothing composed about it.

“The guy trying to make the fast getaway,” Matt said, “is Andrew Clarkston, CEO of Clarkston Engineering. He’s working on Thomas’s house. From what I’ve heard, things aren’t going moothly.”

In his early fifties, Andrew could have been a catalogue ad for business casual. But the slacks and button-down shirt couldn’t hide his powerful build.

Thomas caught up to Andrew by the Silverado pickup truck and clapped a solid hand on his shoulder, holding him in place. A tableau at odds with the picturesque storefronts around them. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he growled.

Andrew shrugged him off with a dismissive motion, more annoyed than defensive. “That’s absurd.”

Face flushed red, Thomas’s fingers balled. “I expect you to meet deadlines.” The moment simmered, one false move away from violence.

“Should we do something?” she murmured. They were the only witnesses to the scene unfolding on the sidewalk.

Matt looked at her, amused. “Like what?”

“I don’t know.” She waved an arm. “Get in there and break them up.”

He chuckled. “I don’t think they’re going to get into a fist fight.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it.”

Thomas stepped closer to the other man, his voice carrying clearly. “Let me remind you that you work for me.”

“Uh-oh,” Matt murmured. “He shouldn’t have said that.”

He was right.

Andrew bristled, raising his voice in response, “And let me remind you that, while I may be in charge of the project, there are things that are out of my control. Weather conditions. Subcontractors.”

“Weather conditions?” Thomas spread his arms. “It’s over thirty degrees and sunny and has been for most of the week. I’m tired of your excuses. Get the job done.” He punctuated the sentence with a jab at the man’s chest.

Andrew slapped his hand away. “Are you threatening me?”

“What if I am?”

She glanced at Matt. “Still so sure it’s not going to come to blows?”

“Less sure now,” he admitted.

Thomas clenched his fists. “I’d better see your men on site tomorrow, that’s all I’m saying.” A tense moment passed as the two men stared each other down. Finally, Thomas broke eye contact.

Andrew took a breath as Thomas strode away and glanced at them. “Guess you can’t make everyone happy,” he joked with a shrug.

In his position, she wouldn’t have taken it so lightly.

“Well, that was exciting,” she said.

Cocoa shifted, settling into a more comfortable position on the wooden slats of the porch.

Matt watched Andrew climb into his truck with an unreadable expression in his eyes. “Welcome to Oakcrest.” He turned to her. “Don’t let first impressions fool you. You’ll like it here.”

“I already do.” Oh no, did that sound flirty? “Caffeine and books,” she said quickly. “What’s not to like?”

“Exactly.” He gave Cocoa one last pat on the head. “It was nice meeting you. Both of you.” He grinned at the dog investigating his pant leg intently.

“Yes, it was. Come on, Cocoa.” The dog looked up at Matt adoringly. Oh God, she’d have to drag her away. “Fine,” she told her, “I’ll leave you here, then see what you do.”

“Don’t look at me,” he said to Cocoa. “I’d have to feed you steaks and French fries.”

The dog’s ears perked up.

“You’re not helping.” Charley had to walk all the way down the steps before Cocoa budged, making her feel like a spoilsport.

A warm breeze fluttered her skirt around her legs. Halfway to her Jeep, she turned back, just for a quick glance. It was fine. He’d be back in the store by now, getting that coffee. He’d never know she looked back.

She gulped. He was still standing there, beneath the yellow-striped awning, and had, in fact, noticed her look back.

Then again, he should be the one looking sheepish. She’d caught him watching them. But he just flashed another boyish grin and waved.

She would not let herself be charmed.