Page 9 of The Overdue Kiss

“The girl I brought in a few minutes ago.”

“I didn’t see you with any girl.”

I take a few calming breaths for self-control.

“You know who I’m talking about, Reese.”

This time she does stop to shoot me a bored look. “Why do you care so much? Weren’t you just on a date?”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

She groans. “Fine. You never want to talk about the juicy stuff. I’d tell you what was happening on my dates... if I had any.”

“Please don’t. I’m fine with not knowing.”

“You sure? I could fill you in on past boyfriends if you wish. You know Burns wasn’t my only boyfriend.”

When my lips twist in disgust, she grins. She knows exactly how to push my buttons as only a younger sister can.

“You’re an absolute pain. You know that, right?” I grumble.

“Yeah, but you love me anyway.” She bats her eyelashes dramatically.

I sigh because it’s true. Growing up the way we did on the church’s charity, community donations, and Granny’s jam business didn’t make us the most fashionable or popular kids in town. But as Granny used to say, family is the greatest treasure most people don’t know they have. At her funeral, Reese and I stood beside her grave with the truth of those words weighing on our hearts.

So, yes, my sister can be a pain, even a massive one at times, but she’s my only family I have left—and I’d do anything for her.

I stand and catch sight of my jacket on the desk, reminding me of Maya. Worry nips at the base of my neck. To be safe, I call the inn. Aunt Birdie picks up on the first ring.

“Storybook Inn, how can I help you?”

The warmth of her sweet voice clenches my heart. The cadence reminds me so much of Granny that it always takes my breath away. Though she technically isn’t my aunt, she insists Reese and I, and probably half the town, call her so. Her heart is as big as the state of Colorado, and she can’t help but reach out when she sees someone in need.

“Hey, Aunt Birdie.”

“Oh, why hello, Desi. Are you bringing my next crate by tonight?”

Here in Rocosa, Granny’s Jams was a household brand—and one my granny was famous for. The whole town loved the delicious jams she brought to potlucks and wrapped as gifts. She handed them out more often than greeting cards. For extra money, she later sold them to Storybook Inn to serve their customers. But there was something magical about Granny’s Jams, and customers started asking to buy them outright, so her hobby turned into a career. Our trailer always smelled of strawberries and blueberries.

When she passed, I couldn’t let my granny’s legacy disappear when she did. So I started making them myself using her famous recipe. At first I said they were excess stock, embarrassed what others would think if they found out it was me making them. Four years later, Aunt Birdie has still never questioned me about it.

But knowing her, she knows and is just too kind to say anything.

“No, not tonight. Maybe after the first week of school is over. I’m swamped with last-minute preparations.”

“Mm-hmm. There’s no rush, sweetie. I have one more case, but they are so delicious they usually sell out fast.”

I’m already adding ingredients to my mental shopping list. I’ll have to whip up some new batches on Friday or Saturday.

“I’ll stop by with it after church.” I set a reminder in my calendar.

“That would be perfect... but that’s not why you called, is it?” she asks, her tone knowing.

“Um, no. I was wondering if a woman stopped by in the last ten minutes.”

“Let me check the computer. Hmm... no, Desi. We didn’t have any new check-ins today. Should I be expecting someone?”

“She isn’t staying at the inn,” Reese casually interjects.

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