Page 15 of Justice & Liberty

Her shoulders drew forward and the newspaper trembled as she laughed. “What, like he’s Walter White? Funny thought, but no, I think there’s a minimum competence level for cooking meth without drastic accidents, and he’d never reach it.”

I smacked my hand over my face as my cheeks flamed, shaking my head. “No, not a TV show reference, though that’s...funny. Just, once in high school this guy she dated was doing that.”

Hunter dropped her head back and laughed aloud. “Let me guess, Barry Potter? Kid was always a miscreant in the making.”

Good to know that Barry’s reputation had preceded him. On the other hand, I did wonder how Hunter would know—“Wait, Hunter. Hunter Grant?”

She finally set her paper down, inclining her head and shoulders as though we’d just been introduced. “Eldest child and biggest disappointment of the Grant clan. And you are Justice Chesapeake Jones, daughter of the delightful Maggie Abernathy.”

I blinked at her use of my whole name. It wasn’t that I hated my name—the opposite, actually. I had always liked having a weird name no one else had. It was just that most people called me Jaycie and never knew the rest.

“That’s me,” I agreed. I decidedly did not tell her that I’d always thought the Grants’ oldest child, Hunter, had been a boy. She was ten years older than me, and clearly, my eight-year-old self had been missing out when she left town for college. “But I’m guessing you don’t work at the dentist’s office with your father.”

She curled her nose in distaste at the very thought. “Thankfully, no. I am, for the moment, marginally retired.” Inclining her head forward and tapping the head of her cane, which was propped against the table, she gave a nonchalant shrug. “Car accident stateside did what the IED in Fallujah couldn’t, and the agency offered me a desk or early retirement. I’ve always been a stubborn asshole, so I chose the latter. Figure I can find something better on my own.”

I didn’t know who “the agency” was, but the way she said it sounded vaguely ominous, like she’d been some kind of black ops secret agent kind of person. It was...surprisingly sexy, considering I’d never been much into any of those spy TV shows or movies. But they always starred some beefy guy who did and said vaguely sexist things, and still had every woman within a hundred miles trying to fall into his bed.

Not really my thing.

The sexiness here was probably just Hunter herself. She was in another suit, because clearly the woman knew what made her look good. This one was deep navy blue with a matching waistcoat, and a paisley tie in all shades of blue, the very lightest of which matched her eyes.

I shook myself out of what had been a blatant pause—a pause during which I had obviously checked her out. When I looked back at her, far from anything I might have expected, she winked at me.

Oh.

Oh my.

Bad Jaycie, you just got out of a terrible relationship. You do not want to get into a rebound fling with someone who lives in South Liberty. Especially not someone who seems so...much.

Finally, I cleared my throat and tried to get the conversationback on track. “Are you really expecting to find that ‘something better’ in South Liberty?”

She laughed at that, shaking her head. “No, not really. Iowa City maybe. Or more likely, online consulting. But I’ve only been back a few months. I’m still giving myself time to get through the regular physio and”—she winced as she shifted her left leg—“other stuff. Speaking of which, I’ve got a vested interest in that willow bark tea your mother used to sell, if you do reopen. Or just if you’ve got some lying around.”

Car accident, she’d said. It didn’t take much to imagine all that came from a thing like that. So I just nodded, and didn’t prod the subject any further. I would check for the tea when I went to the shop, which quietly moved up on my to-do list.

I didn’t want to let conversation die, though. I wanted?—

Her eyes fell to the book I’d carried in with me, and filled with interest. “Family heirloom?” she asked.

“Family heirloom,” I agreed, running my hands over the smooth leather. I bit my lip, looking up at her. She had known Mom. Known her well enough to care about her, and even show up at her funeral. Apparently, she thought that her pain relieving tea—the willow bark kind—was good. Plus there was just something about her that made me feel safe, which was weird. Not that beautiful women usually made me feel unsafe, but this was something new and different. I swallowed and looked back up at her. “I guess, um, Mom believed in magic? And it’s a book about...magic...stuff. In the family.”

Her pale blue eyes narrowed, and she looked down at the book for a moment. “A family heirloom indeed, then. Not that anyone in South Liberty would be surprised at the idea of your mother being magical. Nearly everyone in town swears by one of her teas or another, even if it’s just the Earl Grey with lavender.” She lifted her teacup, as though toindicate what was inside, and offered another wink. “They serve that here in the shop, call it a lavender fog, with lavender honey and milk. I should figure out how to make that myself too, since I spend a small fortune on the stuff here.”

Not so much as a blink at the magic thing, let alone laughter or disgust. Huh.

I tore the pastry in half, offering her the plate with the remaining half. Something about the idea of both of us getting our fingers sticky and then licking them clean was...

Gah. I needed to not do that, not think that.

No rebounds.

She gave me a wicked smile, like she could read my mind, and shockingly, she took the offered treat.

“I would seriously think about reopening the shop, if I were you,” she told me as she tore a strip off the croissant. “Even if you hire someone to run it, I think it could be a good investment. Almost everyone in town loves the place, and as Sabrina said, people drive down from Iowa City for it.” She stuffed the flaky pastry in her mouth, followed by the fingers that had been holding it, pulling them back out slowly, shiny with the moisture from her tongue.

Bad.

Bad Jaycie.

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