Page 146 of Only Mine
“You’re that internet girl, aren’t you?” She leans over the counter, squinting at me through rhinestone-studded reading glasses that hang from a beaded chain. “The one staying above Cornerstone?”
“That’s me. Wrenley Morgan.” I extend my hand, which she shakes with surprising strength.
“Maisy. Been running this merc since Nixon was president.” She eyes me up and down. “You’re prettier in person than on that phone screen. Less shiny.”
“Um, thank you?”
The bell above the door jingles as three leather-clad men enter, their motorcycles rumbling to silence outside. They’re massive, bearded, and covered in tattoos, the kind of men who’d make most people nervous.
Maisy doesn’t even glance their way. “You boys better have wiped those boots. I just mopped. Last time you were in here, you left mud all over my clean floor and scared Mrs. Hemsworth so badly she dropped a dozen eggs.”
The largest one, easily six-foot-five with a wild gray beard, looks sheepishly at his feet. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You filmed our Saint’s hands.”
Maisy jarring subject change almost makes me do a double take. I freeze, my credit card hovering between us. “Yes. That was me.”
“You’ve caused quite the stir around here. Not that I mind. It’s been a while since we’ve had a decent scandal. I was starting to get bored.”
One of the bikers chuckles, approaching the counter with a bag of beef jerky. “Miss Maisy loves her gossip more than her morning coffee.”
“Hush, Tank.” Maisy waves him off without looking away from me. “Saint’s been moping around town like a kicked dog for well over a week. Haven’t seen him this worked up since he first moved here.”
My stomach drops. “He’s moping?”
“Honey, that man’s been ordering his groceries for pickup instead of coming in here himself. That’s not normal behaviorfor someone who used to argue with me about the ripeness of my tomatoes twice a week.”
“I didn’t mean to cause any trouble,” I say.
Macy accepts my card and swipes it. “Trouble? That man’s been walking around like a storm cloud for three years. First time I’ve seen him smile was when you came into town.”
Another one of the bikers steps forward, his leather vest creaking. “You’re the one who made the pasta video?”
I nod cautiously.
“My old lady made me watch it six times.” He grins, revealing very white teeth. “Name’s Diesel. You’ve met Tank, and this here’s Crow.”
The third one nods, all three suddenly seeming less intimidating and more like overgrown teddy bears in leather.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“Saint’s good people,” Tank continues, grabbing another bag of beef jerky from the counter display. “Helped my nephew get a job at the restaurant when he was going through a rough patch. Kid’s doing real good now.”
Maisy hands me my receipt. “What Tank’s trying to say, in his roundabout way, is that Saint’s been alone too long. The man needs someone to ruffle his feathers.”
“I don’t think I’m the right person to ruffle anyone’s feathers,” I say, tucking the wine bottle under my arm. “I seem to cause more problems than I solve.”
Diesel snorts. “Lady, you got that man cooking again. Actually cooking, not just going through the motions. My buddy works the line at C’est Trois. Says Saint’s been whistling while he preps. Whistling.”
I have trouble picturing a Saint humming out a tune while using his sharp knives.
“Saint doesn’t whistle,” all four of them confirm in unison, Maisy included.
Tank leans against the counter, his massive frame making the wooden structure creak. “You know what he did last week? Sent the whole kitchen staff home early because they’d had a good service. Gave them all a bonus.”
“Again, not normal,” Crow adds, speaking for the first time. His voice is surprisingly soft for someone who looks like he could bench press a motorcycle.
Maisy adjusts her rhinestone glasses. “Then you posted that video, andpoof.Back to grocery pickup and scowling at anyone who looks at him sideways.”
