One
That meeting could've been an email.
Cassie Rutherford clicked "LEAVE MEETING" and took out her earbuds. Once she'd confirmed that her camera was off, the bright smile slipped from her face and she let her forehead thunk to the table with a moan.
What a week. And it was only Monday. She'd made a lot of mistakes in her thirty-one years of life, and of them all, this one was . . . well, it wasn't the worst one. But it sure as hell was the most recent.
Her life was chaos. Cassie didn't like chaos. She liked checklists. She liked the satisfaction of a job well done. She didn't like moving boxes filling every room of her new house, turning her morning routine into an obstacle course. She didn't like having no idea where her saucepans were, since they weren't in the box labeled kitchen. And she really, really didn't like waking up a half hour before an all-hands meeting with a dead laptop.
Most small Florida tourist trap towns had a schtick, and her new town had apparently been dubbed the Most Haunted Small Town in Florida. At least that's what the sign outside of the Boneyard Key Chamber of Commerce said. How many towns had been competing for that title? That was Cassie's question.
They certainly leaned in to it hard around here. Flagpoles lined the historic downtown sidewalks, each one featuring a banner with a classic-looking Halloween ghost: white, vaguely blob shaped, big black eyes. They fluttered in the early-morning breeze in the world's laziest attempt to be spooky. T-shirts hung in the window of the I Scream Ice Cream Shop that she'd passed this morning. I had a spooky good time in Boneyard Key, Florida! proclaimed one of them. Boneyard Key, where the chills aren't just from the ice cream! said another one. Both were illustrated with cartoonishly ghoulish graphics: a skeletal hand poking out of a grave, ice-cream cone in hand.
And this was all in April. This place probably went apeshit for Halloween.
Cassie's newly purchased historic cottage had gingerbread trim, little balconies off the upstairs bedrooms, a backyard that ended in a seawall bordering the Gulf of Mexico, and unreliable electricity. She'd left her laptop plugged in on the kitchen table last night, but this morning it was drained of all juice, like an electricity vampire had stolen it during the night. Thank God for Hallowed Grounds (man, this town really leaned in to the ghost puns); she'd found this coffee shop down the street just in time.
Cassie's ears were sore from her earbuds, and she rubbed at one while she reviewed her notes from the meeting. Doodles, mostly. She'd spoken all of twice. Once to chime in on the Farnsworth account, confirming that she was aware of the deadline and that she was on track to reach it. The second time toward the end of the meeting when her work bestie, Mandy, had asked about her move. Yes, the move had gone great. Yes, her house was right on the water, and she could hear the waves when she went to sleep at night. But then she'd seen Roz's expression pucker, even through the laptop screen, and Cassie had cut the nonwork-related conversation short. She'd update everyone in the group chat later.
And say what, though? Everyone wanted to hear good things. No one wanted to know what was really on her mind: that maybe she'd made the most expensive mistake of her life. One that was practically impossible to unwind.
God, she needed coffee.
Cassie closed her laptop and leveled a glare at what appeared to be the coffee shop's lone employee. Still on his goddamn phone, just like he was when she'd walked in. He was tall and lean, slim hipped in faded jeans and a gray pocket tee. His hair was on the long side, falling in russet waves around his face and over his forehead, matching his close-trimmed beard. She couldn't see his eyes, as his head was bent over the phone in his hands, thumbs flying across the screen.
He looked too old to be a Gen Z, TikTok-addicted kid, but his attention had been on his phone when she'd come in. Hadn't even looked up as she'd come barreling through the door. Hadn't said a word as she beelined to a table in the back with a blessed outlet nearby. As much as she'd wanted to fuel up before the meeting, she had just enough time to hook up, access the Wi-Fi from the card on the table, and get logged in. Caffeine had to wait.
A glance down at her laptop showed that it was charged up, so she should really get home. Get some work done. Find her saucepans. Figure out what was wrong with her house. Probably something wrong with the wiring that the inspector had missed, which was way beyond her scope.
Too bad houses weren't like other retail purchases. No returning it for a refund, even though she had the receipt. She was locked into a mortgage now.
At this point, she could just go home and make coffee, but dammit, that was boring, and she'd promised herself a little treat after the shitty start to the day. She could get a coffee to go; she deserved it.
Coffee shop guy looked up with distain as she approached the counter. "Oh. Are you actually gonna order something?" His voice was deeper than she'd expected, with an undertone of gravel. But all Cassie could see was blue. That clear crystal blue that made you think of Caribbean water. Of lab-created sapphires, because a blue that blue couldn't exist in nature. Damn, but this slacker barista had pretty eyes.
Then his words registered and she frowned, pretty eyes forgotten. "What do you mean?"
"I mean . . ." He jerked his head in a nod toward the table she'd just vacated. "You've been sitting there for almost an hour, using my Wi-Fi, without even so much as ordering a cup of coffee. This isn't a coworking space, you know. It's a business."
"Really? Damn." Cassie looked pointedly around the place. Empty. "Sorry to occupy your fanciest table."
His lips twitched, sending a thrill through her. She didn't like this guy; why did she care if he thought she was funny? "You want to order something or what?" Despite the almost-smile, his voice didn't sound much friendlier. Great.
"Iced latte, please. Hazelnut, if you have it."
"We have it." He sounded insulted that she implied otherwise. "Anything else?"
Her eyes strayed to the pastry case. It looked pretty picked over; this must be a popular breakfast spot. "Is that banana bread?"
"Yep." His voice was clipped as he moved to the espresso machine.
"And I was going to order when I got here, you know." She raised her voice over the hiss of the machine as he steamed the milk. "You had your face shoved in your phone. Maybe a little less time on Tinder and a little more time doing your job." The machine cut off, and she was suddenly yelling in the very empty café. The slacker barista didn't respond; he just shook his head, his back to her as he worked.
If Cassie didn't like chaos, she really didn't like being ignored. "I mean, what would your boss think . . ." There was a stack of business cards in a little plastic holder by the register, and she snatched one, reading from it. "What would Nick Royer think about your lack of service?"
"I dunno." He plonked the finished drink onto the counter in front of her, ice sloshing against the lid. "Why don't you ask him?"
His mouth did that almost-twitch thing again, and there was something in his eyes-those stunning blue eyes-that set off a warning bell in the back of Cassie's brain. But screw that-she was too annoyed to listen.
"Maybe I will!" She said to his back as he bagged a slice of banana bread from the pastry case. She grabbed a pen from the cup in front of her and flipped the business card over. "What's your name?"
"Nick." He tossed the banana bread onto the counter next to her iced latte. "Nick Royer."
Well. Shit.
Cassie looked down at her order. The iced latte was in a plastic cup, lid firmly on and a wrapped straw on top. The banana bread was in a little paper bag. He'd prepared her order to go without asking. He didn't want her there any more than she wanted to be there.
She looked back up at Nick. His arms were folded across his chest, biceps straining against the sleeves of his gray T-shirt. His mouth was set in a thin line, and his warm blue eyes now looked stone-cold. "That'll be seven fifty."
Her new life in her new town was off to a fantastic start.
Cassie reached for her drink while he ran her card, punching the straw in and taking a sip. She closed her eyes with a grateful sigh as caffeine sped through her bloodstream and her shoulders relaxed. The drink was perfect: just the right amount of hazelnut syrup, not too sweet, with enough bitter espresso to wake up her senses. This dickhead made a fantastic iced latte, which was unfortunate. She was going to have to keep coming back here, wasn't she?
She blinked her eyes open to see said dickhead holding her card out toward her. "Anything else?" The question was automatic; she was supposed to shake her head, take her stuff, and get the hell out.
But inspiration struck. "You don't happen to know a good electrician, do you?"
Nick stopped short, blinked at what had to be an unexpected question. "A what?"
"Electrician. Handyman. Someone who can tell me why half the outlets in the house don't seem to work."
He shook his head, baffled. "Can't you just message the owner?"
"The what?" Now it was Cassie's turn to be baffled.
"The owner," he repeated with exaggerated patience. This guy really didn't like her. "Through the app or whatever. You don't fix stuff yourself in a vacation rental. That's the owner's responsibility."
"I am the owner. It's my house. Wait." A horrible thought occurred to Cassie. "You think I'm a tourist?"
"Well, yeah." He rubbed at the back of his neck as his brow furrowed. "You have the look."
"The look?" She glanced down at herself. She'd been in such a hurry this morning that she'd thrown on the first thing she could find: denim cutoffs and the Give me the Oxford comma or give me death T-shirt she'd gotten from her Secret Santa at work last year. Her hair was up in the messiest of messy buns because styling it had been out of the question. At least she was wearing her nicer flip-flops.
"Sure," Nick said. "Lots of tourists come in here with their laptops, get some work done while they're on vacation." He waved a hand toward her laptop bag. "So I just figured . . ."
Cassie crossed her arms over her chest; she couldn't believe this. This was worse than not getting carded at the liquor store. Worse than being called ma'am. "I haven't lived in Florida for my entire life to be called a tourist."
A laugh came out of Nick's chest like a bark, an involuntary reaction that seemed to startle even himself. "Point taken. Sorry about that." That almost-twitch thing his mouth had been doing gave way to an actual smile, crooked and even a little bit apologetic. Something in the air shifted between them, the animosity from the past few minutes dissolving like sugar in the rain.
That shift made her take a risk. "Any chance we can start over? I was caffeine deprived before, and this is the best coffee I've had in a long time." She stuck her hand across the counter. "I'm Cassie."
"Nick." His hand was warm around hers, his handshake a solid grip. "And I think I can help you out with that handyman thing. Here . . ."
Nick came out from behind the counter, walking-no, sauntering-toward the front door. Clearly this café was his domain, and he was at home here. What must that be like? To be at home somewhere? Cassie had a home, technically, but she didn't feel at home there. Not yet.
He stopped at the bulletin board to the left of the door that she must have rushed right by when she'd come in. It was covered in so many business cards and flyers that the cork of the board was practically invisible. Some of the cards were yellowed with age, while others looked like they'd just been pinned there yesterday. Nick scanned the board, his hands resting on his slim hips, before finally selecting one of the older cards.
"Here you go." He stuck the pushpin back in the board and handed her the card. "Give Buster a call. If he can't fix it, it can't be fixed."
"Is that his slogan?" And was that his real name? She examined the card, and sure enough: buster bradshaw, with a little graphic of a hammer and a phone number. Minimalist, this guy. She was honestly surprised not to see a little ghost peeking out from behind the hammer.
Nick chuckled. "It should be. So which house is yours, anyway?"
Cassie turned and peered out the window, pointing down the street. "Down that way a little. Yellow house, where the street bends to the right toward the pier?"
"No shit." Nick's eyebrows crawled up his forehead. "You're in the Hawkins House?"
"The what?" That name meant nothing to her. The seller had been a nebulous LLC, probably a flipper, and hadn't been named Hawkins. "No. It's the Rutherford house now." She tapped her own chest. "As of nine days ago anyway."
"No shit." He leaned in conspiratorially. "What's it like in there?"
"Um. Well, right now it's filled with boxes since I haven't unpacked yet. But otherwise it's fine."
"I mean, everything okay there? Since you've moved in?"
"Yes?" Her answer was more of a question. What was he getting at? "Is there a reason it wouldn't be?"
"No weird noises? Anything like that?"
"Nothing except the wonky electric. What else would there . . . oh." She bit back a sigh. "Is this because of the ghost thing that this town is all about? I told you, I'm not a tourist. You don't have to do . . ." She waved a hand. "All that."
He watched her for a second before nodding slowly. "Right. Anyway, give Buster a call." He gestured at the card. "He'll set you up right. And make sure you tell him you're at the Hawkins House. I bet he'll come running."
"Okaaay." She drew the word out slowly. There was something Nick wasn't telling her about her house, but she wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Anything that would make her life easier at this point was welcome. "Thanks," she said instead.
Copyright © 2024 by Jen DeLuca. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
