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“You should try it,” she said.

“Driving farm vehicles?”

“No, silly. Crochet. It’s therapeutic. Might take your mind off your leg problems.”

I smiled, swallowing a protest. For months, my ”leg problems” monopolized my thoughts. Filled every waking hour. But that was how it should be. My goal was to get back on to the ice, not kick around in small towns, knitting sweaters.

I had a goal, a life to get back to. But as I ran my eyes over Ro, I chuckled to myself. Even if crochet was therapeutic, and smalltowns had their charm, the only thing I needed to take my mind off my troubles was standing right next to me.

7

RO

Ihung the pump back in the slot and wiped the sweat off my forehead. The weather was as hot as Hades. I tapped on the hood of Mr. Bigstaff’s car, sending him off with a jaunty salute like a pirate captain. Time to head inside to the cool of the store. We’d only had a trickle of customers this morning. Just the way I liked it. Slow days gave me more crochet time, and I was still struggling with my potato-like owls.

On my way to the counter, I grabbed a snack from the shelves. There was something satisfying about the doughy-sugar-fest only a Twinkie could provide, and today, I needed the buzz. I headed behind the counter and brought out my crochet bag.

“Rowena.” A silky voice rolled over me. Mrs. Flubbergeist. My boss hovered in the aisle, her long, red talons gripping the shelf. “Can you hold the fort for a while? Bertie and I have some vital stocktaking to attend to.” Her eyes flashed with something that didn’t involve counting bags of chips, and the corners of my mouth lifted.

Knowing the town’s suspicions about their “adult” acting past, the two of them had done nothing to lead me to a differentconclusion. In fact, they spent a worrying amount of time locked in each other’s arms amongst the magazines and chocolate bars. And really, who soundproofed their stockroom with egg boxes?

“That’s fine,” I said, giving her a cheery wave. I was better left out of whatever happened in that storeroom. She grinned and turned away with a jangle of gold bracelets. Her teased bottle blonde hair didn’t move as if she wore a helmet of peroxide and hairspray.

I picked up my daddy potato owl and contemplated unwinding his yarn. Again. Why was this project such a struggle?

Probably because I couldn’t keep my brain off Brody.

Almost every waking thought involved my brother’s best friend and how to avoid him. Because I couldn’t keep my mind above his neck, steering clear was basic self-preservation. But the whole avoiding him thing wasn’t going too well.

At Gran’s pot roast feast, I’d complained of a headache and gone to bed early. I don’t know why I bothered. I’d spent most of the evening listening for signs that Brody was in residence below me.

Twice, I’d walked in on him in the bathroom when I popped in to replace some towels and refill the hand soap. He’d been brushing his teeth the first time - nothing too controversial there. But the second time, he’d exited the shower just as I opened the door. Only quick reactions and a dripping curtain saved my getting to know him a whole lot better.

I’d spent way more time at work than necessary, too. Had even offered to help at the Heavy Petting Zoo just to stay out of the house. The owner was light on staff and offered me a try-out shift. Unfortunately, I gave what I thought were feed pellets to an overweight raccoon. It turned out to be bedding material for the mice, and one sizable vet bill later, I was officially “let go” before my new career even started.

I unwrapped the Twinkie and took a bite. As I chewed, I leaned over the owl to work out what I was doing wrong when a rude clank made me jump out of my skin.

I lifted my head to see Brody Flockhart’s grinning face, along with a smart green bag he’d dropped on the counter. I hadn’t even heard him come in. “Holy crap! You don’t believe in subtle entrances, do you?”

His eyes flashed, and he curled a brow. Damn! Why had I used the word “entrances?” Now, anything that followed would be weird.

“I got you something.”

I glanced down at the counter. “A bag? You shouldn’t have.” It was a snippy comment, but honestly, he’d almost given me a heart attack. Surely, the shock warranted some penalty.

“Open it,” he said, gesturing to the zipper lying temptingly close to my fingertips.

With an eye roll any teenager would be proud of, I set down the owl and gripped the metal slider, dragging it over the teeth. Brody leaned in closer, his face glowing like a kid on Christmas morning. I nudged the bag open. A pair of skates nestled inside, not like Mom’s, though. These had no ankle, no high-top, and they didn’t have the sparkle stickers or the rainbows I’d painted on last year. They were black and white with efficient stitching. These were sneakers on wheels, and they meant business.

“They’re derby skates. For you,” he said, dimples popping.

“For me? I…I…” I looked up into Brody’s beautiful blue eyes. They burned with excitement. “I can’t take these.”

He scowled, the resulting line on his forehead briefly marring its smooth perfection. “Why not?”

Did I need to go into detail? Explain that accepting a gift from him meant he’d have some sort of power over me? That I’d owe him something in return? Of course, he’d never collect. Wouldn’t expect anything from me. Still, I didn’t like the churnin my gut at the thought of being in his debt. In anyone’s debt, for that matter.

“It’s so kind of you, it really is, but I can’t go around accepting skates from single men. People will talk.” I gave him a glib smile, hoping he’d see the humor I was aiming for. It was my usual go-to defense mechanism.