Page 8 of The Shift Between Us (Covewood #2)

Chapter Three

Luke

“ I swear someone broke in here and stole my famous apple-pie bread recipe,” Ms. Johnson says, tossing her hands in the air. It takes everything in me to refrain from rolling my eyes.

I can agree that her apple-pie bread is well-known in Covewood. People even travel here just to buy a loaf from her bakery. I make sure to grab one or two each season when she bakes it. But for her to say someone broke into her home to steal the recipe…that doesn’t sit right with me.

“Ms. Johnson, there’s no sign of a break-in. Maybe you misplaced?—”

“I would never misplace my most prized possession.”

“I thought that was your lawn gnome collection?” I say with a grin because just last month she called and swore someone stole one of her lawn gnomes, but she had forgotten her greenskeeper had moved it when he was mowing her lawn and hadn’t put him back in the right place.

“This is not funny, Mr. Beckett. Stealing is a crime, and I expect you to do your job of protecting and serving this town. Don’t think I forgot about how you helped your little friend steal my gnomes all those years ago.”

“That was Raine, not me.” I say this because it’s the truth. Olivia and Raine had decided it would be fun to play a traumatizing prank on me with Ms. Johnson’s most terrifying gnome, Mr. Gnome Chomsky. I was as much of a victim as Ms. Johnson was, but she’ll never see it that way.

“I bet it was Olivia who stole my recipe. She’s already stolen my customers with her fancy organic foods. She’s brainwashed everyone into thinking that her baked goods are better when we all know organic is a huge scam.”

Okay, I’ve had enough from this woman. “When did you say this recipe went missing?”

“Last night. While I was asleep.” She hisses each word, crossing her arms together.

“I was at Olivia’s house last night and can vouch that she did not steal your recipe.” What I don’t say is that Olivia doesn’t need to steal her recipes in order to have a successful business.

Ms. Johnson huffs in frustration as her landline phone rings. Once she excuses herself and exits the room, I reach into my pocket to grab my cell phone and type a quick text message to Olivia.

This feud between you and Ms. Johnson will be the death of me.

Olivia’s reply pops onto my phone screen within seconds.

Liv

I thought you said your death would be caused by my double-chocolate brownies

I said that I thought that would be an ideal way to go.

But I’m currently in my own personal hell, being yelled at by Ms. Johnson. And yet again, it’s over you.

Liv

That woman will never let my high school prank go . She needs a boyfriend! Let’s try to set her up with Felix!

I slip my phone back into my pocket as Ms. Johnson re-enters the room, her gray hair pulled into a tight bun, glasses perched on the edge of her nose, and a look that says she’s seen it all and isn’t impressed by most of it.

“Ms. Johnson, I?—”

“I know what you're doing. You’re trying to protect your girlfriend. For all I know, you were in on her schemes,” she says without missing a beat.

The word ‘girlfriend ’ sends an electrical shock throughout my body. If only I could be so lucky.

The truth is that I’m about as lucky as a black cat on Friday the thirteenth, which is why I’m stuck dealing with bored townsfolk with nothing better to do than blame people for stealing a recipe she definitely has memorized by now rather than chasing down real criminals.

“Ms. Johnson, Olivia is not my girlfriend,” I state, trying to nix the rumor before it spreads across this small town like wildfire. “And you need to understand that she isn’t your rival. She’s chasing her own dreams and has no need to steal recipes from you.”

She scoffs, waving a hand in the air for effect, then deepens her frown, as if that were even possible. I open my mouth to continue defending Olivia, but the crackling sound of my radio interrupts us. “County three six, we have a break-in at The Groovy Bean.”

“Ten-four, this is Beckett, on my way. ”

Ms. Johnson’s frown shifts into something gentler—concern, maybe. The deep-set lines on her face seem to soften for just a second. She’s gruff, sure, but I’ve lived here long enough to know she cares more than she lets on. She gives me a nod.

“Go.”

“I will look into your concerns, Ms. Johnson. Have a good day.”

I don’t look back. Instead, I rush out of her house, jump into my cruiser, and flick on my lights.

I arrive at The Groovy Bean within minutes, thankful that Ms. Johnson only lives a few blocks away.

The Groovy Bean is one of my happy places.

The small coffee shop brings a sense of comfort with its delicious coffee beverages and late-60’s theme.

The workers are friends of mine, and Olivia sells a lot of her baked goods to the business.

I pray silently that everyone is safe before I get out of my car.

Leaving my coat behind, I rush to the glass doors and open them cautiously.

There’s no broken glass, which is a good sign.

Instead of seeing Grayson, the owner, distressed from the reported break-in, she greets me with a bright smile. “Good morning, Luke.” Her smile falls slightly once she studies me. “Is everything okay?”

My eyes roam around the room, over the antique-styled furniture and warm earthy colors, searching for any sign of danger among the crowd. I sense nothing wrong with the scene. So why did I get a report about a break-in? Maybe Grayson is trying to keep things on the down-low?

I walk over to the front counter, the faint sound of Buffalo Springfield in the background, and inhale the scent of freshly ground coffee beans. Grayson walks toward me, her brown eyes wide as she leans in close so we can have a more private conversation.

“I got a call about a break-in,” I say in a hushed tone, my eyes scanning behind the counter .

“Break-in? There’s been none,” she replies, her brows furrowing together.

“Hey, Luke,” a familiar voice says from behind Grayson. I peer over her shoulder and see Wren, Olivia’s sister, carrying a box while offering me a nod. Her red hair touches her shoulders, swaying as she places the box onto the countertop.

Grayson whispers, “Was there a break-in I didn’t know about?”

Wren’s mouth turns into an ‘O’ as recognition hits her. She holds up a finger, turns toward the kitchen, and shouts, “Livie! Get your butt out here!” She returns her attention back to me, giving me a knowing look. “Please don’t arrest my sister. I can’t afford another bail.”

I’d laugh if I weren’t so confused. A flash of red appears from behind the glass windows of the kitchen doors, and out struts Olivia. The same force that pulls my brows to meet in the middle tugs her pink lips up into a grin.

“There you are!”

“Care to explain what’s going on?” I ask, looking down at her joyful expression.

She shrugs her shoulders, like it’s no big deal. “You said Ms. Johnson was going to kill you, so I called in a favor with Rick.”

“You asked my partner to call in a false break-in just to get me away from Ms. Johnson?”

Grayson shakes her head, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, before she walks over to take a customer’s order. She can’t be okay with this. Can she?

“Sheesh, you were dealing with Ms. Johnson?” Wren says, her lips pressing together in understanding. “Sounds like Livie did you a favor.”

I glance at the two of them, momentarily struck because, if not for the three-year age gap, Olivia and her sister could almost pass as twins. Almost .

Their hair color is the same shade of red, and both have heart-shaped faces and freckles sprinkled over their cheeks and nose.

Besides that, the similarities fade. Olivia’s green eyes have this hazel-gold shimmer in the right light, while her sister’s are a cooler shade.

Where Wren moves with sharp, practiced confidence, Olivia radiates a softer kind of presence.

I cross my arms together, feeling my shirt tighten around my biceps and shoulders as I say, “There’s a long discussion in the future for you and Rick.”

“We were trying to save your life.” She smiles innocently and holds up a paper bag. “I also promised him a blueberry scone. There is a cinnamon one in there for you.”

“Why couldn’t you have thought of a more normal way of helping him out?” Wren tosses at Olivia, squinting her eyes while grabbing a large coffee cup. “Want the usual? It’s on the house.”

I nod in response as Olivia replies, “It’s not my fault you assume anything about me is normal. That’s on you.”

Wren chuckles before starting the churring sound of the espresso machine. Olivia bats her long lashes at me, trying to appear innocent, but I pretend to be immune to her puppy-dog eyes, even though deep down it kills me.

I take the bag into my left hand and the latte from Wren in the other, my eyes trained on Olivia’s the whole time.

We do this a lot—challenge each other with a staring contest until one of us breaks.

Today, I have the victory as Olivia caves to slip on her puffy pink coat.

I beam pridefully and take a sip of my latte.

“Thank you, ladies,” I announce, tipping my cup in a goodbye.

“Thank you for coming to our fake rescue,” Grayson shouts as she gives me a wave before disappearing into the back of the shop.

As Olivia and I walk outside, the frosty air hits us, taking my breath away for a moment. I take another sip of my latte, welcoming its warmth and comforting flavor of cinnamon and vanilla.

“How’s Wren doing?” I ask as we walk to my cruiser.

“She’s hanging in there. She likes working at The Groovy Bean and teaching her Zumba classes in the evenings.”

Wren recently went through a divorce and moved back to Covewood a few months ago. She’s currently living in her old bedroom at her parents’ home, refusing to stay in Olivia’s spare room, even though she’s offered many times.

Under the sunlight, I can see the dark circles under Olivia’s eyes. “Did you sleep okay?”