Page 24 of Will Bark for Pizza (Bluebell Springs #1)

EIGHTEEN

BECKETT

I’d never eaten mashed potatoes on a pizza, but today seemed as good a day as any to take a risk. Not like I could fuck up any more than I already did.

The invitation to join Joe and the appraiser at the bookstore this morning was last minute. I was always eager to learn more about the different aspects of buying and selling all types of properties, and the timing was perfect.

But he didn’t warn me Kira would be there.

If I hadn’t caught a glimpse of Husker’s white tail swishing at the back of the store, I might not have known she was there at all.

I wouldn’t have been there when she needed me.

For a woman I barely knew, it was fucking unreal how this one thought kept unraveling my best defenses.

The icy glare and utter look of betrayal etched into Kira’s expression when I confessed I was the prospective buyer would forever be seared into my brain. She stormed out of the bookstore without a backward glance, warning me not to follow.

Despite how badly I wanted to run after her and make this right.

But I couldn’t make this right.

I couldn’t go back to last night, to knock on her bedroom door after she was asleep, so we could talk. And though I tried to hang around the farm as late as possible this morning, neither she nor Husker emerged before I was due to meet the plumber at the Kniffen Street house.

I couldn’t rewind time and stop any of this from happening.

The family was pretty tight-lipped on the bookstore overall—most days it seemed like a taboo topic—but it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that it would mean so much to Kira.

Hell, she was an author. A bookstore from her childhood might have inspired her career.

And here I was, like some greedy-ass land baron, come to destroy something special to her.

It wasn’t my decision to sell the building or liquidate the business. From the conversation between Joe and the appraiser, there was no changing Joe’s mind. I still felt like an asshole for not putting the pieces together before Kira had a fucking panic attack on the bathroom floor.

Worst of all, I couldn’t make an ounce of sense of why the urge to fix everything for a woman I’d known all of three or four days was so overpowering. Nana would cuss me out for my stupidity in all of this.

I reached for my glass of soda, and nearly drained it. Probably should save some for when the pizza arrived, but apparently, today wasn’t about making sensible decisions .

Moving to Bluebell Springs was an opportunity for a fresh start. For the first time in my adult life, I felt ready to put down roots.

And Kira Mason . . . would be gone in a few days.

None of this should matter.

I shouldn’t feel so damn guilty.

I thought saving properties from outsiders was a good way to become a part of this community. It wasn’t as though I was buying the bookstore out from under Kira or anyone in her family.

But fuck, it felt like I was.

“Need a refill?” the server asked, reaching for my nearly empty glass.

“That’d be great, thanks.”

I didn’t know her name. I wanted to fit in here, yet I didn’t know anyone but Patty herself. Was I getting anything right lately?

“We can’t have the meetings at my house,” a tall, elderly woman who sounded like she smoked two packs a day said, pulling out a chair at the table behind me.

“I don’t have enough seating, and I’ll be damned if I’m listening to Carol Ann complain about sitting on the floor.

That woman spends most her days on the floor. ”

“Be nice, Thelma,” another woman said, her gentle tone laced with amusement. “She’s a yoga instructor, not a drunk.”

My shoulders shook with silent laughter.

“Well, don’t look at me,” a third said as layers of jewelry clanged together at her approach. “Frank outlawed book club meetings ever since Fifty Shades of Grey . Poor man is scarred for life. ”

“We told him to leave,” Thelma said unapologetically.

“What about the library?” the second woman said.

“Jodi kicked us out last time. Said we were too disruptive,” the third woman said. “Plus, our picks aren’t exactly story-hour friendly.”

“Shit, it is summer, isn’t it?” Thelma said.

“Your mashed potato pizza,” the server said, startling me out of my eavesdropping.

“That any good?” Thelma asked.

I looked back, but her gaze was on the server.

“It’s one of our best sellers.”

“Really?” I asked, surprised. Huh . Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst decision I made today after all. Not that the bar was set all that high.

“It’s really good,” the third woman, the one adorned in several layers of jewelry, reassured me. “Though I only got to try one piece because Frank inhaled the rest.”

Because everyone was staring at me, I took a cautious bite.

Well, damn .

It wasn’t just good.

It was delicious.

“See?” the woman with dozens of necklaces hanging around her neck said. “We should order a mashed potato pizza.”

“I was craving the BLT pizza,” Thelma said.

“I wanted to get the buffalo chicken,” the other woman, dressed in a purple track suit and matching purple tennis shoes, chimed in.

“No way. We’re not going to finish three pizzas,” Thelma said.

“I could share?” I offered without forethought.

I hadn’t come to Pizza Patty’s to socialize.

If I had, I’d be sitting at the bar. Or outside in the sunshine to chat it up with the locals and tourists alike.

But I was trying to fit in. It had nothing to do with these women being tied to a local book club.

Probably not.

“Pull up a seat,” the woman in purple offered.

“I’ll bring more plates,” the server said.

“Say, you’re that real estate investor handyman guy,” Thelma said, assessing me with an up-and-down gaze. “The one staying with the Westons?”

Handyman. General Contractor. I didn’t think these women gave two shits about the distinction. Somehow, I admired them for it. Maybe I needed my head examined.

“Beckett Campbell.”

“I’m Thelma.”

“I’m not Louise,” the second woman said.

I cracked a smile.

“Oh, good. You understood the reference.”

“That’s Lotti,” Thelma said, nodding at the woman in purple.

“And Dylann,” Thelma added about the woman adorned in necklaces, bracelets, and rings.

“My dad really wanted his oldest to be a boy,” Dylann said with a carefree shrug as I set the mashed potato pizza on the table. “He got me instead.”

“My dad never wanted me at all.” The comment slipped out unbidden. At least the women had the decency to laugh, even if the suspicious look in Thelma’s eyes suggested she didn’t buy it as a joke. “You three lived here long?”

“Most of our lives, actually,” Lotti offered, helping herself to a slice of my pizza.

“Heard you were in the Army with the Mason boys,” Thelma said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, he’s a gentleman, too,” Lotti cooed, green eyes twinkling in adoration. Or maybe it was just the sunlight catching on one of Dylann’s many necklaces. “Just like the hero in Forever Forbidden .”

“Is that a book?” I guessed.

“It’s our current book club pick,” Dylann explained. “Brand new release from Diana Davenport. Do you know her books?”

“Can’t say that I do.”

“Oh, you’re missing out!” Lotti said.

“Does he look like a man who reads vampire smut?” Thelma asked.

“It’s not smut,” Dylann said, giving me a little shoulder nudge. “It’s just really sexy.”

“Same thing,” Thelma said, rolling her eyes, looking very much like she’d like to have a cigarette.

The server returned with small plates, and a round of drinks for the ladies—a margarita on the rocks, a blended chocolate martini, and a Long Island iced tea. Though I’d never met any of these women, I’d be willing to bet my truck that book club was a very entertaining time.

“I haven’t read much lately,” I admitted, “but I’m always up for a good book recommendation.”

“Better get your ass down to the bookstore and grab a copy before it closes for good,” Thelma said. “Fucking shame, that is.”

“It wouldn’t be closing if Margene Miller wasn’t a colossal ass weasel,” Lotti said, surprising me. She seemed the most soft-spoken of the bunch. But judging by the grim expressions worn by all three women, they shared an equal animosity for this woman.

Despite my incessant curiosity, I shoved a bite of pizza into my mouth to prevent the questions from slipping out. I didn’t do the gossip thing, but something told me these women had more than secondhand rumors to share.

“I still think we should organize a manhunt,” Lotti said, her tone too gentle for the fierce suggestion.

“My passport expired,” Dylann said.

“We can sneak you across the border,” Thelma said, her confidence slightly alarming. “But we might have trouble sneaking you back in.”

“Frank would run out of clean underwear long before I figured out how to get back home,” Dylann said, shaking her head.

“We should hire one of those sexy PIs,” Lotti offered. “But only if he’s willing to come to a meeting and report his findings.”

“By PI, she means stripper,” Thelma explained to me.

Lotti shrugged, reaching for her chocolate martini. “I wouldn’t be upset if he had multiple careers paths.”

“You need to get laid,” Dylann said, shaking her head and taking a healthy sip of her margarita.

I nearly choked on my pizza and reached for my drink.

Thelma laughed, Dylann patted me on the back, and Lotti offered up her water.

“Say, you have military training,” Lotti said.

“Back off,” Thelma warned.

“What?” Lotti asked, her expression innocent. She reminded me of someone from a TV show Nana used to watch when I was a kid. But I couldn’t quite place it.

“We’re not asking Beckett to go to Mexico himself to hunt down Margene Miller,” Dylann chimed in.

“Mexico?”

“For all the times that sorry excuse for a human brought up Cabo, we’re pretty sure Margene headed down south the second she cleaned out the bookstore’s bank account,” Thelma explained.

“She’s in Cabo?”

“Or maybe Cozumel,” Dylann said. “If I had a dollar for every time that woman mentioned Cozumel, Frank could finally retire.”

“You forgot Cancun,” Lotti added. “Hey, Beckett—can I call you Beckett?”

“Of course.”

“You’re not also secretly a bounty hunter, are you?” Lotti asked.

“Afraid not.”

“Do you know any bounty hunters?” Dylann asked.

I did not. But I had a strong suspicion Nana might.

Huh . Maybe there was something I could do to make this whole bookstore mess right after all.

Kira might hate me for buying the building—I couldn’t let some outside assholes lowball Joe and turn it into a dreaded gift shop, so I had to buy it—but at least I could do something about this Margene Miller.

Maybe .

That’s the excuse I’d cling to when Luke, Connor, or Thoren gave me shit for turning into a gossip queen.

I waited until after the server—Jamie—placed the additional pizzas onto the table, and asked, “What exactly did Margene Miller do ?”