Page 20 of Bonfire and Bliss Bookstore

He shrugs in response before turning to me. “Good to see you, Monty. Stop by the Ice Cream Barn this week. I’ll hook you up with an Eli special.”

I shake his hand and agree to do just that before he hops into his truck and disappears down the long gravel drive.

“Should I be nervous about the Eli special?” I ask Penny as we head for my car.

“I actually don’t know what it is”—she pauses to raise a brow—“and while all the ice cream there is delicious, I think I’d be a little nervous about an Eli special.”

I chuckle as I start the car. “You live above your store, right?”

“Yeah, there’s a one-bedroom apartment just above it and I was lucky enough to get a deal on leasing it when I opened the store.” She looks toward me. “Dick and I had been looking for a house, but he never made the move down here.” She shakes her head like she’s embarrassed by that fact. “I’m sure your life is far more glamorous in New York.”

If she only knew. My life in New York is not what she’s imagining.

I steer the car back toward town. It’s mostly dark on these roads but, as we get closer to the old barn Rosie transformed into a brewery, its golden lights cast a glow over us both. Penny rolls down her window and the sound of a guitar slices across the quiet evening.

I glance at her. “You want to grab a drink?”

“Um, sure.” Her answer is hesitant but I try not to overthink it, turning the car into the parking lot. The last time I was here was the night I accidentally crashed the Spring Fling.

My stomach fizzes like a shaken soda bottle as we walk toward the barn door. I quicken my pace so that I can grab it and then hold it as Penny passes inside. For one quick second I get a whiff of vanilla and cinnamon so strong my mouth waters. I’d been so focused on remembering the color of her eyes that I’d forgotten that fucking scent. Penny always managed to smell like a warm apple pie on a cool fall day. I’ve never met another person with that scent.

I follow Penny inside, where she sits on a stool at the end of the bar and starts giving Rosie a play-by-play of Walker’s reaction to the cow.

The bar is busy. As the guitarist finishes an Oasis song and takes a break, the sound of chatter rises.

I don’t recognize anyone, but give it a week and I’m sure I’ll be reacquainted with everyone.

“So he’s sleeping in the cottage with them?” I hear Rosie asking, tears rolling down her face.

“She,” Penny reprimands. “The cow is a she.”

Rosie snorts. “I swear your sister is the gift that just keeps on giving.” Rosie turns to me. “What are you having, Monty? First drink’s on me as a welcome home treat.”

“Thanks, I’ll have a beer.”

Rosie rolls her eyes. “We’re a brewery. What kind of beer do you want?”

I glance at the black chalkboard that hangs against the white shiplap wall. One flavored beer after another is neatly listed in yellow handwriting.

“Get the cider,” Penny says. “Rosie uses apples she grows on the trees out back.”

I raise an impressed brow and nod. “I’ll do that, then.”

Rosie gets our drinks and then disappears to take care of another customer. Then it’s just Penny and me again.

After what is quite possibly one of the strangest days ever, it wouldn’t be surprising if she curls in on herself and stays quiet. But that doesn’t happen.

“So, are you moving back to town?” she asks. When she turns to face me, I realize how close we’re sitting. The copper of her eyes turns to honey under the low lighting from above and my gaze dips to the scattering of freckles on her cheeks, which are so much more apparent this close.

Freckles that I now know don’t stop at her neckline. Freckles that dance over her ivory skin and circle her pale pink nipples.

I shift my stool back and try to discreetly adjust myself before taking a sip of cider. The crisp flavor of apples with a hint of orange hits my tongue with a burst. Penny takes her own sip and now I know exactly what her mouth would taste like.

She’s staring at me expectantly and I remember she asked me a question. “Um, yeah, for the time being at least.”

“Why?”

I stare into those perfect copper irises and insecurity races up my spine. I sit straighter as I say, “It’s not easy being an author.”