Page 11 of Mack

He checked the time. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have to get back to my rounds.”

Her face changed slightly. “Of course.” She lifted her cup. “Thanks for the recommendation.”

“Anytime.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Mallory.”

“Mack,” she said, and this time it came easily.

He pushed back out into the morning sun and stood on the sidewalk a moment before walking toward the courthouse.

****

Mallory watched him push through the door and disappear into the morning sun.

She stood there a moment, cold brew in hand, aware that she was still smiling and that the barista behind the counter had noticed. She turned away and took a long sip.

Mack Reinhardt. She didn’t know what to do with him. He was careful, unhurried, and he looked at her like he was paying attention, really paying attention. She hadn’t been looked at that way in so long she’d forgotten what it felt like. Trouble. It felt like trouble is what it felt like.

She pushed through the door and back out into the warmth, heading toward the shop. The morning was already bright and full, Main Street moving at its easy Monday pace. She nodded at a few familiar faces, smiled at the couple outside the bakery, and kept walking.

She was not going to think about his eyes.

She was not going to think about how he’d said her name when he left, low and deliberate, like he was keeping it somewhere.

She unlocked the front door of Festive Finds, stepped inside, and stood in the cool quiet of her shop for a moment, the scent of cinnamon and cedar settling around her like something familiar and safe. This was hers. She’d built it herself from nothing, after everything. She didn’t need complications.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. Shane.

She picked it up. “What?”

“Good morning to you too,” he said cheerfully. “Wendy quit.”

Mallory closed her eyes. “Shane.”

“I know.”

“I told you to find someone.”

“I know.”

“How many times did I tell you?”

“Mal.”

“Please don’t call me that,” she whispered. That’s what Troy called her and hearing it made her think about him.

“I’m sorry. I know you hate it. It slipped out.”

She set her cold brew down and pressed her fingers to her forehead. “When?”

“This weekend. Both nights.”

She thought about T.J. She thought about her parents, who would say yes without hesitating and mean it. She thought about a pair of light gray eyes that had no business being in her head at nine forty-five on a Monday morning.

“Fine,” she said. “But Shane, I mean it this time. Find someone.”

“You’re the best sister in the world.”

“I know,” she said, and hung up.