Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83331 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83331 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“The Corner Café is just a few buildings down from The Emporium.”
“Mornin’ ladies,” Sam said. “Careful on the sidewalk. I’m heading out to shovel and salt it in a few minutes."
“Pete always did that,” Bess said in objection.
Sam frowned at her. “Right. And?”
She nodded toward me. “Avon’s the owner now. She should be doing it.”
Me? Shoveling snow? My lips parted with shock and Sam laughed.
“Aw, Bess, look at her. The poor thing doesn’t even have boots. And I don’t mind doing it a bit. The fresh air’ll be nice.”
I gave him a grateful smile. “Thanks, Sam. I’m going to The Corner Café. Can I bring you anything?”
“No, I already ate, but make sure you try Tipper’s biscuits and gravy. They’ll knock your socks off.”
“I’ll do that, thanks.” I looked at Bess, forcing myself to stay cheerful. “What about you, Bess? Can I bring you anything? A fresh cup of coffee maybe?”
“Coffee from the pot here is good enough for me,” she said, her gaze on her computer screen.
She was a freaking delight.
I exchanged a look with Sam and left for the café. As soon as I opened the door, I was hit with an icy blast of wind. I didn’t want to give Bess the satisfaction of seeing me suffer, so I pressed forward, pretending to be unfazed.
Really, though? I was fazed. Snow was blowing onto the bare tops of my feet and my hands were freezing. I shoved them into my coat pockets and walked toward the restaurant.
I kept my head down and focused on getting there as fast as I could. By the time I walked into the bustling café, which incidentally was not located on a corner, my feet and legs were soaked almost up to my knees and my ears were numb. I had to look like a crazed avalanche survivor.
“We’ve got room for one at the bar,” a busy server said to me as she passed with a tray filled with steaming breakfast food.
An intoxicating combination of savory bacon and freshly baked cinnamon rolls filled the air. I was ravenous after not eating much yesterday. As soon as I slid onto the open stool, a man with a thick, short dark beard speckled with gray flipped over the empty mug in front of me and held a coffeepot over it.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“Please.”
“What else can I get you?” he asked me.
“I heard I should order Tipper’s biscuits and gravy.”
He grinned. “Who told you that?”
“Sam, from the Chronicle. I’m Avon Douglas, the new owner.”
His eyes and his smile widened. “Well Avon, it’s a pleasure. I’m Tipper and this is my place. Pete was a friend, and we sure miss him. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
His expression turned serious. “You need anything at all, you let me know, okay? I mean that.”
“Thank you.” I wrapped my hands around the warm mug and raised it to my mouth, enjoying the smell of it. “You’ve done more than you’ll ever know with this cup of coffee.”
“Where are you from, Avon?”
“San Diego.”
He laughed heartily. “Well, that explains the shoes. You’re gonna need some boots.”
I nodded. “I’m only here through Monday. I didn’t realize I’d be walking through snowdrifts.”
He arched a brow, looking amused. “Aw, that’s nothing. There’s maybe six inches out there.”
“More like ten.”
The man on the stool next to mine elbowed me gently and laughed. “If you think that’s ten inches, will you marry me?”
I laughed with him and Tipper but soon realized how busy Tipper must be with a full restaurant.
“I have to try the biscuits and gravy,” I said. “And also some scrambled eggs.”
He lightly smacked his hand on the counter. “You got it.”
I closed my eyes and took a sip of the coffee, which was not only hot but delicious.
Made sense. A place this cold had to master the art of hot beverages. And warm socks. And also boots.
I tried to wiggle my thawing toes in my soaking-wet shoes.
I hated to admit that the grumpy ogre of a police chief had been right, but…I was going to have to break down and buy some boots.
CHAPTER FOUR
Avon
“I need at least one photo for the front page,” Bess said the moment I walked back into the newsroom after breakfast.
I should have brought her one of the giant, freshly baked cinnamon rolls from the café; no one could be cranky while eating one of those.
“I’m not a photographer,” I reminded her.
“You can take a picture of anything, you know. People decorating for the holidays or working. This ain’t the New York Times.”
How could I explain to her that I primarily took selfies and occasionally IG-worthy photos of my dinner at restaurants?
I shook my head. “I’m just not comfortable doing it. I don’t even know how to use Pete’s camera.”
It was a fancy digital one. I didn’t even want to pick it up because I was afraid I’d break it and I didn’t want to ruin my chances of selling it.