Something about it feels like her.
Warm. Thoughtful. Full of stories waiting to happen.
“You got it bad,” Hank says knowingly while ringing everything up.
I glare at him.
He looks delighted by that.
The bell over the front door jingles before I can respond.
Ethel and Bernice march inside bundled in matching winter coats and enough scarves to survive an arctic expedition.
Both women stop short when they spot me.
Then immediately start whispering.
Jesus Christ.
Not this again.
Ethel’s eyes dart toward the socks in my basket.
Bernice clutches her chest dramatically.
I sigh.
“You can ask whatever you want.”
Their faces light up instantly.
“I knew it,” Ethel whispers triumphantly.
Bernice points at me. “You kissed her right there in the street yesterday.”
I blink.
Apparently the entire town saw that.
Good to know.
“We weren’t spying,” Ethel says quickly.
“You were absolutely spying,” Hank mutters.
“We were observing,” Bernice corrects primly.
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Look,” I say, already exhausted, “if you’re here to ask whether I secretly worked for the mafia or buried bodies in the woods, the answer is no.”
The women exchange a glance.
“Oh, we already knew that,” Ethel says.
That catches me off guard enough that I lower my hand.
“You did?”