Best Laid Plans

Anyone.

Anyone at all but the woman who’s had her dignity stomped on.

The woman who is, for all intents and purposes, as unavailable as she was the day I met her.

The woman whose heart is broken over another man.

I shovel a hand through my hair as if I can rid myself of the inappropriate thoughts about how damn pretty she is, even with her tear-stained cheeks and sad brown eyes.

Pretty and technically available.

But I’d have to give myself the Jackass of the Century prize if I tried to take advantage of her right now, or anytime soon. And I’m not interested in collecting any trophies of that nature.

I run like my pants are on fire for five miles, and that does the trick.

For now.





*



After I leave the woods, I jog past my parents’ home, dart up the stone path, and knock on the door. My dad answers quickly, clapping me on the back.

“Can’t believe you didn’t invite me to join you on your run,” he deadpans. “I’m wounded.”

“I’m only looking out for you. You’d get addicted if I did. You’d want to run marathons.”

He ran plenty of marathons back in the day and kicked ass in every single one.

I walk past the living room, stopping to give my mom a kiss on the forehead as she reads some book she surely picked up from Arden’s store.

Fuck. I wasn’t supposed to be thinking of Arden.

In the kitchen I grab a glass of water, down a thirsty gulp, then set it on the counter as my dad strides in. “Want something to eat?”

“I already ate. Thanks.”

“At Silver Phoenix Lake?”

I laugh. “Yeah. Funny thing. I ran into a picnic.”

He arches one eyebrow in confusion.

I wave it off. “Long story.”

“I have time.”

“It’s complicated.”

He grabs a stool and sits down, folding his hands in his lap, waiting for me to tell him the tale.

I drag a hand through my sweaty hair. “So, Dad. There’s this girl . . .”





3





Arden





One week later



When someone helps you, you thank that person.

That’s simple good manners.

Perhaps it’s a thoughtful card. Maybe it’s a small gift. Sometimes it’s baked goods.

By that same token, you should apologize properly when you inadvertently hit a person with a slice of cheese, even though I doubt Miss Manners has codified the protocol for that particular faux pas.

But I figured this one out on my own, since I pride myself on please, thank you, and proper apologies, as well as delivering them in the right fashion to the right people. If this makes me too nice, so be it. I will wear the “nice girl” sticker with pride.

Take that, David.

“Ha! There’s nothing wrong with being nice,” I mutter as I put the finishing touches on the cookie-dough-stuffed pretzels I’ve just baked. This particular thank-you-for-the-shoulder-and-forgive-me-for-my-aim gift is taking the form of a sweet treat, since I bet they don’t sell those cards at Hallmark.

And that’s a good thing, since these pretzels smell sinfully good. So good, in fact, I bet they taste the way naughty feels.

Except I don’t really know what that feels like, so I shove the thought out of my mind, grabbing a Tupperware container. Baked goods are most appropriate for a man you don’t know that well. Sure, I’ve had plenty of conversations with Gabe prior to the Witness of My Tears Extravaganza. He joined the fire station a year or two ago, transferring from the city of San Francisco. Each time we’ve chatted, he’s seemed both friendly and thoughtful, easy to talk to. But beyond the interactions when he visited my store to pick up new mystery novels or crossword puzzle books, or the times I ran into him at Vanessa’s bowling alley, I don’t know him terribly well.

Except I know he likes the ladies.

And the ladies like him.

If I were on the hunt for a one-night stand, or a real good time, he’d surely be the one I’d turn to. The man has charm for miles—a playboy with a heart of gold.

But I’m not going to thank him with my body. Obviously.

Food seems a close second on his list of favorite things. Even if he was eating the picnic to be polite, he legit appeared to appreciate the spread. Men who work with their hands and bodies seem to dig gifts of fuel more than others.

Hence these kickass treats, courtesy of a recipe from my favorite Instagram baker, a fifteen-year-old in New York City who makes the most creative treats on her baking show. It’s amazing what you can learn on Instagram once you look past the endless selfie sea. I press the green plastic top onto the container, sealing in the goodies with a pop. I wipe one palm against the other. There.

Tucking the treats into my shoulder bag, I leave my two-story yellow cottage with the wraparound porch I happen to think is the height of good living, lock the door, and walk six blocks to the town square where my very own bookstore sits proudly in the center of Oak Street. A New Chapter overlooks an expanse of emerald-green grass, park benches, and a statue of some old dude who founded this town in the gold rush era.

I open the cherry-red door to A New Chapter to a twin chorus of meows.

“Are you starving? Is that what you’re telling me? Twelve hours is just too long for your bellies to handle?”