LITMIR.BIZ

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could only imagine. From what he remembered, if the nutcase had succeeded, the resulting explosion could have destroyed the town far more completely than he ever had. Lydia Brewster must be the next thing to a saint around here.

      If she were indeed the woman he’d seen, it explained the ease with which she’d been accepted into town. Even the Cove couldn’t keep a hero’s widow at arm’s length.

      He gave the laces a tug vicious enough to risk snapping them. He hoped to hell that this Brewster woman either wanted to close the shop or had enough money tucked away to buy her building from him. Because even with skates on, he doubted he could outrun the wave of condemnation that would crash over him if he had to sell Lydia Brewster’s business out from under her.

      * * *

      THE WEDNESDAY-MORNING RUSH was in full gear, leaving Lyddie little time to worry about Tracy’s revelation of the night before. Good. If she let herself think too long about this, she could come up with a dozen possible outcomes, each one scarier than the last. She was all too aware that the worst-case scenario really could happen in a life.

      She could lose her business. Have to start over in another location. Worst of all, she would have to say goodbye to another piece of her children’s history—the shop their grandfather started, the place where their father carved his initials into the kitchen wall.

      But all that had to wait. Right now she had to draw a hazelnut roast for Jillian.

      “Leave it black, please,” Jillian called, as though this were a new request. Every morning she ordered the same thing. Nadine and Lyddie were getting on in years, but even they could remember a medium hazelnut, no cream, no sugar.

      On the other hand, Jillian hadn’t attained the office of mayor—and every other title in town, from Little Miss Fall Festival on up—by leaving anything to chance. Maybe Lyddie should take a lesson from her. Jillian would never find herself breathless and foundering while her building was sold out from beneath her, that was for sure.

      “How about a blueberry muffin, Your Worship?” Nadine was in fine form. “Mmm, look at that brown sugar streusel.”

      Jillian, queen of the Thighmaster, shuddered visibly. “No. Just coffee. No food.”

      On the other hand, there had to be a more positive role model than an anorexic power slut.

      “I need music,” Lyddie announced, and scooted around the counter to reach the long-outdated CD player. Usually she didn’t start the tunes until the morning rush had cleared and conversation had dwindled. But today she needed all the distraction she could get.

      She thumbed through the CDs and shook her head. Gregorian chants, harp music, the sounds of relaxation... None of those felt right. She needed in-your-face vocals that would give her a socially acceptable outlet for the frustration perking inside her. She needed—

      “Oh, yeah.”

      Bonnie Raitt’s greatest hits slid into place. In a moment, assertive guitar chords punctured the atmosphere, mingling with the warm smell of coffee and the casual ambience. It was almost enough to make her relax.

      She boogied her way behind the counter where Nadine waited with her arms crossed and eyes rolling.

      “Lydia, it’s bad enough you make me work at this hour. Force me to listen to that and I’ll report you to the labor board.”

      “Stop. This is good. People like it.”

      “It has a beat, I’ll give you that.” Nadine scanned the room, pausing briefly at the opening door. “But I think you need to try something... Oh, my God.”

      “What?” Lyddie looked up, more worried by the sudden drop in Nadine’s volume than her words. Then she realized that the entire room had gone suddenly, eerily still. If it hadn’t been for Bonnie belting from the CD, asking if she was ready for the thing called love, there would have been dead silence.

      “Nadine?”

      A nod toward the door was the only answer.

      Lyddie glanced in the direction indicated and saw that a man had entered the shop. Dark hair. Slightest hint of stubble on the chin. Electric blue T-shirt over black biker shorts. The most remarkable thing about him was the Rollerblades on his feet, and even Comeback Cove had progressed enough to handle those.

      On closer inspection, this guy didn’t need anything remarkable to stand out. He wasn’t what she’d call drop-dead gorgeous, though he certainly was making the second look worth the effort. It was something about the way he held himself. The set of his shoulders, the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth, the calm and purposeful way he scanned the room sent a clear message that this was a man who knew exactly who and what he was, and nothing would change him.

      So why did she get the feeling he was braced for attack?

      “It’s him,” Nadine whispered. “J. T. Delaney.”

      Ooooooooh.

      The quirk spread into a cocky grin. “Nice to see I still know how to make an entrance.”

      The room echoed with the sound of about a dozen throats being cleared.

      His gaze settled on Lyddie. Something like recognition flashed in his eyes, confusing her. “Okay to wear these in here?” he called over the coughing and harrumphing.

      “Uh...” Somewhere in her brain she understood he was referring to the skates. She wanted to toss off a casual reply, but something—anger?—had started curling low in her belly, interfering with her thought process.

      It wasn’t fair. She hadn’t had time to think, no chance to determine her plan of attack. Why was he here already?

      And why did he have to look so...interesting? Despite what Nadine and Tracy had said, Lyddie had expected a middle-aged version of his late father: sober and responsible, slightly balding, wearing sensible loafers and madras plaid shirts. That kind of man she could handle. What was she supposed to do with James Dean the Second?

      His grin widened. “If you’d rather I didn’t, could we pretend this is a drive-through?”

      From the corner of her eye she saw a flash of red. Oh, no. Jillian was moving in for the kill.

      “Well, well, well. So much for that line about being adults.” Jillian crossed her arms and looked him up and down with—in Lyddie’s opinion—a bit too much interest. If Ted heard about this, there would be hell to pay. “You’re still as crazy as ever.”

      “Only when I’m here, Jelly.”

      Behind Lyddie, Nadine snickered back to life. “Jelly?”

      Lyddie had much the same thought. She’d never met anyone who could put Her Worship in place with five little words. When the mayor clamped her lips together and hustled out the door, Lyddie had to remind herself that this was the potential bad guy in front of her.

      But bad guy or not, she couldn’t leave him standing in the doorway. She waved to let him know the blades were acceptable but couldn’t keep from adding, “After all, it’s your place, Mr. Delaney.”

      The soft whir of wheels across slate marked his progress. That and the swiveling of every head in the room. He moved slowly, as if making sure everyone had a chance to size him up.

      “Morning, Mrs. Krupnick.”

      “Morning, J.T.” Nadine spoke far more cautiously than Lyddie would have expected. “What can I get for you?”

      “A cup of French roast.” There was a slight pause before he added, “Please.”

      Lyddie stifled a groan. Just what she needed. A landlord with a God’s-greatest-gift complex.

      She had to meet him eventually, so she straightened her shoulders and prayed that she would come off as an efficient businesswoman instead of the brain-dead twit she was currently channeling. Though how she was supposed to do that when he’d dropped in on her out of the blue like this...

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