In the Weeds (Lovelight #2)(30)

So when I walked into the cafe and saw a small woman in a floral apron with her long hair pulled up in a loose gray bun, I was surprised.

Then I saw her throw an empty can of coffee at the Sheriff and things made a little more sense.

“Yeah, I know,” I sigh. I think about Beckett standing in the door of his spare bedroom last night, his body all rigid lines with a frown twisted across his lips. He had looked about seven seconds away from climbing out the window. “I guess I’ll have to poke around myself. See if there is anywhere else to stay.”

The last thing I want to do is make Beckett uncomfortable in his own home.

“How long are you here for?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

Ms. Beatrice hums, hands flexing on the back of the chair. She doesn’t wear any jewelry, but she does have a tiny tattoo of a songbird on the back of her hand, just above her wrist. I nod at it.

“That’s beautiful.” Delicate lines, a touch of red on outstretched wings. It looks like it’s about to fly up her arm and rest in the crook of her elbow.

She glances at it once, a smile flirting at her lips. “Nova did it.”

“Nova?”

“Beckett’s youngest sister.” I blink. I didn’t even know he had sisters. “I told her I wanted BOSS across both knuckles, but we settled on this instead.”

“Well,” I search for the right words. She would look pretty badass with knuckle tattoos, and the look on her face says she knows it. “Maybe you can convince her in the future.”

She nods, but doesn’t budge an inch. I raise an eyebrow. “Is there something I can help you with?”

A slow smile creeps across her face.

“Since you’re asking …”



Ms. Beatrice wants an Instagram page.

She saw one of my posts featuring a coffee shop in North Carolina— rows and rows of coffee beans behind the counter and colorful ribbon hanging from the ceiling. Walking into that little shop had been like stepping inside a rainbow, Bob Marley on the speakers and sprinkles in my latte.

“That thing had over two-hundred thousand comments,” she says from the side of my table, shoving her phone in my face. “And the beans looked cheap.”

I don’t know what constitutes a cheap bean, but I indulge her. We snap a couple pictures of her behind the counter—a fierce look on her face in every single one—and set up her details. If the rainbow shop had an opposite, Ms. B’s would be it. But there’s a certain charm to it nonetheless. I apply a moody filter and smile at the result—a fierce woman holding a plate of scones, a steaming coffee pot at her elbow. She looks like something out of Goodfellas. Maybe she should get those knuckle tattoos after all.

“You know you can’t use this account to publicly shame people, right?”

A secret smile. “No promises.”

Gus and Monty corner me after that, asking if I can swing by the firehouse and help them with a video. Intrigued and amused, I can’t help but trail after them to the open bay doors, music spilling out from the back office. I proceed to watch them choreograph a surprisingly involved dance to Jennifer Lopez. Monty explains after with panting breaths that they’re trying to raise money for a new ambulance.

“And you’re doing that through … dance?” Kirstyn would be delighted.

Monty winks at me, forehead dewy with sweat. “Gotta give the people what they want.”

I spot Mabel at the door to the fire-station, arms crossed over her chest and a smile ticking up the corner of her mouth. She’s busy looking at Gus like he’s one of Ms. Beatrice’s lattes.

“Evelyn,” she calls. She drags her attention away from Gus wiping the sweat from his brow with the hem of his t-shirt and blinks at me, a little bit dazed. “I need some help with my website. Do you mind stopping by the greenhouse for a sec?”

The day continues like that. As soon as I finish up with one person, another appears with a question or a task or—a banner for the farmer’s market that needs hanging across the fountain in the center of town. I don’t know if it’s small town life or just Inglewild’s own brand of welcome but I’m pulled wonderfully and perfectly out of my head for the entire day. No anxiety clawing at my throat, no pit in my belly. I don’t wonder once if this is where I’m supposed to be, if I could be doing something better or different.

I’m just here, leaning over a stone fountain with a bit of twine held between my teeth.

“How’s it look?” I ask Alex, who is apparently in charge of banner hanging in addition to owning the bookshop. He gives me a thumbs up from the edge of the fountain, glasses slipping down his nose.

I step off the ladder and tilt my head back to read the bold looping letters hand stenciled across the canvas.

WELCOME SPRING

Right below it, in a smaller font:

SEASONS CHANGE AND SO DO WE

I stretch my arms wide to the side and wiggle my fingers back and forth.

So do we.



I pull into Beckett’s driveway and sit in my car for a moment, staring at his house. It suits him, this big cabin at the edge of the field. Faded wood shingles warped by weather and time. An ancient looking tree to the left, its branches reaching out over the roof. A wide porch that wraps around, a couple of rocking chairs next to the front door. A single, wide window. A light on in the corner of the living room.