One Look: A grumpy, single dad small town romance(30)

Annie shrugged. “Of course. Honestly, I don’t know the birth-given names of half the people in here.” She laughed as if she only then realized how ridiculous that sounded.

“Unreal.” I popped a french fry into my mouth and continued looking around the small café. “What about them?”

Annie followed my line of sight after I gestured toward a small booth in the back. “PawPaw Rabbit and Soapy.” Annie’s eyes lit up. “I think he sold soap at one time? Maybe? Oh! And on the left is Brother, but his real name is Terry.”

“And once you get a nickname . . . ?”

Annie’s face went serious. “Stuck with it. For better or worse.” She smiled again and leaned in. “Do you know Aunt Tootie was once married to a man named Bumper? Bumper. I found out a month ago his name is Jim. The whole time I’d run around as a kid asking, ‘Where’s Uncle Bumper?’ No one even questioned it.” She was on a roll now, and her eyes danced with amusement. “Oh! During county elections? We had to put people’s nicknames on campaign signs”—she leaned forward to emphasize—“but also on the ballots because no one knows Itchy’s real name.”

Together we laughed, and it felt so easy, so natural, to share lunch and laughter with Annie.

How long has it been since I’ve had a friend? That I’ve spent long enough in one place to form a genuine friendship?

“Stick around long enough and you’ll see.” Annie winked in my direction.

A strange emotion was thick in my throat. Would I be here long enough to see?

“There’s a book at the library if you really want to study up,” she offered with a slight shrug as she went back to her lunch.

“A book?”

“Yep. Bug’s worked there since the 1970s, and she keeps it up.”

I considered it for a moment. “So what about you? How’d you get lucky and not have an unfortunate nickname?”

She pinned me with knowing eyes and leaned forward again. “My real name isn’t Annie.”

My grin widened. “Seriously?”

She raised one hand. “Honest truth. My name is Annette, but everyone took to calling me”—her nose scrunched—“Orphan Annie.”

I made a face as we conspired and leaned in together over our sandwiches.

She gestured to her tumbling red curls. “They’re not always the most creative nicknames. Once when we were kids, Lee started calling me Annette as an act of defiance, but only Annie stuck.”

“So no one calls you Annette? But you’re a successful, professional grown woman . . .” I couldn’t believe it.

She shrugged, but her eyes stayed glued to her plate. “Mostly just Lee.”

Her blue eyes then flicked to mine but then quickly darted away. There was definitely something there, but I didn’t know how to ask without seeming nosy.

“I’m used to it now. But Kate? The boys’ little sister? People call her Catfish Kate. Now that is unfortunate. It’s no wonder she packed up and moved to Montana.”

“Wow.” I had no words.

We continued to chat about life in a coastal Michigan town, different acting jobs that led me here, and my mom’s new life as a naked hippie. Becoming friends with Annie was simple. Easy and refreshing.

Annie popped a french fry into her mouth. “How’re things with the new neighbor?”

I could feel color popping up on my cheeks. I rolled my eyes to try to downplay my attraction to Wyatt, but the way Annie smiled, I doubted I was fooling her. “He’s fine. Moody.”

She scoffed. “Yeah, that’s Wyatt.”

I leaned closer. “Seriously. Half the time I think he hates me; the other half of the time I think he wants to tear my clothes off, and the rest of the time I don’t know what to think.”

“That math doesn’t add up,” she quipped.

“Exactly! This morning I waved to him, and he made a face and ignored me.”

I shook my head, and when I looked at the clock, I was sad to see it was almost time for my shift at the Sugar Bowl. I let out an aggravated groan. “I need to get going. Huck will be pissed if I’m late and a disaster.”

Annie nodded. “You gonna eat that?” She pointed at my last few fries. I smiled and pushed the plate toward her.

Maybe sticking around Outtatowner wouldn’t be so bad after all.





“Please go down. Please. Please go down . . .” I watched in horror as the water level in one of the steel kitchen sinks rose higher. Dangerously higher.

“No, no, no, no.” I frantically looked around, trying to figure out what to do. Huck was going to murder me if I clogged his sink again and got water all over the floor.

I kicked the support leg of the sink. A sad, burbling groan moved up to the surface as a lone bubble popped.

Fuck!

I looked at the swinging doors that separated the kitchen, Huck’s haven, from the busy bakery service area. It was only a matter of time before he came back from stocking the display case and I was busted.

The water level steadily rose. “No, no. Where are you even coming from?” I looked around but couldn’t see how or why the water level in the sink was rising higher and higher.

I dashed away, if I didn’t do something, I was bound to make a bigger mess, and then I’d really be in deep shit. I moved quickly toward the swinging saloon-style doors. I knew to always use the right side after crashing into Huck. I peeked through the small opening.