Dirty Rotten Tendrils by Kate Collins Page A

leaving the mayor talking to rows of empty chairs.
    My cell phone vibrated, so I said good-bye to my niece and sister-in-law and answered the call as I headed toward my car.
    “Hey, Abby, it’s Rafe. I just got your message.”
    “I can hardly hear you. Where are you?”
    “Standing in line to buy a Cody Verse CD.”
    I turned around and glanced back toward the tables. “On the courthouse lawn?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Can you meet me at my flower shop when you’re done?”
    “Tonight?”
    “Hey, we’re both downtown, so why not?”
    “Well . . . I guess so. What’s up?”
    What was I supposed to say? I have to talk you out of your wedding? “Oops, got another call. See you in a few, Rafe.”
    I glanced at my watch. Eight o’clock. Still early. I let myself inside the shop, made a cup of honey-and-lemon tea to warm up, then sat at a table to stare out the window, planning what I was going to say. Rafe showed up fifteen minutes later—with his bride-to-be in tow.
    Well, there went that plan. Now I’d have to find a way to speak to Rafe alone.
    I let them in, then locked the door behind them. Cinnamon gave me a quick smile and a distracted “Hi,” as she glanced around, twirling a lock of neon orange hair that had fallen over one eye. Rafe stood just inside the door, jingling the keys in his pocket as though on edge.
    “Come on in,” I said. “Anyone want tea? We’ve got quite a few flavors, but no coffee, unfortunately. Grace is the only one who knows how to run the machine. It’s one of those multitaskers that does everything except drink the coffee for you.”
    “Nothing for me, thanks,” Rafe said, still jingling.
    “I’ll have a double espresso latte with cocoa,” Cinnamon said, snapping her chewing gum.
    Had she missed that whole bit about me not being able to work the machine? I looked at Rafe, but he was helping Cinnamon with her coat. Although the evening was chilly, she had on a red miniskirt with a short, quilted black coat, bare legs, black flip-flops, and, as her coat came off, a red striped tube top, no bra, was revealed. She eyed me from the right side of her face, as her hair hung like a curtain over the left side, then angled up sharply to the nape of her neck in back.
    “No coffee tonight,” I said. “Sorry.”
    She didn’t look pleased. “Got any diet soda?”
    “Nope. Tea or water.”
    She gave an unhappy shrug, then began to explore the room. “Water, I guess.” She paused beside my mom’s tee cart and scrunched up her face in distaste. “Is this, like, the biggest golf tee in the world?”
    “Yes. Rafe?”
    “Water is fine.”
    I led the way into the parlor and got two bottles of water from the minifridge under the back counter. Cinnamon was standing in front of the bay window watching the workers take down the stage, her palms flattened against the glass.
    Rafe pulled out a chair for her; she parked herself on it, then sat back and crossed her legs, glancing around as though she didn’t have a care in the world. Rafe took a seat beside her but sat on the edge, his knees bouncing nervously as he opened his bottle and took a long drink.
    “What did you think of Cody’s performance?” I asked.
    “Totally awesome,” Cinnamon said in a matter-of-fact voice.
    “So what’s up?” he asked me.
    “I thought since we were all down here at the same time, we could sit and talk, warm up a while. It’s brisk out there.” I rubbed my arms and shivered, though I wasn’t sure why I felt the need for body language.
    Rafe ran his fingers through his wavy dark hair, looking very uncomfortable.
    “Hey, Rafe, as long as you’re here—a light went out in my workroom and I can’t reach the bulb. Would you help me? It’ll only take a minute.”
    “Can’t you climb on a stool?” Rafe asked.
    “I fall easily. I promise we won’t leave your girlfriend alone long.”
    “Fiancée,” she corrected. Popping her gum, she held up her left hand and pointed to it with her right.