Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 102280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
His stomach growled. He’d skipped breakfast, and it was past lunchtime. Several eateries lined Harbor Street. A pub called The Salty Dog—dark windows, no crowd visible inside. An upscale place called Aldrich’s seemed too fancy. Then his eye caught The Mystic Cup—a sign depicting a steaming teacup surrounded by stars. Probably one of those new-age cafés with overpriced coffee and ridiculous names.
The smell of fresh baked goods drifting from inside was impossible to resist, coffee was coffee regardless of what they called it. Brooks crossed the street and stepped inside. He crossed the street and stepped inside.
The interior was unexpectedly welcoming, with mismatched tables and comfortable chairs scattered throughout the space. The walls were lined with shelves holding teacups, jars of loose tea, and various crystals and candles. Definitely catering to the mystical crowd, but without the sterile, manufactured feel of chain stores that sold similar items. This place had character, years of history etched into its wooden floors and pressed tin ceiling.
A group of women occupied several tables near the window, chattering animatedly. They paused briefly to assess Brooks as he entered—and he noticed how each of them quickly looked away when he met their eyes, though one woman made a quick sign of the cross before returning to her conversation.
Odd.
Behind the counter, a woman placed pastries on a display tray, smiling. Almost as if her job made her happy. He remembered what it was like, to really enjoy his job—the career he had chosen—before he lost his partner. Brooks huffed out a sigh.
She looked up, her long auburn braid shifting with her sudden movement. A flicker of . . . interest showed in her gaze. She moved deliberately, completely aware of her surroundings without looking away from him. The spatial consciousness he’d learned to recognize in fellow law enforcement. Civilians developed it too, especially those who worked with the public.
Was she a former cop? Detective? Had she worked at the police station in some capacity? Maybe she worked in the dispatch center or was a volunteer.
“Welcome to The Mystic Cup.” Her voice was warm, soft, and had a hint of . . . he couldn’t place it. But it sounded almost as if she sung the greeting to him. “What can I get for you today?”
“Just coffee. Black.” His tone was neutral and casual, and uninviting. This wasn’t how he would build relationship.
“Coming right up. Anything to go with that? The lavender scones are fresh.”
The pastries looked tempting. He was aware of the attention from the women nearby. The last thing he wanted was to become local gossip on his first day. “Just the coffee.”
While she turned to fill his order, he took everything in. The shelves looked decades old, dust on some of the higher jars. Worn floorboards, scuffed in the traffic patterns. Not some Instagram setup opened last year. His gaze drifted to the bay window—perfect view of the harbor and lighthouse.
A crash. His head turned fast and saw the woman had dropped a coffee pot. Glass shards and hot blackish liquid spread across the floor.
“Damn it.” She reached for the towel sitting on the counter.
“You okay?” He moved to help, crouching down next to her. His years of responding to every incident possible had him reaching for her.
“Fine, I’m fine. Just clumsy.” Her face had gone pale. Their hands brushed as they both reached for the same piece of broken glass. She jerked back.
He pulled back, surprised by her reaction. “You cut yourself.” A thin line of red shown across her palm.
She looked down at her hand. “It’s nothing.” Her expression had shifted, eyes unfocused.
He cleared his throat. The intensity of her stare made him uncomfortable. “You should get that cleaned up,” he managed to say despite a lump forming in his throat. He cleared it and blurted out his name. “Brooks Harrington. I’m new in town.”
“Vivienne Hawthorne,” she said in the mesmerizing tone from when she greeted him. She pressed the towel against her palm and smiled softly. “I gathered that much. Nobody from Westerly Cove orders ‘just coffee’ at The Mystic Cup. Except for Old Jack. He’s the only one.”
A hint of a smile touched his face. “What do the locals order if they’re not Old Jack?”
“What do the locals order?”
Amusement crossed her features.
“Tea, mostly. With elaborate names and specific brewing instructions. The coffee is for lost tourists and . . .” she paused, studying him with unusual eyes, “cops passing through.”
His shoulders tensed. “What makes you think I’m a cop?”
Her lips curved. “Good guess.”
Brooks looked down at his clothes. Nothing in his appearance screamed law enforcement. He’d dressed in civilian clothes, left behind any tells that might mark him as police. Either this woman was extraordinarily perceptive, or someone had told her about his arrival. Small towns thrived on gossip. News of the new detective probably traveled fast.