Laura Drake - The Reasons to Stay

The girl rolled her eyes to the back of the store. “Hey, it’s not me. I could give a crap. It’s the boss’s rule.”

“Okay. After you bring me water...” She glanced to the menu board on the wall to her right. “How about a BLT and a diet coke.”

“Coming up.” The girl finally moved, albeit slowly.

When the ice water arrived, Priss drank half of it at once, then winced as the brain freeze hit. Her stomach growled at the smell of grilling bacon. She tried to relax and let the AC and lunch-crowd conversation wash over her. Sipping more slowly, she noticed a bulletin board below the menu, with a sign at the top, The Grove Groove. She stood and walked over to read. Among the local real estate agents’ business cards were flyers for a lost llama, babysitting services, and a “gently used” Western saddle. She flipped up and read a thank-you card from a local little-league team to the drugstore’s owner, for his sponsorship. An index card at the very bottom caught her eye.

Furnished Apartment for Rent.

See Adam Preston for details.

You know you’re in a small town when they don’t include a phone number. She walked back and sat, just as the girl set down Priss’s BLT.

“You want mustard?”

“Sure. But, can you tell me who Adam Preston is, and how I contact him about that apartment?”

The girl walked a few steps and drew a soda from a tall, old-fashioned dispenser. “He’s the boss I told you about. The pharmacist.” Snap, snap.

Priss craned her neck to the pharmacy counter in the back.

“He’ll be back after lunch.” The girl set the curvy glass in front of Priss and plunked a bottle of mustard next to it. “The apartment is upstairs.” She looked at the ceiling. “He’s up there now actually.”

“Oh, cool.” It wouldn’t hurt to get some insider information. “My name is Priss, by the way. I’m moving to Widow’s Grove for a while.”

The girl’s attention sharpened, as if Priss had just moved out of the generic customer category. “I’m Sin, as in S-I-N.” Snap, snap. “Actually, it’s Hyacinth. I shorten it to irritate my mother. That’ll teach her for naming me after a stupid flower.”

Her smile displayed further rebellion—a huge cubic zirconia was set in her front tooth.

“I can relate. My name came from my mother’s massive crush on Elvis.”

“That old fat guy?” Snap. Snap. Snap. “That blows.”

“Tell me about it. What can you tell me about the apartment, or the pharmacist? I really need a place near town.”

The girl named a modest rent amount, then considered her next words as she scooped ice cream into a banana-split boat. “Adam is okay. He’s kinda hot, for an old guy.”

That wasn’t the kind of information she was looking for. “I mean—”

“Except he’s got a major stick up his butt.”

“How so?”

“He’s anal. Seriously, terminally, anal. The guy needs to dispense himself a chill pill.” She walked to the other end of the counter to deliver the split to a guy in a business suit, leaving Priss to try to reconcile those two facts and how to use them for leverage. If that apartment was presentable, she really needed to rent it.

* * *

ADAM TOOK THE last dish from the dishwasher and put it in the cabinet. “Mom, I’ve got to get back to work.” He grabbed a sponge and wiped the sandwich crumbs from the counter. “You’ve got your phone with you in case you need anything, right?”

“Yes, dear.” His mother rose from the kitchen chair, clutched her walker and squeaked her way to her favorite antique wing-back chair in the living room.

When the microwave dinged, he took out the cup of tea and carried it to her. He’d wanted to move her into the apartment that had the view of Hollister, but she insisted on saving the nicer view for a “paying customer.”

“Thank you. I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me.” She pulled a soft throw onto her lap. “When I’m off this walker and back on my own pins you won’t need to coddle me anymore.”

“No worries, Mom. I’m just downstairs.” He walked to the door, wondering how many prescriptions had piled up and how Sin was coping with the lunch crowd.

“Adam.”

He pulled the door open and turned back to her. “Yeah, Mom?”

“Don’t forget, if someone wants to rent the other apartment, I get final say, right?”

“Of course. But I call screening privileges. They’ll be living right across the hall and you’re too trusting.” He closed the door and walked down the stairs that ended in a vestibule; one door led into the store, one led to the alley behind it. He unlocked the door to the store and walked in.

He glanced up front, to the soda fountain. Sin lifted a thumb to let him know all was well then waved him over. Walking up the nearest aisle, he stopped to help old Mrs. Baylor with a suppository recommendation before moving on.

I’ve got to do something about Sin. She didn’t look like a ’60s soda jerk—she looked more like Cyndi Lauper at a Halloween party. But how could he approach the situation without hurting her feelings? He’d been through a string of failed hires before Sin, and in spite of her looks he’d come to rely on her. She ran the soda fountain well and he could trust her. The locals were used to her looks. Maybe just a different color uniform would help—one that complemented her hair.

Snap, snap. “Boss, this lady wants to talk to you.”

He was going to have to talk to her about chewing that gum. Again. He turned to the lady on the last stool.

Scratch that. A girl.

She had a slim build and wore a knee-length skirt that showed off long, muscled dancer’s calves, crossed at the ankle. But it was her face that caught and held him—huge green eyes set in a pretty heart-shaped face. Her brown hair was short and spiked with a widow’s peak. She sat looking at him with a small nervous smile.

Time slowed and sound faded.

God, she’s enchanting. Even though he was sure he’d never used that word before, it fit. He felt enchanted.

He extended a hand. “Adam Preston.”

She gave him a firm, no-nonsense shake. “Priscilla Hart. I’m interested in the apartment you have for rent.”

She must have read the skepticism in his expression, because she sighed. “I’m twenty-nine—plenty old enough.”

Not for what I was imagining.

“Well, all right. Why don’t you follow me? I have an application and background authorization for you to fill out.”

There was a line at the prescription counter so he sat her at the consulting window with the forms and got to work.

Fifteen minutes later he’d dealt with the line. The dropped-off scripts could wait. His prospective tenant sat tapping her fingers on the counter. He walked over and picked up the forms. “An interim office manager. Colorado, huh? I don’t see a phone number for your previous landlord. I’ll need that.”

“I need to tell him I’m leaving first.” She fussed with the strap of her purse.

She was businesslike and put-together. But after the epic fail of his last tenant, he knew that appearances were deceiving. He frowned.

“You can check. I pay my taxes, am a registered voter and don’t have so much as a moving violation.”

“But according to this, you don’t have a job in Widow’s Grove.”

“Yet. You’ll see from my credit check that I have enough money in the bank to cover a deposit, first and last month’s rent.”

“But if you can’t pay down the road, eviction is a real hassle.”

“Look.” She stood and slung the oversize purse on her shoulder. “I’m trying to rent an apartment. I am not signing up to guard the president or run the Federal Reserve. Check out my references, then let me know. My cell number is on the fifth form from the bottom.” She looked at him as if he were a juicy wad of gum on her shoe. “Do you think you could trust me enough to at least show me this apartment? I’ll give you time to hide the silver first, if you want.”