“Mr. Callahan, I should seriously kick your ass,” Violet Anderson muttered, speaking to no one.
No one other than the rows and rows of books that filled the rows and rows of shelves in her small bookstore, that was.
“I mean, come on. I have stuff to do. Real stuff. Like job stuff.”
While the podcast played, Violet continued to run the Swiffer over the spines and tops of the books as she did every couple of days, keeping her pride and joy, aka Shelf Help, neat and tidy. Up until two months ago, she’d handled her daily chores with an audiobook to keep her entertained because she hadn’t known what a podcast even was. Well, technically, that wasn’t true. She’d heard of podcasts but had never bothered to venture into that world due to her preference for fictional storytelling.
Boy, had she been missing out.
Now, here she was, hanging on to every word, envisioning the scenes being painted in her head by the sexy hum of that voice through her earbuds. It was the best time of day for her to enjoy her favorite true-crime podcast—an obsession she’d developed recently thanks to Holt Callahan, the bastard.
For weeks, Violet had been consuming them the same way she consumed books: raptly and without apology. She spent her afternoons taking care of menial chores since the store was mostly empty—or completely, as was the case now—while these new types of stories played, drawing her in, captivating her with their insight and revelation.
“Like I can really afford another obsession.” She shook her head and sighed, weaving her way toward the front.
The elementary school would be letting out in about an hour, which meant in an hour and a half, the store would be overrun with six- to nine-year-olds on the hunt for their next favorite read because today was “Even Swap” day. She’d dedicated the first Friday of every month to this day, and it was a hit with the community. The rule was if you brought in one book, you could hand it over and walk out with another from one of the shelves she’d dedicated to the program. Provided you were a student at Coyote Ridge Elementary. And fine, she’d made a concession or two for students in neighboring towns since word had filtered into those communities. Who was she to stop kids from reading?
It helped tremendously that she had a whole slew of young cousins whose parents were diligent about donating their gently used books to the cause.
Setting her Swiffer duster on the counter, she plucked her earbuds out. Last but not least, she needed the multipurpose cleaner so she could—
“Holy shit!” Clutching her hand to her chest, Violet tried to stop her heart from escaping through her ribcage. “For fucks sake, Holt. Warn a girl, would ya?”
Holt Callahan smiled. “I thought you knew I was here. That’s what the bells are for, right?”
“How would I know that?” she countered hotly, fisting her AirPods and thrusting her hand in his direction. “You scared the shit outta me.”
“Holt, man. Come on. You shouldn’t be doin’ that.”
The voice that came from behind her had Violet spinning, another startled scream escaping.
“Mother of dragons!” she hissed, once again clutching her chest.
“Sorry,” the man said, although the devilish smirk on his face told her he was anything but.
Violet frowned, tempted to blast him with her outrage, but she didn’t make a habit of dressing down customers. It wasn’t good for business, after all.
Holt cleared his throat. Or maybe that was a cough meant to cover up a laugh. “Violet Anderson, I’d like you to meet Simon Jennings. Simon, Violet.”
Violet cast a death ray stare in Holt’s direction. “You know this guy?”
His smile was slow and devious. “And now you do, too.”
“So you’re not a customer?” she asked Simon.
“I could be.” That devilish grin remained firmly planted.
“But not at the moment?”
A whisper of confusion—or maybe amusement—shifted through his expression. “I guess, technically, I’m not.”
“Are you an author?” She tilted her head toward Holt. “Like him?”
“Nobody’s an author like me,” Holt said with a laugh.
“No,” Simon answered.
“Okay, good.” Violet stabbed a finger in his direction. “Don’t sneak up on me! Ever. Understood?”
His smile returned. “Yes, ma’am. Noted for the future.”
She stared at the newcomer and realized he was holding out his hand. For some insane reason, she felt compelled to shake it lest be rude. His much bigger fingers engulfed hers and she was surprised to find they were rougher than she imagined they would be.
Upon first glance, Violet would’ve cataloged Holt’s friend the same way she did Holt Callahan, dumping him right into the preppy column. Maybe it was the perfectly messy hair, the sharp blade of his nose, or the scruff that lined his perfectly shaped chin. Or—more than likely—it had to do with the jeans that cost more than jeans should cost and a polo that had likely only ever been dry-cleaned.
Neither man was the type she expected to see in her small town. Most of the men around these parts wore Wranglers and Stetsons with belt buckles the size of the great state they lived in. Their boots showed years of abuse, and their beards only saw a proper shave when Cletus Johnson or his son Clive—at the barber shop next door—got their clippers after them.
She’d bet money that Simon’s haircut cost upwards of three hundred dollars, and that scruff on his jaw was maintained daily. He probably manscaped, too.
Not that she cared enough to find out. Definitely not. The best part about this guy was that he was absolutely, 100% not her type.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Simon drawled.
That silky twang directly contradicted the outer wrapping, which made Simon Jennings a conundrum wrapped in … yumminess.
Not her type of yumminess. Absolutely not. He was much too … nice to be a guy she would date. Now, if he’d eyeballed her like a tiger would raw meat, perhaps she would’ve thought so. Maybe if he said something vulgar or belched, she would swoon and think about what fast food joint she wanted to have for dinner. That was the type of guy she was drawn to. The bad boy who would undervalue her and be on his merry way when she refused to screw him after chowing down on McBurgers and fries.
Another way to look at it was, given a choice from a lineup of men, with one being a billionaire philanthropist, one being a sweet school teacher, and one being an ex-con with no job and no prospects for one, she would undoubtedly pick the ex-con.
Not by choice, mind you. Unfortunately, it was the family curse.
Taking a deep breath and trying to compose herself, Violet pasted on her customer service smile. “Likewise.”
Not your type, she reminded her traitorous body, which was reacting oddly to the gleam in his blue eyes. Or were they green? Or gray A mixture of all three? And what about his hair? It wasn’t quite brown and definitely not blond. Somewhere in between?
Nope. She didn’t care about his eyes or his hair or the dimples that formed when he smiled.
Taking her hand back, Violet turned to Holt. “So what brings you in? Comin’ to check out the new releases? Because I can tell you right now, an author I know didn’t release one this week despite everyone flocking in to see if he did.”
“I’m working on it. Promise.”
That was the same thing he said every time she made a comment in hopes of getting him to release his next bestseller early. She tended to lean toward romance as her genre of choice but ever since she started reading Holt’s bestselling mystery thrillers, her eyes were opened to a whole new world. Kinda like the podcasts.
Holt glanced at Simon. “I told you she had sass.”
Simon was grinning. “You did mention that, yes.”
Violet fisted her hands on her hips. “Sass or not, I’m still waitin’ on a new release, so if you’re not here for that, what are you here for?”
“I’m just showing Simon around town. He’s gonna be staying at the B and B for a little while.”
“Ah.” She did her best not to look at Simon, but her efforts to resist failed because she found herself glancing over to see he was watching her. “Vacation?”
“More like professional curiosity,” he answered easily before walking around the large square counter where she checked customers out.
He had a nice voice to go with the nice hair and the nice eyes. Rich, smooth. Not too deep, not too high. It sounded oddly familiar, but she wasn’t sure why. Violet knew for a fact she’d never met the man. He was one she would’ve remembered.
Not that she was attracted to him or anything.
“What is it that you do?” Not that she cared. It was just the polite thing to ask.
Simon’s gaze shifted to Holt and a look passed between them.
“Do you not know what you do?” she asked, taunting him because something felt off.
He still didn’t answer, so she looked at Holt, cocked an eyebrow. “Your turn.”
His eyes glittered with amusement. “Simon’s the creator and host of Havoc Your Way.”
Every cell in her body froze as the words filtered through her brain.
Havoc Your Way. Only her favorite podcast hosted by the award-winning investigative journalist who had hundreds of thousands of fans waiting with bated breath for his next episode?
That Simon Jennings.
“Wha—huh?” she squeaked, her lungs failing to work as she stared at the man and tried to tie him back to her most recent obsession.
“Wow,” Holt said. “When she learned who I was, she turned her nose up.” He chuckled. “Looks like you’ve rendered her speechless.”
It wasn’t possible. No way was the Simon Jennings standing in her store. No freaking way.
“Say something,” she blurted because she needed to hear his voice again to confirm whether Holt was telling the truth. Of course, why would he lie? Then again, maybe he did. People did stupid things for stupid reasons.
Simon’s eyebrows lifted. “Me?”
“Yes.” She rolled her hand, gesturing for him to hurry up with it.
Simon’s smile caused that dimple to reappear and his blue/green/gray eyes to glitter beneath those thick eyelashes. “Is there somethin’ specific you’d like to hear?”
Aww, man. It was him. Simon with the smooth, rich drawl and the not-quite-brown hair and the multi-shaded eyes and the sexy dimple, was standing. In. Her. Store.
Once again, she was clutching her chest. “Oh my God.”
And yes, she found herself ogling him, trying to connect the man she was looking at with the voice she’d heard every day since Holt first suggested she listen to one of the top true-crime podcasts in existence. The only pictures of Simon Jennings she’d found online were those of him wearing sunglasses and a hat—sometimes a ballcap, most of the time a cowboy hat, but always a hat. She just figured that was his style.
He didn’t have a hat on now. Or sunglasses.
He looked better without them. In her opinion, anyway.
Not interested.
Exactly.
“Wait.” Violet peered around. “Is Archer here?”
Holt chuckled.
Simon said, “No. He’s takin’ a few days off to visit his grandmother.”
Well, that was too bad. Violet would’ve loved to have met Simon’s partner, the man who did the dirty work when it came to their investigations. At least, that was how Simon described him in his episodes.
Wait. Violet frowned. “The one in Nashville? Or Oklahoma?”
“Nashville.”
“Is she all right?”
Simon’s smile widened. “She is.”
Violet sighed with relief.
Simon continued. “He tries to get to get up there to visit every coupla months.”
What a nice thing to do.
“Ooh. Did Paige come with?” she asked, hopeful that Simon would nod.
More laughter from Holt.
“She stayed back in Dallas to finish laying some audio in the last episode,” he explained.
Well, that made sense. Paige Avery was the miracle worker who tied everything together and made the details come to life. Without her, she imagined the storytelling would be flat, and Simon Jennings wouldn’t be quite as famous as he was.
Simon looked at Holt. “Is she gonna be okay?”
Violet pulled herself out of her trance, scrambling for composure. She was not the sort to fangirl over anyone. Ever. And if she could meet Cheyenne Montgomery—only her favorite country singer of all time—and not fall to pieces, she could meet anyone. And she hadn’t. Her introduction to Cheyenne had gone off without a hitch. Mostly. She might’ve created a cheer, complete with pompoms and high kicks, which she performed in the privacy of her bedroom back when she learned that Cheyenne was marrying her cousin Brendon, but that was a long time ago. And no one knew about that.
Hopefully.
Holt cleared his throat.
“What’s the podcast name again?” Violet asked, realizing both men were staring at her.
Holt laughed. “Nice try.”
Thankfully, she wasn’t the sort to blush. The heat she felt at the tips of her ears probably meant she was coming down with something.
She made a mental note to get that checked out.
