Twist of Fate (Taking Chances #2) - Tia Louise Page 0,57

on the side of the truck and rub my forehead. I can’t go back to Los Angeles without seeing her. If it’s too late, so be it, but I want to say hello, tell her I’ve been thinking about her. Tell her she was always on my mind… Which is the most selfish song ever written.

Pulling out my phone, I touch the familiar digits. My brother’s answer is short. “What?”

“Good to hear from you, too.” I shake my head, turning my back to the door.

“I’m in the middle of something. I can’t really talk.”

“Then why didn’t you send it to voicemail?”

“You never leave a message.”

He has a point. “What are you doing tonight? Can you meet me at the Tuna Tiki for a drink?”

“Can’t do it. I’ve made plans.”

Exhaling a growl, I check my watch. “I guess it’s short notice. What about tomorrow?”

I have to say, my brother has gotten way more interested in spending time at home with his wife than he ever was before. Not that I blame him.

“What’s this about?” He grouses. “Can’t you just tell me?”

“It’s about my future. I need some advice from a person who’s been there.” A loud exhale fills my ear, and I drop my head back, rolling my eyes. This guy. “Look, I’m not going to keep you all night. You can go home to the misses before ten. I just need to talk.

“I’ll meet you there at seven. And I’m leaving at seven-thirty.”

“Deal. See you tomorrow.”

Disconnecting, I look up the walk. I should have asked Emberly more questions, but she strapped her boxes to the back of a bicycle as I chatted with my brother and took off riding up the hill. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I decide to poke around a bit before heading back to Gran’s.

Past the bakery is an old-school hardware store with a few customers milling around, looking at nuts and bolts and belts for lawnmowers. I keep going to the first shop in the lineup, a specialty grocery store with a sign inside reading Authentic New Orleans Poboys.

A bell rings as I push through the door, and the tall black guy behind the counter gives me a nod. “Welcome to Pepper’s.”

“Pepper’s?” I look around the place for any more information.

“It used to be the Pack n Save until Mrs. Betty renamed it.” The guy watches me curiously.

“Sorry.” I stick out a hand. “Scout Dunne. I’m from Fireside. Any chance she’s related to Owen Pepper? I spent a lot of time hauling crap out of his junkyard for a friend of mine in high school.”

“André Fontenot.” The guy’s lips spread into a wide, white smile. “Betty is Owen’s sister.”

“Small world.” We fall silent, and I scan the menu items ranging from pastrami on rye to turkey, apple, Brie, and bacon to New Orleans muffulettas and Cajun shrimp and oysters. “Damn, looks like some good stuff here.”

“Authentic New Orleans cuisine made fresh every day.” André adjusts his cap.

“You from there?”

“Born and raised.”

“Which is your favorite?”

“You can never go wrong with a muffuletta.”

“Sold.” I grin looking around the small store as he gets started.

Low aisles are stocked with the usual grocery items, crackers, bread, soft drinks, and light produce. On the other side of the store are matching candles, lotions, soaps, and other specialty items wrapped in white paper and tied with black strings.

“What brings you to the Village?” He quickly cuts open a long piece of French bread and spreads the olive salad across it.

“I’m a friend of Daisy Sales.”

“Ah… Daisy’s a great girl, and that Melody.” Shaking his head, he exhales a chuckle. “She went from being a bossy toddler to a regular football-playing force.”

“Melody’s her daughter, right?” André glances up and nods. “You said she plays football?”

“Well, she’s only three, but Chad has her running up and down. She can throw a pretty decent spiral. Not too far, but straight.”

My lips twitch in an attempt at a smile, but it’s needles in my stomach. “Chad is…”

“Sheriff here in Oceanside. He’s a good guy. Takes his job seriously, wants to be a presence in the neighborhood.”

Daisy married a sheriff? Hot coals blister behind my lungs. Law enforcement’s a dangerous line of work for a man with a family. Still, if he’s as good with kids as André describes, what right do I have to be jealous?

I am, though.

I am so jealous.

“He sounds like a good guy.”

“And here’s your good sandwich.” André rolls it in paper and passes it across the counter. I pass him