Beg, Borrow, or Steal (When in Rome, #3)(18)

Her eyes spark—I’ve struck gold. “You think so?”

“Absolutely. You have a much better selection. And so well organized. I had no trouble finding anything.” I’m not even lying—that’s the trick with getting people to like you. It’s not about making up shit, it’s having an eye to find the best parts of them to bring up. Paying attention to the small things. Yes, it is pretty exhausting, but in my experience worth it.

Harriet lights up. “It is the best market. I think the secret lies in all the little details like—”

Phil clears his throat. “Emily has always known it was a good market too, bless her.”

At this point . . . I’m getting a kick out of hearing their praises of Emily. It’s clear that something specific has inspired this speech and I think I’m almost to the root of it.

“Yes, the dear girl. Even when she and I have butted heads in the past, she still came through for me and played Mary in my church’s Christmas play when Hannah-May got sick at the last minute.”

“That’s high praise. But really, there’s no need to worry about me trying to take her place in the Christmas play. I’m not really a churchgoer.”

Her eyes widen, and I think I’ve scandalized her, but instead, her eyes fly to Phil, and she looks oddly pleased. “Doesn’t go to church either!” She slaps the counter in an I’ll-be-damned sort of way.

He tsks. “I know, Harriet.”

I look around briefly, wondering if I’m being pranked somehow. I truly have zero idea what’s going on in this little market. “Do I have to go to church to live in the town?”

Phil laughs. “Goodness, no. The Walkers don’t go either.”

“We can thank Mabel’s rebellious influence for that one,” she tells Phil with a disapproving look in some sort of private conversation. She turns to me again and smiles, and then seems to remember something and drops to a more subdued look. “But you’re of course always welcome in our church. It’s the one up on the corner over the hill by the gas station with the logo of the hooker-looking lady in cowboy boots.”

“Those are some well-detailed directions.”

She nods. “First Church of the Nazarene Hills Beloved Assembly of Christ.”

Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh.

“No one can decide on the denomination, and we didn’t want to leave anyone out. Which is why you’re absolutely welcome.” She pauses when Phil gives her a look. “But of course, you’ll have to sit in the back. Alone.”

This conversation has felt like the equivalent of swimming in the darkest part of the ocean and realizing I’m completely turned around with no surface in sight. Do they like me or do they hate me?

“I only recommend going to that church if you’re looking to be bored out of your damn mind,” says a scratchy voice from behind us. We all three startle. I look over my shoulder and find an older Black woman wearing a bright pink dress.

“Mabel . . .” says Harriet with a frightening glare. “What have I told you about cursing in my establishment?”

“That it’s strictly forbidden. Which honestly makes it a hell of a lot more fun to do, Harriet, so you have to quit bringing it up if you want me to stop,” she says, giving me a little wink. I like her.

“When’d you come in here? I never heard you,” asks Phil.

Mabel extends her foot between us. “New loafers. They’ve got those fancy memory foam insoles. Makes me stealthy as a cat so I can sneak up on Harriet and frustrate the shit out of her.” She grins. “Good for gathering gossip too.” She hitches her thumb in my direction. “It’s a shame about this one, huh?”

I open my mouth to ask what she means by that when Phil speaks up with a sad shake of his head. “Really is. I just know he’s over six foot too. Would’ve been perfect for her height.”

A new voice enters the mix. “Mabel, I swear to god, you have to quit spiking the tea at poker night,” says a dark-haired guy emerging from the aisle just behind us. Probably in his early thirties—he’s wearing jeans and a black short-sleeved tee. Flower tattoos wind all the way down his arm to a butterfly that’s inked on top of his hand. “I’m tired of waking up with a hangover.”

“I thought you were made of stronger stuff than that, William. Sweet tea just isn’t the same without a splash of Jack Daniel’s.”

“I’m pretty sure you mean Jack Daniel’s with a splash of sweet tea.”

Mabel waves dismissively. “Tomatoes potatoes.”

I’m in a conversational hurricane with no end in sight.

The guy turns to me and sticks out his hand. “Hi, I’m Will Griffin. Fellow Rome circus member.”

“Jack Bennett. Newest circus member, I guess?”

“Oh—you’re Jack,” he says, as our handshake finishes. “Sorry about the wedding.”

Was it printed in the damn paper or something?

But then he looks at the others and lifts his brows, joining their previous conversation like I’m not even standing here. “Pretty eyes and a good sense of fashion? It’s a damn shame.”

Okay, what the actual hell?

The group continues to size me up very openly, commenting on my features and personality (in a surprisingly complimentary way but almost like I’m . . . dead?). I tune out for a second, though, as I feel my phone buzz again and open it only to find a series of texts from my contractor who I’m supposed to meet with later today. (Note to self: There’s a bar of service right in front of the checkout counter.)