It's a Wonderful Knife (21 page)

Mr. Farnsworth walked to the cowboy's side. “Trixie, this is Mr. Tyler Brisco. He's all the way from Houston, Texas, and he's renting the apartment above my shop. Ty, Trixie is the new owner of the Silver Bullet.”

The cowboy held out his hand. “I guess that makes you my neighbor, Mrs. Matkowski.”

His voice was low and gravelly and incredibly sexy with a hint of a drawl, not that I'd noticed. I moved my grape sucker to my left hand and held out my right.

We shook hands, my purple-mittened hand in his. I hoped that it wasn't sticky.

“Just call me Trixie. And I'm not a Mrs. anymore. Just Trixie. Trixie Matkowski. I took my maiden name back after my divorce.” Why on earth did I find it necessary to tell everyone about my divorce? I changed the subject. “I didn't know that there was an apartment up there.”

Mr. Farnsworth nodded enthusiastically.
“Yeah, your uncle Porky helped me renovate it a while back.”

I couldn't take my eyes off the Texas cowboy. “How long have you lived in Sandy Harbor, Mr. Brisco?”

“Call me Ty.” With his drawl, those three simple words lasted forever. His smile was warm and infectious. “I moved in just after the first of the year.”

His voice was so mesmerizing, I'd listen to him read the Silver Bullet's dinner menu. I jerked back to reality, and my reality was to concentrate on my new business ventures, not a Texas cowboy.

“So we're both new to Sandy Harbor. What brings you here, Ty?”

I told myself that I was just making conversation, that I really didn't care what he was doing here.

“I'd had enough of big-city crime,” he said. “You know, I'm just going over for lunch at the Silver Bullet. Join me and we'll talk?”

His eyes twinkled, and I wondered if he knew how sexy he actually was. Of course he did. A guy as good-looking as Ty had women stacked up like cordwood.

I wasn't going to be one of them. No, thanks.

But I was headed over to the diner anyway, wasn't I?

“Uh . . . I'd love to join you, but I'm a bit busy right now,” I finally answered.

Mr. Farnsworth butted in. “Trixie, go and keep
Ty company. There's nothing that can't wait. We take things a little slow here in Sandy Harbor.”

Oh great. I was trapped into having lunch with the cowboy.

I pulled out my notebook and a pen from the recesses of my coat. I'd take the opportunity to jot down some ideas I had for making the diner my own.

“What do you say, Trixie?” the cowboy drawled again, and my knees turned to mashed potatoes. My two-syllable name took on a life of its own.

Reluctantly I nodded. At another point in my life, maybe fifty years from now, I wouldn't mind spending time with the cowboy. He might be interesting to get to know, but right now, all I could think of was that he was a man, and I was in a world of hurt, courtesy of Deputy Doug.

“I eat all my meals at the Silver Bullet.” Ty patted his flat stomach. “I think I've gained sixty pounds since I moved here.”

Yeah, right, cowboy.

I pulled out a crumpled tissue from the pocket of my coat and wrapped it around what was left of my sucker. I probably had purple teeth and tongue, but I didn't care.

We went outside, walked around the boat launch between the diner and the bait shop, and cut through the launch's empty parking lot to the back door of my diner.

“Let's cut through the kitchen this time, Ty. I want to check on the cook.”

“Juanita?”

The man even knew the name of the morning cook. “You do come here often, don't you?”

I smiled and waved to Juanita, whom I'd met briefly when she came to the Victorian to say good-bye to Aunt Stella.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

Juanita gave me a quick nod, and we hurried to the front of the diner to get out of her way.

I just loved the kitchen. Everything was aluminum or chrome and just shone. The smell of bacon frying permeated the air as did bread taking a ride on the toaster. Aunt Stella always called the revolving toaster a Ferris wheel for bread. I could just picture Uncle Porky at the cast-iron stove, working several orders at a time.

A good crowd was already gathered at the diner, but there were at least two booths available.

“Over there?” I pointed to the booth toward the back.

“Lead the way, darlin'.”

“I'm not your darlin',” I mumbled. Doug used to call me darling. It rang hollow even then.

“Pardon me?”

“I said, ‘I love this diner.'”

A hush fell over the patrons, forks stopped moving, and it seemed like every pair of eyes looked in my direction. Several customers—mostly women—smiled and waved.

Happy to be recognized after all these years, I did the same back.

Then I realized they weren't greeting me. It was all for Ty Brisco.

Glancing back at him, I saw that he was waving and tweaking his hat. The women were swooning.

Good grief.

Looking for more?
Visit Penguin.com for more about this author and a complete list of their books.
Discover your next great read!