hopefully not a single second longer.
“As long as you want, my heart and home are open to you.” She beamed, bright red lips spreading across her face and revealing even, white teeth. Her hand shot out, and she pumped his in greeting, extracting his name and reason for coming to Riverbend in quick succession. “Oh, that’s just so exciting!” Betsy said. “Now, tell me what you want for breakfast. Waffles, French toast or eggs?”
Flynn forced a smile to his face. “Surprise me.”
Betsy squealed. “I’ll delight you, is what I’ll do. And I’ll have plenty of baked goods to choose from, too, won’t I, Sam?”
“You’re my first delivery of the day, Betsy. Not to mention, my best customer.”
Betsy hustled around and took Flynn’s arm, practically hauling him toward the front parlor. “I was her only customer, don’t you know, back when she first took over. So many people didn’t think a girl, still practically a teenager, could run a shop like that. And she did have her mishaps, didn’t you, Sam? A few burned things and well, that one teeny-weeny explosion, but you moved past those little setbacks.” Betsy beamed. “You’re a regular baker now, even if you had no formal training.”
Flynn glanced over at Samantha. Her smile seemed held on by strings.
“And those romance cookies, why they worked for me and my Earl. Oh, he’s such a cutie, isn’t he?” Betsy barreled on, saving Flynn from having to offer an opinion. “Those cookies have fixed up many a person who has come through my door. I serve them every morning on the buffet table.” Betsy wagged a finger at him. “If you’re looking for love, Mr. MacGregor, you be sure to try those cookies.”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
She assessed him like a Christmas ham. “I don’t see a ring. That means you need the cookies.” Betsy nodded. “And our Sam, here, she’s available.”
“Betsy, Mr. MacGregor needs a room,” Sam interjected.
“Oh, my goodness, I almost forgot! And here I am, the hostess and everything.” Betsy tsk-tsked herself. “And you need to get back to work, missy, right?”
“I do,” Sam replied. “Business is booming lately.”
“Well, why wouldn’t it? Where else are people going to go to get their cookies? You’re the only bakery for miles and miles!” Betsy grinned, as if she’d just paid Samantha a huge compliment. Flynn supposed, in her own way, Betsy thought she had, but he could see the sting in Samantha’s eyes. The implication that her success was due solely to a lack of competition, not hard work and expertise. Maybe Betsy still saw Sam as that young kid who burned the muffins.
For a second, his chest constricted with sympathy, then he yanked the emotion back. The first rule in reporting was not to get involved with the story, stay above the fray.
He’d used that as a yardstick to measure every personal decision he’d ever made. After years of sticking to that mantra like tape to a present, Flynn wasn’t about to start caring now. To start putting his heart into the mix. He did not cross those boundaries.
Ever.
He didn’t care if Riverbend had issues with Sam Barnett or vice versa. Didn’t care if her business was going gangbusters or going bust. He’d made a very good living without ever putting his heart into a story, because Flynn MacGregor had learned a long time ago that doing so meant putting his emotions through a meat grinder. He’d rather write about kitchen implements than experience them.
“I’d like to get settled, Miss Williams,” Flynn said. “And find out how to log onto your network.”
“Network?” She frowned, then propped a fist on her ample hip. “I’ll have you know Betsy’s Bed and Breakfast is not a chain.”
“Internet network,” Flynn said. “I wanted to check my e-mail.”
“Oh, that.” She crossed to a side table, to straighten the green-feathered hat on a stuffed cat in an elf costume, then walked back to Flynn. “I don’t have one of those either.”
“Well, then your dial-up connection. That’ll do.”
“Dial-up to what? Anytime we need to talk to somebody, we either walk on down to their house or call ’em on the phone.” Betsy wagged a finger at him. “By the way, local calls are free at Betsy’s Bed and Breakfast, but there is an extra charge for any long distance. The parlor phone is the one set aside for guest usage.”
Flynn pivoted back toward Samantha. “There is an Internet connection in this town, isn’t there?”
“Well, yes, but…” Samantha gave him a smile. “It’s not very reliable, so most people here don’t bother with it.”
He truly had landed in the middle of nowhere. Flynn bit back his impatience, but it surged forward all the same. “What exactly does that mean?”
“Meaning when there’s a storm, like there is now, the Internet is the first to go.”
“What about cable? Satellite?”
“Not here, not yet. Companies look for demand before they start investing the dollars in technology and, well, Riverbend has never been big on embracing that kind of thing.” Samantha shrugged.
“How the hell do you do business out here?”
“Most people still do things the old-fashioned way, I suppose. Face-to-face, with a smile and handshake.”
A headache began to pound in Flynn’s temples. He rubbed at his forehead. He couldn’t miss his deadline. Absolutely could not. It wasn’t just that Food Lovers was holding the Valentine’s Day issue especially for this article, and being late would risk raising Tony’s ire. Flynn had already earned a slot on the ire list.
There was more than his career to consider. In the last few months since that interview that had blown up in his face, Flynn had found himself searching for—
A connection. To a past he thought he’d shut off, closed like a closet door full of memories no one wanted to look at. He’d done everything he could to take care of that past, to assuage his guilt. But suddenly throwing money at it wasn’t enough.
He needed to go in person, even if he wasn’t so sure his shoes on that doorstep would be very welcome. Either way, one glance out the window at the storm that had become a frenzy of white, told him the chances of leaving today—even if his car was fixed—were nil.
Until the storm eased, he’d work. Write up this thing about magic elves baking love cookies, or whatever the secret was, turn it over to his editor, and then he could get back to the meat that fed his paycheck and his constant hunger to find the scoop—scathing restaurant reviews exposing the true underbelly of the food industry.
“How am I supposed to work without an Internet connection?” he said.
“We have electricity,” Betsy said, her voice high and helpful. “You can plug in a computer. That’s good enough, isn’t it?” Upstairs, someone called Betsy’s name, mentioning an emergency. She sighed. “Oh, Lord, not again.” She toodled
