She choked up on the bat and crossed the small hallway between the
stairs and the door that led to the alley behind the café. Although ‘alley’
wasn’t quite the right word for it. Alley conjured images of overflowing
trash cans and scurrying rats. But Jeanie wasn’t in Boston anymore. She
was in Dream Harbor, which she was convinced someone must have
actually dreamed up. It was far too idyllic to have sprung up naturally. No,
the space behind the café and the other businesses on Main Street was more
like its own little side street, with room for delivery trucks and tidy trash
bins. She’d even seen some of the other shop owners taking breaks and
chit-chatting back there during the day. Not that she’d talked to anyone yet.
She wasn’t quite ready for that, for being the new kid.
Jeanie shook her head. Her thoughts were way off track, and she was
about to be potentially murdered. Alley or not, whatever was out there was
keeping her awake, and after three nights without sleep, she was barely
holding it together. She rested the bat on her shoulder and reached for the
doorknob. It was nearly dawn and a weak gray light seeped through the
window over the door.
Oh, good, Jeanie thought vaguely. At least I’ll be able to see my
attacker before I die. With that less-than-pleasant thought in her head –not
at all the positive new persona she was shooting for – she yanked open the
door––
And came face to face with a crate of small pumpkins. Gourds? It
didn’t matter, because before Jeanie could get her produce names sorted, the
giant man holding the crate of small pumpkins spoke.
Or at least he made a gruff startled noise that reminded Jeanie that she
was currently holding a baseball bat in a very aggressive manner. She
nearly dropped it to her side, but then she remembered; this was still a large,
strange man. Gourds or no gourds, she probably shouldn’t let her guard
down just yet.
‘Who are you?’ she asked, keeping one hand on the door in case she
had to slam it in this mysterious pumpkin-man’s face.
His dark eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch as though he was
surprised by her question. ‘Logan Anders,’ he said as though that would
clear things up for her. It didn’t.
‘And what are you doing in my back alley, Logan Anders?’ she asked.
He blew out a frustrated-sounding breath and shifted the crate in his
arms. It was probably heavy, but Jeanie would not compromise her safety