Still the One (Deep Haven Collection #1) - Susan May Warren Page 0,3

stack of tickets in his ungloved hand. Cole took the last bite of stale donut and watched the boy march to the counter. What he lacked in stature, he made up for in purpose.

“Hi, Marie, we’re selling raffle tickets for the Huskies peewee hockey team. I thought you might be interested.” The boy wore athletic pants and worn athletic shoes, his dark hair peeking out from his knit hat.

“Hockey, huh?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The boy smiled. “We’re hoping to attend the Peewee Meltdown in Minneapolis.”

“Unfortunately, Grayson already came by.” She leaned forward, her elbows on the counter. “I bought nine, and Bill and Kathy took the rest.”

“Man, he’s beat me to every shop in town. Are you sure none of you don’t want more?”

“I’m sorry, Josh.” She grabbed a towel and wiped down the counter. “Good luck.”

The boy’s shoulders fell. He held a stack of raffle tickets in his hand—it didn’t look like he’d sold any.

And Cole knew exactly how that felt—to want something only to have it vanish in your hands. His chest tightened. “Hey—did you say something about a hockey raffle?”

The kid turned. “Yeah. They’re two dollars each or three for five. The raffle is next Friday and the grand prize is a jersey signed by the Blue Ox team. The entire team.”

Cole rubbed a hand across his two-day stubble. “What position do you play?”

“Mostly wing.”

“Nice. You must have quick hands.”

He gave a shy grin. “My coach says so. You played?"

“A long time ago.” One of the Cougars’ junior league MVPs. Until a car wreck robbed him of everything he loved. He nodded toward the tickets. “How many have you sold?”

“Three.” The boy eyed the busy table of teenagers, dropped his voice, and wrinkled his nose. “To my mom.”

Ouch. Cole remembered the days his mom would have done the same thing. “How many do you have left?”

“Twenty-two.”

Cole drew his wallet from his jeans. “In that case, I’ll take twelve.”

“Really?” The boy’s mouth fell open.

“Absolutely.” Cole held a crisp twenty out to the boy who began a slow, deliberate count of the red tickets. Cole wouldn’t be around for the drawing, but the kid didn’t need to know that.

The boy handed Cole the tickets in exchange for the cash. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome—Josh, is it?”

“Yeah.” He tugged his hat down over his ears. Cole spotted a missing front tooth—hopefully not from a hockey stick. “I need to get going. I have to catch my ride.”

“Sure. Thanks for the raffle tickets.”

The boy grinned. “See ya around.” He waved and ran out the door.

Cole stood, tossed his empty cup in the trash, and stuffed the bright stubs into his pocket. At least the boy wouldn’t come in last.

He snagged up the keys.

It seemed most prudent to park around the block and walk. Do a little recon to find out if the tenant was home.

Not a whole lot had changed on Third Avenue West. The Art Colony-slash-former church building still took up most of the block, although it had gotten a fresh coat of white paint. And the Congregational church across the street still hosted bingo night on Wednesday, along with dinner. Next door to his grandfather’s house, the red cabin had been turned into a B&B.

As for the old homestead, it looked, well…yes, he’d say yes to the first buyer that came along. The front porch of the two-story Victorian sagged, a few shingles hung catawampus on the roof, and plastic flapped from the windows, a pitiful attempt at winterizing from bygone years. Yellow paint peeled from the ratty siding as if the house was shedding.

The place embodied every brutal memory he held, and then some, of his last year in Deep Haven.

Next to the old Victorian, however, a newer garage had been built, two stories, fresh paint—and he’d bet it was where his unruly tenant lived.

Perfect. She’s pretty stubborn. Nathan’s words rattled around his head, and he took a breath, not sure where to start.

The sight of a woman walking down the sidewalk caught his attention. She held a large box of ribbons in her arms, the wind toying with a few. She wore a long, gray winter dress coat over a floral skirt. It flapped against the tall brown boots that hit just below her knees. Behind the load she carried, her blonde, shoulder-length hair blew across her face.

She neared, her foot slipping on a patch of ice. “Oh!” She righted herself, but the sudden movement tossed blue flowers, bows, and a three-ring binder into the snow, the ribbons skittering away