I’m behind the Tipping Point checkout counter all of ten minutes before Liam Stillson saunters in wearing a big grin and brown corduroy pants. Really. Corduroy? He looks like that kid in my first grade reading group who loved peeing in the big palm plant the teacher kept in our classroom.
“How are you feeling today, Ms. Clarke?” he asks, playful smirk in place as he leans on the counter. His glasses are different—square today, and black. I think I like the tortoiseshell ones better.
“Tired. You?”
“Tired. But last night was the most fun I’ve had in ages,” he says, “though I think I’m going to stay away from your Japanese whisky for a while.”
Lightweight.
“How is Humboldt this morning?”
“Oh, he’s good. Like normal. Except he chewed up his cone.”
“I figured he might.” A short line of c
