4
HARPER
My apartment smelled like cinnamon and bubbling hot butter. I’d brought in all the free labor I could find, which meant enlisting my best friend, Lin. We turned my cramped little apartment into a confectionary warzone in the span of an hour. I was cooking everything I could ahead of time and prepping all the rest for the Night of Lights tomorrow.
I hoped to have my other bestie, Farrah, here helping as well, but she couldn’t come. She was between jobs at the moment. She was planning to interview at the old Ashford Inn, but–
I froze with my hands in cold, grainy dough, eyes darting and brows furrowing. Why did that thought make my chest feel tight? What was I missing?
Mr. Ashford.
Those kids earlier. That big, grumpy man with the muscles. Billy and Molly Ashford. The guy from out of town…
Shit. Was he Mr. Ashford’s grandson? It all started to make sense. Mr. Ashford had another son who lived in town. Zack was probably a few years younger, but I could see the similarity now that I thought about it. They both had that darkly handsome, broad framed look. But Zack looked like he belonged outdoors and this Greyson guy was somehow clinical. When I thought of him, my mind filled with clean-cut offices with towering views of a sterile city. He was all leather-bound portfolios and meetings.
Zack looked like he belonged here, but this new guy didn’t.
I started working my hands through the dough, hoping to force myself back to a calm place.
Did it really matter if some random guy was an out of towner or related to a local? Obviously he’d been handsome. He had this whole grumpy but not totally unavailable vibe going for him. But it was also clear he saw me as a little kid from the way he talked. When he asked if I owned the bagel shop, he’d looked like he was on the verge of laughing at the idea.
I gave the dough an unnecessary series of little punches, working out my annoyance.
Who cared if he was Mr. Ashford’s grandson? Not me.
Across from me, Lin was portioning out balls of cookie dough. She might’ve been eating more of it than she was putting down on the baking sheets, but I’d accounted for her belly tax when I asked her to help and cooked a little extra.
Lin and I met in elementary school at Fairhope’s own Rising Star Academy. We’d bonded over our mutual hatred of Kenny Mathers, the big, cute asshole in our grade who always crashed our mulch bake sales under the slide. Thankfully, he’d left Fairhope after high school to go on and become annoyingly famous in his band.
Rule number one with Lin was never mentioning Kenny, and especially never mentioning his band.
“At least use a new spoon after you lick one,” I scolded.
Lin looked up–aware that she’d been caught red-handed. She had jet black hair, perfect skin that always made me jealous, and cat-like upturned eyes. She wrinkled her nose at me and licked the spoon again. She paused, tilting her head. “What’s up with you?”
“Nothing’s up with me,” I said. I was a terrible liar, so I kept my eyes on the dough. “This is a big order and I want to make sure I get it right. Maybe if enough people see what I can do, someone in town will invest in my business plan to start a restaurant here in Fairhope.”
“Nobody else is anywhere near as qualified as you,” Lin said. “But I assume you’re talking about that business plan you wrote on the back of a napkin? The one that’s like two lines? Get lots of money from investor. Start amazing restaurant. Oh, I almost forgot about the little hearts and cats you drew all over it.”
“I want to be a chef. Not a business woman, okay? All I know is if someone gives me a professional kitchen and some tables, I’ll be selling them out within a month.” I didn’t mention how much I felt a hollow fear in the pit of my stomach at the idea of this not working. If I couldn’t find a way to make my dream come true in Fairhope, I’d have to look for work elsewhere. Maybe even in a big city, and even the thought made my heart ache. I loved this little town.
“You don’t usually abuse the dough like that,” Lin noted.
I sighed. “I just had an awkward morning.” I explained the incident at McDermit’s and left out all the descriptives about the man that kept wanting to slip out.
Lin studied me. “He was cute, wasn’t he?”
“He was alright.”
“He was smoking hot.” Lin laughed. “You’re already blushing.”
“He was also thirty-six. Thirty-six, Lin. He could practically be my dad.”
“If he had you when he was…” she counted on her fingers. “Twelve or thirteen? That’s a young father.”