Kenna
Crunchy rainbow-colored leaves nip at my heels as I open the back door of The Pub and step into the kitchen. The sunlight from behind me glints off the sea of spotless stainless-steel appliances and tables. Jonas looks over his shoulder at me as I unwrap my scarf. He’s not much of a smiler, but one corner of his lips pulls to the side in the barest hint of one.
“Morning,” he grunts, turning back to the cutting board where he’s peeling a mountain of apples. Aiden nods at me from behind him, where he’s mixing a batter and humming to a song playing on the ancient radio.
“Morning,” I reply lightly, eyeing Jonas’ back as I hang my scarf and bag on a hook in the corner. His hair needs a cut—the ash-brown curls have started to flip out from under his old ball cap, skimming the collar of his burgundy flannel shirt. I hate it when he lets it grow out because all I can think about is playing with those curls. Imagining how it would feel to run my fingers through it. And then I picture reasons he’d be close enough to let me touch that hair…
It’s distracting as hell.
I tie a clean apron around my waist, smoothing the black cotton over my jeans. “What are the specials today?” I tease, knowing damn well there are no specials. The menu for The Pub has been the same for the last decade, even before Jonas’ father passed away and he took over. He’ll update equipment, but the menu and the decor haven’t changed one bit.
Jonas’ eyes lift, meeting mine. “Oh, so you’re going to be cute today?” His face is serious, guarded, but that’s nothing new there, either. That’s just Jonas, and even if he’s giving me those stony eyes, I can hear the humor in his voice.
“I’m always cute,” I retort, tilting a shoulder in his direction before grabbing pens and a notepad from the waitstaff station. Jonas makes a non-committal grunt.
Par for the course, really. Half of his communication is grunt-based, and I’ve been waiting tables here so long that I’m fluent in Grunt too. That one was: ‘I’m not taking this conversation any further because you’re my best friend’s little sister and that would be inappropriate.’
I toss him a wink and head through the swinging door to the dining room, pulling chairs down and straightening the room. I cleaned it to within an inch of its life last night, and even though the tables and chairs are old, they’re well maintained. Mostly. There’s one that we leave intentionally wobbly for the odd tourist who insists on being seated despite our best efforts.
Locals only. That’s the unwritten and creatively enforced rule that Jonas runs The Pub by. Tourists are loud, often rude, and bug the hell out of my boss. I don’t care either way. I like everyone as long as they’re respectful, but it’s his restaurant.
I unlock the front door and straighten the sign at the hostess stand that reads ‘Please Wait To Be Seated’. The locals all know to grab a seat wherever they like; this is just one more layer in Jonas’ cold war on tourists.
The afternoon is quiet, and I work on autopilot, my mind wandering to the half-finished painting in my apartment. I know I need to finish it, but every time I think about it, I feel… bored. Uninspired.
I’m single and 26. I shouldn’t be bored. I should be tearing it up and trying new things. Dean keeps telling me to move to New York or Chicago, or really anywhere more exciting. My move back to Sugar Creek was never supposed to be permanent, but four years later, I really can’t bear to leave. I love this tiny-ass town and my adorable little cottage. And in theory, this is the ideal place for me to be creative. It’s not the town’s fault that I’m stuck on repeat, my life lonely and dull. I just need to do something.
I’m rolling silverware in the empty pub when Sutton charges through the front door. She’s glowing so hard she’s practically battery powered. See? I should look like that. I just have to ignore the fact that she’s radiating satisfaction because she’s fucking my brother six ways from Sunday.
“Kenna!” she wheedles, smiling around gritted teeth. “I need help.” She bats her lashes at me like a broken doll.
“With what?” I laugh as she thumps down in a chair.
“The Wychwood Ball at the museum. I don’t know how Fred handled this every year. Everything I’ve put together looks like a first-grade art project.”
“Fred had a harem of volunteers at his disposal. I don’t think he did any of the actual decorating himself.”
Sutton pretends to gag. “Dear god, please don’t use the v-word.”
“What —?”
“My grandma is one of those volunteers.”
“I don’t know anyone else in the world who would call ‘volunteer’ the v-word.”
Sutton smiles her cat-like smile. “The other word isn’t a bad one. Just ask your brother.”
“Gross,” I say pointedly, laying out more silverware. “Fred worked his way through the bingo club, that’s all I’m saying.”
Sutton claps her hands over her ears. “I can’t hear you! You’re the creative one. Can you please just look at what we have?”
“Is this a cleverly disguised attempt to put my art degree to work?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
Sutton holds her hands under her chin and bats her eyelashes at me. “I’ll beg if I have to.”
“Please don’t,” I laugh. “I heard you and Dean on the camping trip last month, and you were begging him plenty. It will forever be weird to hear you say, ‘please’.”
Sutton shrugs, not even a little ashamed of herself. I roll my eyes but we both knew I was always going to say yes.