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Eli’s expression softens. “Gracie also asked for my blessing this morning. But it was for something different. It’s got to do with you, just…”
My stomach dips.
“Just what?”
He puffs on his cigar.
“I think y’all need to have a talk,” he replies at last. “She’s at Holy City Roasters this mornin’—go see her. Straighten this shit out.”
My head has started to hurt. “What needs straightenin’ out? Fuck, E, now I’m worried.”
“Just—” He pushes his flattened palm outward. “Just go see her, all right? I ain’t gettin’ in the middle of this.”
I’m on my feet and digging into my pocket for my keys before I know what I’m doing. Is Gracie upset after the way we talked the other night? Does she know how I feel? Did I go too far?
Shit.
“Luke?”
I turn around. Flip my keys. “Yeah?”
He draws on his cigar before taking it out of his mouth. A wisp of smoke rises from the lit end into his face, making him squint.
“You got my blessing to pursue Gracie. I trust you to do the right thing. But I’ll tell you what I told her—y’all gotta be careful. And you gotta be good to her, all right?”
“Of course,” I say. Tell me what he told Gracie? Did she also ask to date me or something? My heart skips a beat at the thought. “I promise.”
“Good. ’Cause if you break her heart, I’mma have to break your face. Understood?” he says, pointing at me with his cigar stuck between his first two fingers.
“Understood,” I say.
I drive to Holy City Roasters as fast as my old pickup can go. Heart pounding the whole time.
I need to know what’s going on with Gracie.
And then I need to make her mine.* * *I glance around Holy City Roasters, looking for Gracie.
The shop is under construction; a gigantic sheet of plastic divides the store in two. Behind it, I can make out the skeleton of this expansion I’ve heard so much about from Elijah. Floodlights beam down from the ceiling, looking like blurry moons against the plastic. I make out some furniture and the beginnings of a large counter.
The current shop is bright and airy, with white tiled walls and tall ceilings. A long counter runs the length of one wall, while cute little tables and some booths are scattered around the rest of space.
It’s buzzing. A young, good looking crowd sips from gigantic coffee mugs as big as bowls while they hammer away at laptops or chat animatedly with each other.
Everyone is well dressed. Fashionable in a trendy, put-together way. I feel like I’m on the set of a hipster Gossip Girl or something (my Mama and her wife, Gwen, have a thing for angsty, adolescent TV dramas, so I am well versed in that shit).
I glance down at my Rodgers’ Farms tee, clean but faded, and beat up jeans. The grass stained Nikes I keep forgetting to replace.
Glance back up to see the pink haired woman behind the counter give me a once-over. I can’t tell if she’s judging me or checking me out.
I scratch at the scruff underneath my chin. I feel an overwhelming sense of pride being here. Because I am so damn proud of Gracie and all that she’s accomplished.
If I’m being honest, I also feel a little…out of place? Been a while since I stepped foot through the front door of a restaurant downtown. I’m usually going through the back, making a delivery.
I shoulda put on different shoes. Shit.
I breathe in the smell of coffee. I like the scent, even though I can’t touch caffeine without getting a wicked headache.
“Can I help you?” the woman says, crossing her arms.
“I’m looking for Gracie Jackson,” I say.
“And you are?”
My face suddenly feels hot. “Luke Rodgers. A…friend.”
The woman keeps looking at me for a full beat. Eyes flicking appreciatively down my body one last time. I breathe a silent sigh of relief—yeah, she’s definitely checking me out—and watch her push off the counter.
“Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
She disappears underneath the sheet of plastic. I wait for what seems like an eternity for her to emerge.
“C’mon in,” she says when she finally appears, holding back the plastic. “Gracie’s just finishing up a meeting.”
I blink. Guess part of me was still expecting her to kick my country ass to the curb, despite her obvious interest in my goods.
I duck underneath the sheet.
And there she is. Gracie. Pen tucked behind her ear. A sheaf of papers in one hand. Looking cute in some kind of long, flowery dress. Cock-stirringly competent as she talks to a guy in jeans and a golf shirt, REID CONTRACTING embroidered on his sleeve.
Because she’s the one doing the talking. He’s busy jotting down notes in a fat notebook while Gracie points things out. She talks. He nods. Another dude joins them, looking down at a sheet Gracie holds up, trailing her fingertip underneath a few lines of text.
