I raise an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize the diner was on your list of rounds.”
He lets out a low chuckle, the kind that’s meant to sound easy, casual. “Summit Springs is changing, Miss Westwood. It’s always good to stay ahead of things.”
There it is. The thing he never quite says outright, but always manages to imply. That the town is growing. That people like him are the ones who make sure it grows in the right direction. That places like mine might not fit into whatever vision he’s crafting behind closed doors.
“And how exactly are you trying to stay ahead of things?”
Wendell tilts his head, like he’s considering the question, but I know better. He already has an answer. He just likes the performance of it, the illusion of thoughtfulness. He glances up at the menu, dragging it out, pretending like he’s weighing his options. It’s almost funny. I’ve never once seen him eat here.
“Oh, you know,” he finally says, casual as anything. “Keeping an eye on what’s working. What’s not. Making sure Summit Springs is evolving in the right direction.”
I keep my expression even. “And what direction is that?”
He smiles, slow and practiced. “One that benefits everyone.”
Everyone. The word lands wrong. Heavy in a way that tells me we have different definitions of who that includes.
I rest my palms against the counter. “You think something’s not working?”
His eyes flick back to mine, assessing, calculating. “I think we can agree the town is changing.”
He’s not wrong. It is. More tourists, more businesses, more people looking at Summit Springs like it’s something they can mold into whatever suits them best. It’s subtle, but it’s happening.
“I think things are fine the way they are,” I say.
Wendell nods, like he expected that. Like he knows I’d say it even before I do. He lets his gaze wander, scanning the room, like he’s taking stock of every inch of the place. “The Bluebell’s got a certain charm,” he says finally. “People like that. They get sentimental.”
Sentimental. I want to laugh. That’s not a word men like Wendell Tate believe in. They believe in opportunity. In ownership. In things that come with a price tag and a development plan.
I tilt my head. “And you don’t?”
His grin doesn’t waver, but I see the shift in his eyes. “I appreciate a place with history,” he says, lifting his hands, palms up like he’s giving me something. “But progress is important too.”
Progress. Another word that means something different coming from someone like him.
I lean in slightly. “People also like things that don’t need fixing.”
He chuckles, shaking his head, like I’m being naive. “Everything needs a little fixing eventually.”
I don’t respond, just watch him, waiting for him to get to his point. But he doesn’t. Instead, he finally—finally—orders. “I’ll take the chicken-fried steak.”
I blink at him. “Are you sure?”
His grin widens, like he enjoys this little back-and-forth. “Why not? Might as well get the full experience.”
Without another word, he pulls a neatly folded bill from his wallet and drops it into the tip jar. A generous amount. Deliberate. Like he wants me to see it. Like he wants everyone to see it.
I roll my eyes. Men like Wendell can never just tip. They have to make a production out of it.
He moves toward one of the booths, sliding in with the kind of ease that says he’s in no rush to leave. Of course he’s not.
Dawn appears beside me, arms crossed, watching him settle in. “Think he’s trying to become a regular?”
I huff out a laugh. “If he asks for the usual next time, I’m shutting this place down.”
She shakes her head. “Wendell Tate doesn’t come around unless he wants something.”
She’s right. And he wants something. I just don’t know what.
