He slides his card across the counter.
The barista takes it, her expression shifting as she reevaluates her morning.
“Thanks,” I mumble, feeling hoarse and defeated.
From somewhere behind me, a man with an impressive handlebar mustache clears his throat. “Congratulations, you two.”
“You picked the right man!” someone calls out.
“He’s handsome,” a woman adds. “Tired-looking, but they all are after the wedding night.”
Griffin makes a strangled sound.
“Come on, lovebirds,” a waitress named Joelle says, beaming as she waves us toward a corner booth. “Breakfast is on the house.”
We follow her because resistance is clearly futile. The booth offers partial cover, which I appreciate.
We order the works. My appetite has returned with a vengeance this morning.
“Excuse me,” I say just before Joelle turns away. “How does everyone here know who we are?”
Joelle’s smile widens. “Oh, honey. You’re famous.”
She walks three tables down, removes a newspaper from a man who surrenders it without complaint, and returns, slapping it onto the table with a thwack.
“Front page,” she says proudly. “The Opal Creek Chronicles. We don’t miss a thing.”
I look at the paper. I look at Griffin. I look back at the paper.
There’s a photograph of Griffin and me exiting the boutique yesterday. I’m mid-sentence, and Griffin is listening, his jaw tight.
The headline:RUNAWAY BRIDE SPOTTED WITH MYSTERY MAN ON MAIN STREET.
Below that, in smaller text:Tart contest yields dramatic result. Local favorite edged into third.
“This is not happening,” I say. “I’m sandwiched between a mystery man scandal and a raspberry tart controversy.”
I glance across the table at Griffin, who hasn’t said a word. He picks up the paper and studies it.
After a minute, I see the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t you dare laugh,” I warn him, stabbing a finger in his direction.
He turns the page, pretending to be interested in the tart contest results.
“Lemon drizzle took second,” he says mildly.
“I’m going to die here. Right here. This booth is my final resting place.”
“Third place went to someone named Hazel. Controversial by the looks of it.”
He finally meets my eyes, and the twitch becomes an amused smile.
“You still want your coffee?” he asks.
“No. I want to go back in time and punch myself in the throat.”
He slides the cup toward me anyway.
