CHAPTER 9
If there’s a heaven for food lovers, it probably smells like the Country Cottage Café on a cozy summer night when Emmie Granger is stress-testing a menu.
The café sits off the back of the inn with its black and white checkered floors and wrought iron bistro tables that catch the evening light streaming through the French doors.
Someone—probably Nessa—has gone full patriotic with the decorations. Red, white, and blue bunting drapes from the ceiling beams, miniature American flags sprout from Mason jars on every table, and there’s a star-spangled table runner that looks like it escaped from a craft store. The overhead Edison bulbs are wrapped in fairy lights, and the whole place glows with that warm, golden-hour magic that makes everything look like some impossibly perfect small-town fantasy—which in Cider Cove, usually means trouble’s brewing.
It smells incredible in here—butter and garlic and fresh herbs, something citrusy and bright, the char of perfectly grilled meat, and underneath it all, the sweet vanilla scent of something baking that’s making my mouth water.
I’m having one of everything, if not ten. And just try to stop me from starting with dessert first.
An ocean breeze drifts through the open doors, carrying salt air and the distant sound of waves, as the ceiling fans work overtime to keep the space comfortable despite the industrial ovens Emmie’s been running all afternoon, not to mention the humidity.
I push Ella’s stroller through the entrance with Jasper beside me, with Fish, Sherlock, and Biscuit Gravy trotting at my heels like the world’s least intimidating entourage.
Emmie is already there, standing over a table covered in dishes that are hidden under silver domes like this is a cooking competition and not a desperate attempt to please Mackenzie Woods and her pack of designer-clad critics.
Emmie’s got flour on her cheek and that slightly manic look in her eyes that means she’s been perfecting recipes for hours and is about three seconds from either crying or throwing something. Perhaps both.
Leo is setting up two high chairs near one of the bistro tables, and Cinnamon—Emmie and Leo’s curly-haired labradoodle—is sprawled under a table looking like she’s given up on life. Gatsby, their golden retriever, is sitting perfectly at attention near the kitchen door, his nose working overtime in hopes to garner one of the treats that’s driving his snout mad.
“Please tell me at least one of these dishes is edible,” Emmie says in lieu of hello. “Because Mackenzie wants big city gourmet on a small-town budget, and I’m pretty sure that’s physically impossible.”
“Mackenzie wants a lot of things,” I say, lifting Ella out ofher stroller. “Like world peace, calorie-free cake, and for me to stop finding dead bodies. We can’t all get what we want.”
“She said, and I quote, ‘Make it social media-worthy, but not like we’re trying to be social-media worthy.’” Emmie gestures at the covered dishes with a wooden spoon that she’s holding like a weapon. “Do you know how contradictory that is?”
“Everything about Mackenzie is contradictory,” Jasper says, helping me wrestle Ella into one of the high chairs. “It’s her defining characteristic.”
Ella is in herI can do this myselfphase. Also known as thewatch me take forty-five minutes to put on one sockphase. But her little feet are so cute, I don’t mind one bit.
Elliot is already in the other high chair, his shock of dark hair sticking up at odd angles, his big blue eyes tracking everything with a serious focus that suggests he’s taking mental notes. He’s a year old now, and he’s got that thoughtful energy that makes you think he’s planning world domination one Cheerio at a time.
Because, let’s face it, he probably is.
Ella, at ten months, is his complete opposite. She’s all giggles and grabby hands, immediately banging on the high chair tray with both palms like she’s announcing her presence to the world.
And she is always, always announcing her presence, especially at four in the morning. On the bright side, I’ve always wanted to be an early riser. Like very, very early.
Ella and Elliot are here,Fish mewls to Sherlock and Biscuit Gravy from her perch on the planter box behind the table.Thismeans scraps. Lots of scraps.
Isn’t that the truth. And probably more than the entire lot of them could handle.
That’s exactly why I’m positioning myself strategically,Sherlock announces, moving to sit directly between the two high chairs.I’m in the maximum food drop zone.
Amateur,Biscuit Gravy says, claiming a spot near Emmie’s prep table.The real action is at the source.
He’s a smart one, I’ll give him that.
Leo comes up behind Emmie and wraps his arms around her waist, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Babe, it’s going to be amazing. It always is.”
She leans back into him for just a second, and I can see some of the tension leave her shoulders. “You have to say that. You’re married to me.”
He tips his head. “It doesn’t make it less true.”
They’re disgustingly cute, and I’m not even a little bit sorry for thinking it. A few years back, Emmie and Leo got married in a ceremony that involved more flowers than I thought was physically possible and a reception where Fish stole an entire tray of shrimp cocktail. Watching them now—exhausted and flour-covered and completely in sync—makes me think that maybe the universe gets it right sometimes.
Like with Jasper and me.
