Page 17 of How My Fake Alien Boyfriend Learned to Cook and Saved the Family Business

He waved a hand around to indicate that my restaurant was just so whatever negative descriptor he was thinking but didn’t have the guts to say aloud. Which was especially annoying because I knew he wasn’t keeping it to himself out of politeness—he was letting the pause hang so I would fill in the blank. Then it would be me who said the bad thing, not him. Another convenient weapon to add to his arsenal.

I wouldn’t do what Walter wanted. If he had something to say, he needed to own up and say it.

“So what, Walter? Finish your statement.”

Walter smirked, running a finger over a spot on the counter. “Old-fashioned,” he said.

I ground my teeth and glared at the smudge left on the stainless steel. It seemed like Walter had reentered my life for the singular reason of creating a mess. And while I couldn’t exactly blame him for my family’s restaurant troubles, it was safe to say his input never, ever helped.

When I decided to come home to take over the restaurant for Dad, I had run into Walter at the grocery store. That led to dinner, then drinks at The Local Watering Hole (yes, the real name of a real bar in downtown Roswell Falls), then his place. I confided in him about our restaurant woes, sharing some of my ideas to turn things around.

I realized later that he was using that conversation as another way to put me down.

It’s an established family restaurant in a tourist trap town, he’d said. Do you know how much money you should be making in the busy season? It’ll just take a few tweaks. Any idiot with a spatula could do it.

In my drunken haze, that had felt like a vote of confidence. In retrospect, it was a delicately layered insult-tiramisu that took a swing at my dad and me for not making something so “easy” work. The perfect one-two punch.

“Whatever, dude. You got the knives—you can go now. Unless you wanted to say something else?”

Like, I’m sorry, Lola. I’m an asshole. I’ll leave town, and you’ll never have to see me again. Obviously, Walter would never say those words to me, but I was always a bit of a dreamer.

“Yeah, actually,” Walter began, and I actually reared back in surprise. Was he…was he going to say those things after all?

“You’ve got gravy in your hair.”

My hand shot up to my head and, yep, there was a clump of dried pepper gravy in my bangs. While I fiddled with my gravy hair, Walter left as he entered, always leaving me worse than how he found me.

I was tired. I’d already let everyone else go home, and I was nearly finished with the closing tasks. But my curiosity had gotten the better of me. I needed to know what this Greatest Restaurants of the Great Smoky Mountains Contest was, and why Walter had brought it up in the first place.

If he got an invitation, surely Southern Charm had, too. With that in mind, I booted up the ancient desktop computer to check the business inbox. My stomach flipped when I saw a new email from a sender I didn’t recognize. It flipped even more when I read the full message.

Dear Lola Maloney,

You are cordially invited to participate in the first-ever Greatest Restaurants of the Great Smoky Mountains Contest, hosted by Appalachian Living magazine. Our panel of judges will be traveling the area to find the best innovative and up-and-coming restaurants in the Smokies. Your restaurant has been added to the shortlist of places to visit.

There are many wonderful reasons to participate in this contest, including showcasing the wonderful small businesses of your region, highlighting must-visit eateries for seasonal tourists, and, of course, to show off your food!

After judging, the winners and runners-up will feature in an upcoming issue of Appalachian Living. The first-place winner will receive a $10,000 prize and a special feature in a future issue of the magazine.

If you are interested in participating, please respond to this email ASAP. A coordinator will reach out to you with more details.

Sincerely,

Miles Bryant, Editor-in-Chief

Ten. Thousand. Dollars. Don’t get me wrong—the rest of the details sounded good, too. Supporting the local economies, getting free publicity. But ten thousand freaking dollars?

That was enough to help Southern Charm catch up on bills and give me more room to breathe. If we won, it would be almost like a fresh start—a new beginning. I so desperately wanted a new beginning.

I could do it; I could help Southern Charm win this contest, then use the money to turn our luck around. It was a no-brainer.

Then my heart immediately sank, Walter’s earlier criticism coming back to me.

Outdated. Old-fashioned. Tired.

Wasn’t there a reason customers weren’t flooding our tables like they’d used to? Our older customers weren’t around anymore, and younger folks usually walked right on by, opting for one of the cooler, trendier places in town.

I dropped my head in my hands and allowed myself to feel hopeless. A minute to panic. Sixty seconds to let self-doubt creep in. The chances of winning would surely be slim. It would mean more stress, potentially more work for myself. Could I handle it? It seemed more likely that I would crash and burn than win ten thousand dollars.