Page 31 of How My Fake Alien Boyfriend Learned to Cook and Saved the Family Business

Dad gave me a stern I don’t believe you for one second look. Yep, I would put money on him knowing the restaurant was in deep shit and choosing not to say anything to me about it because he didn’t want to overstep. I appreciated that he trusted me. But at times I just wanted to shove the responsibility back into his arms and run. It wouldn’t have been fair to him, though. He was occupied enough with learning to live with Parkinson’s disease.

Then he quickly changed the subject, regaling me with local drama from Roswell Falls. I could tell he was trying to lighten the mood by making me laugh. But I couldn’t forget what he’d shared about the family restaurant. If he wanted to put on a brave face and act like it was okay that Southern Charm had to close, that was his prerogative. But the restaurant was his mom’s legacy—my Grandma Gladys’s legacy—and the place that launched my dream of opening a restaurant.

What choice did I have, really? I couldn’t let it all just…go away.

I sipped my coffee, letting the bitter hot liquid burn the roof of my mouth. It was stronger than usual, and desperately needed sugar. I stood to grab the sugar bowl, thinking of what to say next. The trouble was, even though I wasn’t brave enough to tell Dad how deeply I’d been failing after he entrusted me with the new responsibility, I still wanted his advice.

No, I needed his advice. I needed someone to have my back.

“Can I ask you something?” I said, eyes focused on the spoon as I stirred sugar into my coffee.

“Shoot.”

“There’s a contest, a regional one, that will name a restaurant the best in the Smokies. The winner gets a trophy, a bunch of free press, the works.” I didn’t mention the prize money. I was sure he’d see right through me to the core of my desperation and know exactly why I was bringing it up.

“Think we’ve got a chance?” I asked. I looked up from my mug, trying to put on a brave face, and met his eyes.

“With you calling the shots?” Dad placed a trembling hand on the table and held my gaze. “Those other restaurants don’t stand a chance.”

His answer—and his implicit trust in me—did nothing to assuage my guilt. If anything, my guilt was amplified. I returned his smile, rapidly blinking away the tears that threatened to fall before pushing back from the table.

With a kiss to the top of his head, I left for work.

I loved the walk to Southern Charm from my parents’ house. They lived about half a mile from the restaurant that required a short walk through downtown Roswell Falls. As much as I missed the bustle of city life, there was something about walking past the homes and businesses of our small town.

The florist, who sometimes left a few bundles of free flowers outside the front door for anyone to take because they could brighten someone’s day. The bakery that was always lit up bright as a beacon, smelling of yeast and freshly baked bread. There was the law office next door to the bank, right by the insurance broker. And the bulletin, full of flyers featuring local events, the farmers’ market schedule, and all the things that made Roswell Falls a community, not just a town.

Still, I would be lying if I said I was completely happy with my current situation. I loved Roswell Falls, really, I did. It was where I grew up and where everyone I loved still lived. Plus, it was one of the most breathtakingly beautiful places in the world. But it wasn’t in my five-year—or even ten-year—plan to move back home and take over the family business.

I chose this path, though, so how much could I complain? And I found that being back in the kitchen again was invigorating. I was energized by being back in the role I fit best, cooking recipes I knew by heart.

I just wish I knew what I could do differently to get customers back in the door. More specials? Coupons? Ads in the local paper? I was completely out of ideas.

When I had confided in Walter about the restaurant, he’d recommended trying to make the place more upscale, changing the menu to something called “Southern fusion.” I’d hated that idea and told him if he loved it so much, he could open a restaurant himself. I guess he took that to heart.

I stood by my decision to keep the menu the same even though I secretly wanted to make changes of my own. Southern Charm had never been about being upscale or pretending to be something it wasn’t. Grandma Gladys had always said it was about cooking good food the right way, for good people.

But clearly, something wasn’t working right. We would have had more customers otherwise.

Maybe if I had been braver a year ago, the business wouldn’t have been in such dire straits. Without a time machine, I would never know, but I sure was successful at creating a second job out of running hypothetical scenarios through my head.

There were many, many reasons for my exhaustion that day. Trying to save Southern Charm from complete financial ruin, Dad’s declining health, making payroll, ensuring my brother was getting good grades, and the millions of other stressors that kept me awake at night. Any of those reasons would have made sense. They would have been reasonable.

The truth was far more embarrassing. Last night, I kept tossing and turning because every time I closed my eyes, I saw two gemstones—green like the meadows and just as lush—staring back at me.

Why the hell couldn’t I stop thinking about Kal?

And for that matter, why had I decided it was a good idea to let him sleep in the restaurant and only tell Jacob about it? In hindsight, that was monumentally stupid. What if he stole from us? Or burned the whole place down? I realized I didn’t know what our insurance policy looked like, and if either of those scenarios would be covered.

Oh god, did we even have insurance?

Then I felt guilty because Kal seemed like a perfectly nice guy. Clueless about normal, everyday things. Kind of weird, maybe. But nice.

And to top it all off, I felt most guilty for leaving Kal alone to sleep on a crappy couch in, let’s face it, a pretty run-down office in a dingy restaurant. I didn’t even offer him a warm, home-cooked meal before I left—just leftovers. Grandma Gladys would’ve had my head for that.

I had decided that tomorrow I would do better. Except today is tomorrow, and I’d just had a terrible night of sleep. I was grumpy, anxious, and didn’t know what was waiting for me at Southern Charm.

My heart raced as I let myself into the restaurant. I expected to walk into the relative quiet, just like every other morning. I anticipated seeing the same grubby floors, the same dusty faux tree by the hostess stand, leaves faded light green by the sun; the same familiar time capsule that had become a sad reminder of what it used to be.