Page 25 of Call It Serendipity

“His name is John Dewese. He’s the person that built the brewery before his funds got backed up and the bank seized the property.”

My stomach knots as I watch the coach, John, talk to his players. They look at him with devout respect and admiration. I recognize it from my own days playing high school sports, and it’s clear that he’s not the kind of coach that berates these boys and makes them feel ashamed.

If I had to bet, he’s the kind of coach that builds strong members of a community.

I understand why Lucy brought me here.

“He’s a good man,” she continues, as if reading my thoughts. “And he wanted to give something back to his town.”

“I’m guessing this isn’t just about having a hotel versus a brewery.”

Lucy quirks an eyebrow. “Very insightful of you, vice president.”

16

“Ihave had hundreds of New York cart dogs, the epitome of classic—but these ones were better. How is that possible?”

The game is over. The town is filing out of the stands, us included. I stick close to Lucy’s side as to not lose her in the crowd, and the back of my hand brushes hers every few steps.

I want to tell her that I hardly focused on the game with her by my side. That I hoped it would go into overtime so I could spend just a little bit more time with her.

Instead, I’m rambling about hotdogs. Because for Lucy, this wasn’t a date.

“We’re full of surprises here,” she replies, that sly little smile on her face. “And if you like our concession stand hotdogs, you should try our ski shack waffles.”

“What is a ski shack waffle?”

We slip through the chain link gate and step into the parking lot. When a newly licensed kid drives by way too fast, I reach out on instinct and loop an arm around her waist, pulling her to my side.

“I saw the vehicle this time,” she says quietly, but doesn’t pull away. “And if you want to know what a ski shack waffle is, then stick around past November and I’ll show you.”

“Alright”—I grin—“maybe I will.”

Reaching my truck, we get going quickly to beat the line of traffic coming from the back of the lot. “How is your current painting going? Find your style?” I ask as we inch closer to the light at the high school’s entrance. It’s blinking, disabled as a uniformed officer directs traffic instead.

She pulls the mostly empty bag of peanut M&Ms from her purse and unwraps it. “It’s still too soon to tell, but I think I’m on the right track finally.” The crunch of her biting into the candy punctuates her response.

“That’s great,” I say, begrudgingly pulling my attention from her and returning it to the road.

“Yeah, if I can pull it together in time.”

“Are you on a deadline with someone?”

The rattle of candy sounds from her side of the bench seat. Then another crunch.

“Mhm, a gallery in New York City, actually. Whitcombe Gallery. Although there are probably a million in the city, so if you have never heard⁠—”

“I know Whitcombe Gallery,” I snort.

“You do?”

She sounds genuinely surprised, so I steal another glance her way. Lucy is looking back at me with wide eyes blinking out from behind her bangs, a twinkle in them reflected from the streetlights. I have to force myself not to stare at how pretty they look.

“I do. It’s one of the most elite galleries in Manhattan. In fact, there is a painting hanging in our conference room from Whitcombe.”

“Oh… great.”

“You didn’t know its reputation?”