Page 18 of Prime Time Romance

“I have to say I’m a little offended.”

The guy behind the counter places his hand over his heart as if my words have physically wounded him.

“I thought we shared something special last night.”

With the mention of last night, I get a flashback.

The late-night visitor who looked so familiar.

The mystery cake.

“You’re that Uber Eats guy,” I say.

He smiles widely as he gives a slight bow. “Some days I am. But today, I’m nondescript male, wiping down counter.” He taps his Pop’s uniform name tag. “But to make things easier, why don’t you call me ‘Sheldon.’ ”

He points at the two empty stools at the counter. “Have a seat. Take a load off. You must be tired. I was starting to get worried about you guys.” He pulls a pad from his apron pocket. “Can I get you something to drink? A Coke? Or, I know! One of Pop’s famous milkshakes? Cherry chip?”

I shake my head. Although I thought it was a good idea a few minutes ago, the thought of ice cream suddenly makes me queasy.

I do take up Sheldon’s offer of a seat and sink down onto one of the counter stools, suddenly feeling the effects of a night spent on a lawn chair. Josh stays fixed in his spot next to the door. His eyebrows scrunch in a serious way as he stares intently at Sheldon.

“What did you mean when you said you were expecting us?” I ask Sheldon, leaning forward over the counter. “Do you know how we got here?”

Sheldon finishes wiping the spot in front of me, ignoring my questions and whistling a tune I can’t quite place before tossing the rag into the sink. Then, in a single fluid motion, he hops over the counter and sits on the stool beside me. He slumps his shoulders, props his elbows on the counter, and rests his head in his palms, green eyes fixated on me.

“Haven’t you always felt like that last Carson’s Cove season left you unsatisfied?” he asks. “Like, there were all these storylines left half-baked: Spencer taking off to LA before Sloan had the chance to say those three little words and Sloan never winning the crown in the Ms. Lobsterfest pageant. Would you agree it lacked that gratifying, feel-good Carson’s Cove ending we’ve all come to love?”

His words pluck at a sensitive spot in my chest. “Yes. Of course I would.”

Sheldon leans forward so close that I can smell a faint hint of something sweet on his breath. “Well…I’ve brought you here to help me make it right.” He holds out his arms. “This is our chance to fix everything. To bring to life the perfect ending that never happened.”

A tiny ripple stirs in the bottom of my stomach. It works its way up to my lungs until I shiver involuntarily.

Sheldon’s gaze holds mine, and I find myself almost willing him to go on.

“At first, I thought I’d just pluck everyone back into the lives they abandoned,” he continues. “But then I realized that wouldn’t work. It would be an absolute disaster to go through all of this effort to make Carson’s Cove happen again, only to end up with the wrong ending a second time. Do you know what the definition of insanity is, Brynn?”

I open my mouth, but Sheldon doesn’t wait for an answer.

“It is doing the same thing twice and expecting a different outcome.”

With that, he leans back, giving me a moment to let his words sink in fully.

“So then I thought a little more and figured out the problem. I don’t think Sloan was fully committed to the idea that she and Spencer should be together.”

I open my mouth to protest, but Sheldon holds a finger to my lips. “Wait. Hear me out. She could have told him at the gazebo that she loved him. She could have gotten in her car to follow him to the airport. That’s two examples right there, and I’m completely ignoring the countless other times she was alone with Spencer and never once even hinted at how she felt.”

I want to argue back that her feelings were complex. There was history and hormones involved, not to mention over a decade of friendship to consider. But Sheldon has gotten to his feet and started to pace.

“If I don’t have full commitment from Sloan, then my whole plan falls apart. So I thought, what do you do when you’ve got a damaged limb?”

I stare, not so certain I want to hear the answer.

He wheels around to face me. “You cut it off.”

There is no expression on his face. No acknowledgment whatsoever that what he just said is downright creepy, if not morbid—especially if it’s referencing bodies and not trees.

I almost ask him to clarify, but he resumes his pacing, this time shaking a single finger in the air.