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He bursts out laughing. “I forgot that about small towns.”
I refill Mrs. Marge’s coffee before she even asks. I know she’ll have three cups before she asks for her check. And I know that Mr. Louis who sits to the right of Dax will ask me to reheat his French fries after he gets done eating his burger because he eats at a glacial pace.
And I know all this because Mrs. Marge is right. Itisa small town. Which is exactly why I love it here.
“So let me guess.” I angle him a look. “You want a piece of my pie, and you want plenty of whipped cream on it?” I ask.
Then my eyes widen at the husky tone I used—almost as though I was propositioning him with a lot more than extra whipped cream.
It’ssonot me.
Mr. Louis’s face elongates as he chimes in, as people do around here, “Young lady, when you offer pie tome, it never sounds like that.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I respond to him as innocently as I can. If anyone in this diner thinks I’m crushing on my housemate, tongues will be wagging all summer.
“Nothing better than your pie,” Dax replies, thankfully ignoring Mr. Louis’s comment.
“Technically, it’s my grandma’s pie. It’s her recipe,” I remind him.
I bring him a slice with a heavy dose of whipped cream.
“The crust is incredible,” he murmurs after stuffing a bite into his eager mouth. “You know, you could fill the pie with roofing nails, and I’d still eat it.”
“Well, when you go back to the house, help yourself to a slice of leftover pot pie from the fridge.”
“Pot pie?” He looks practically gleeful at the prospect of it.
“Yeah. Chicken pot pie. I’ve been trying to get Harriet to let me put it on the menu for a year now.” I say it loudly so that she can hear me on the other side of the counter as she chats with one of the customers.
Harriet darts a look over to me. “I’m an old woman. I’m averse to change.”
I laugh until she adds, “But if you bought this place from me, you can put as many pot pies on the menu as you want.”
And my smile falters.
Her statement is greeted by several grumbles from people in the diner. Word has already gotten around town about Harriet selling the place in September.
I’m getting used to the idea that I’ll be out of a job. I’ve bounced back from worse career upheavals than that—heaven knows.
But what I haven’t gotten used to is the pressure I’m getting to buy the place from Harriet—pressure from her and everyone else in this town.
“She’s selling this place?” The question comes from Dax this time, just new enough around here that he hasn’t fallen into step with the local gossip mill yet.
“Yep.” I glance at Harriet. “She’s a traitor. She thinks after thirty years of hard work, she deserves to retire,” I joke.
“You totally should buy her out,” he says, earning immediate murmurs of agreement from everyone at the counter.
“You barely know me,” I point out. “Why would you think I’d want to buy her out?”
“Because everyone in this town knows you should,” Mr. Louis butts in. And Dax offers the much older man a fist bump in return. It takes Mr. Louis a moment to figure out what to do with the fist being extended in his direction. But when he does, his eyes crinkle up in that way that reminds me of when he dresses up as Santa for all the local kids at the holiday festival the church down the road sponsors.
Rolling my eyes lavishly, I sigh. Small town life usually suits me. But at the moment, I’m remembering the anonymity of living in a big city like Atlanta. There, my entire career—my entire life—exploded and it didn’t even register on the Richter scale.
Hell, even my friends and fiancé moved on before my body was cold, metaphorically speaking.
At the time, I wished that people cared as much as they do here in a small town. I ached for it, really.
But when I needed a hug, I got a cold shoulder instead.
