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“So you can drag her back to Boston with you?” he accuses with a scowl. “I don’t think so.”
I glance around the charming orchard and shake my head. “No, I just want to understand why my family turned out the way they did. If she’s a good person, it’s probably best that she stays far away from my dad.”
He considers this. “And will you be staying away from him too?”
“Probably,” I say with a sigh. “I have to figure out how to sell my condo without him finding out though.”
At his questioning look, I explain, “He helped with a small part of the down payment and co-signed the loan. So untangling ourselves financially might be tricky.”
He nods slowly, then says in a judgmental tone, “In other words, he’s supporting you financially and you can’t handle life without him.”
“Nope, I already paid him back—with interest,” I reply defensively. “He just never removed his name from the deed. So technically he could claim half the sale even though I’m the only one making the mortgage payments.”
He gives me a patronizing, pitying look that makes my blood boil. Clearly, he thinks I’m either spoiled or stupid.
I lift my chin. “I can make it just fine without his help, you know.”
He just shrugs, I guess he doesn’t believe me, but I don’t care.
“Well, Mr. Harris, if that’s all, I think I’ll go back to my grandmother’s and try getting her to open her door,” I say, turning on my heel.
“I’m warning you, leave her alone,” he calls after me sharply.
I toss a glare over my shoulder. “Worry about your own business and stay in your lane,” I snap. His condescending attitude is really getting on my last nerve. For some odd reason, he causes me to react out of the norm. I stomp away fuming, more determined than ever to speak to my estranged grandmother and get the truth, no matter what this arrogant guy says.
ChapterFive
McKay
Instead of going backto my grandmother’s, I stop by the charming bakery to pick up some pastries, hoping they might help improve my mood. As I enter the cozy little shop, the rich, sweet aroma of freshly baked goods envelops me. Inside, rustic wood counters display mouthwatering arrays of croissants, muffins, scones and more.
Behind the counter stands a sweet old woman with silvery hair swept up in a bun. Her eyes crinkle at the corners as she smiles warmly at me, reminiscent of the stereotypical kindly grandmother.
“Hello, dear, what can I get for you?” she asks. Her voice is gentle and soothing, instantly making me feel at ease in the cozy bakery.
I take a deep breath, letting the charming ambiance melt away the residual tension from my encounter at the Harris Orchard. I return the woman’s warm smile as I look over the cases filled with tempting, buttery, flaky pastries.
The scents of cinnamon, nutmeg, and toasted pecans waft through the cozy bakery. “Hello, I think this is my new favorite bakery, and everything looks delicious,” I say. “What do you recommend?”
“This time of year, customers love our pumpkin cookies and cider muffins,” the woman behind the counter says with a cheerful smile. She gestures to the baked goods artfully arranged in the case. “Though you really can’t go wrong with our croissants either.”
I tap my chin, considering all the options spread out before me. “Do you serve coffee here too?”
“Oh no, for that you’ll have to pop over to the coffee shop just down the way,” she explains. “But my friend Beverly sells my pastries there too, so you can enjoy them together.”
I furrow my brow curiously. “How come you don’t have a coffee machine here?”
“It’s just me and some part-time help running this little bakery,” she says with a laugh. “I don’t think we could handle a full coffee operation too.” She gestures down the street. “My friend Beverly is the real barista. She makes a killer latte and serves my pastries at the café.”
I open my mouth to protest, but she holds up a hand graciously. “I know what you’re going to say. You’re not the first tourist with big ideas to reinvent things around here.” She winks. “Wouldn’t want to put my friend out of business, now, would I?”
The woman reaches into a box and pulls out a piece of parchment paper, using it to pick up a freshly baked croissant. “Here, this one’s on the house.”
“Oh, you don’t have to,” I protest, but she insists, placing the flaky pastry in my hand. I take a small bite, the crisp outer layer giving way to tender, buttery layers inside. The croissant melts in my mouth.
“This is incredible,” I exclaim after swallowing the first bite. “What’s your secret?”
“Just an old family recipe,” she says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
