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Expletives fly from her mouth along with spittle. “Fuck you. Like I’d ever let you get the Nest, asshole.” Hands clenched into fists, she flings her arms in the air and her hair whips around her face. “I’ll make you pay. Burn this fucking place to the ground before I let you get it.”
Threat after threat comes at me. Most I’ve heard before.
The last time we talked about the Nest and ending things once and for all, she threatened me with something her father said recently at a family barbecue. Drunk and frustrated at Dot, who was once again whining to her daddy about something to do with me, the mayor said aloud that perhaps he should suggest a name change for the town.
While it was mostly his ego talking, my blood froze. Winslow Grove was founded by my ancestors. Our family legacy. To hear him so casually suggest ending that, it shook me to the core. If my father were here today, he’d be furious and disappointed in me if I let that happen.
Unfortunately, Dot sensed my panic, and when I pushed her to sign over the business and tell everyone we were never getting married, she promised to nudge her father on his suggestion. If anyone can persuade Mayor Malone to do something, it’s his only daughter.
Her threat prompted me to plan to leave town. I could never live with myself if Winslow Grove ceased to exist. Walking away seemed like the best idea. If I acted like I didn’t care about the name or the town, she’d lose her leverage. I’m confident that it would’ve worked, but everything’s changed. I’m staying and have dragged Wren, unknowingly, into this.
Wren doesn’t know about a lot of this, only that Dot wouldn’t easily give me the business. It isn’t because I don’t want her to know; it’s because I couldn’t tell her. Not yet. The timing hadn’t been right. Not when last night she had reservations about us. Her confidence in me and our future wavered, and that nearly killed me.
The sharp jangling of the glass pane as Dot slams the front door snaps me out of my reverie. At last, the place is still and quiet though it does nothing to settle my racing heart and churning gut.
I’ve got to get Dot out of the picture. Too rattled to work, I pull out my phone and check my personal email, one Dot doesn’t have access to, and the email I’ve been anxiously waiting for sits at the top of the list of unread.
A company based in the Netherlands, Mercury Boetiek Incorporated, wants me to furnish their new office space in Amsterdam. This is a huge opportunity to expand my business, though interestingly enough, they reached out to me directly, not the Nest. That’s what gave me the idea to keep things separate from the business and private from Dot.
While this job comes with challenges, it would give me the money to buy out Dot. Without this deal, I’d have to take out another loan to get rid of her. It also opens up international sales which doesn’t violate the noncompete we both signed regarding the Nest.
I type out a quick reply, and the boost of hope makes the morning fly by quickly. At a little after noon, I head into town for lunch. Normally, I’d stick to the Big Sky Café, but today, I wind up at Pop’s Grill.
Luke Tyler, Wren’s father and more affectionately known as Pop, places two plates stacked high with BLTs and fries in front of customers at the counter. His head, full of wavy, gray hair, pops up, blue eyes landing on me as I saunter into the restaurant.
My feet suddenly feel heavy and clunky like bricks. I stumble to a halt and can’t stop staring at the man I once considered to be more of a father to me than my own. Mouthwatering aromas of smoked meat and baked bread hit my nostrils and fill me with an undeniable nostalgia for home and how things once were.
Familiarity bowls me over, and it takes me a minute to get my bearings. I tear my gaze from Pop. The place looks the same yet different. Leather booths still fan the perimeter of the room, a sprinkling of tables in the middle, and a long row of stools line the counter just outside the kitchen. There’s that same warm glow from the recessed lights and soft music playing in the background.
How long has it been since I was last here?
Too long.
Pop waves a hand around the room dismissively. “Sit wherever you want.”
He disappears into the kitchen without so much as a “Hello” or “Get the hell out” or “It’s about time.”
His indifference stings and yet, I deserve it. In high school, when things got weird between Wren and me, or more like, she put walls and distance between us, we still had this place and, of course, Pop.
My summers were spent at the Grill, working, and outside of that, any chance I could get away from my parents, I’d be with Pop and his family. Wren and I didn’t hang out but we existed in the same space, and I desperately clung to that, even not understanding why we’d grown apart.
All that changed after college.
She came home and avoided me, would literally escape whenever she saw me. I understand now that Kellen, my once best friend, deliberately fed her lies and drove a wedge between us. At the time, I was at a complete and utter loss as to how to fix things. To get her back. I missed my best friend.
That’s when I began consciously steering clear of the places and people we shared. Pop washerfather, and the Grillherfamily business. I was no longer welcomed and it felt like I no longer belonged.
I slide into a booth overlooking the parking lot, Main Street, and just beyond that, the entrance to the library. A great vantage point to spot Wren if she leaves for lunch or on an errand.
She isn’t why I’m here. It’s high time I bridge the gap with Pop.
The man in question eventually lopes toward me like a dead man walking. I might be imagining things, but I figure he’d rather be anywhere but on his way to talk to me.
For several minutes, I’ve watched him cater to tables that came in after me. At one point, it looked like he would pawn me off on his only other server, and that would’ve cut deep. Although, given the grim slash of his lips, the deep frown lines, and narrowed eyes, I’m not so sure this is a good idea. Perhaps the other server wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
“Oliver.” Across from me, Pop leans against the end of the banquette. “What’ll it be?”
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, unsure how to act or what to say in the face of his all-business demeanor. It’s like we’re strangers.
