Hazel looked out the window for a moment, then asked, almost absently, “Do you happen to know a carpenter in town? I need to get that porch looked at, sooner rather than later.”
Beck kept his eyes on the road as he pulled onto the road, but he nodded once, just like before.
“Probably.”
That was it.
No offer, no questions. Just a quiet, even reply.
Hazel didn’t press. She’d send him a message later, after brunch, checking to see if he had any names or numbers. For now, she just wanted to enjoy this: the peace, the quiet, the gentle warmth that surrounded her in the cab of his truck.
She smiled faintly, tucked her hands into her lap, and watched the trees slip past her window as they drove towardtown.
Fork & Fable looked like it had been styled for a magazine spread.
Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the east wall, flooding the space with soft natural light that filtered through gauzy linen drapes. The tables were small but elegant— white marble with black trim, accented by rose gold cutlery and linen napkins folded with impossible precision. Staff moved through the space in crisply pressed black-and-white uniforms, every motion fluid and practiced.
The scent of citrus and espresso hung in the air, layered with the faint bite of cracked pepper and something sweet. A record played low in the background, something soft and jazzy, full of piano and longing.
It was the kind of place Hazel could imagine reading about in a specialized edition ofFood and WineorBon Appétit.
She stepped through the front door just after eleven, the bell above her giving a delicate chime.
And immediately, she felt it. Eyes on her.
Iris was already seated, tucked into a two-top near the back window, a latte in one hand and a worn book of short stories open next to her. Her hair was twisted up in a loose knot, curly tendrils escaping around her temples. She wore a cinnamon knit sweater with a high neck and wide-legged linen pants in a shade of green that matched the plants always draped around her shop windows. Big brass earrings swung gently when she turned her head.
She looked up the moment Hazel walked in and froze mid-sip.
Hazel didn’t even make it to the table before Iris called out, voice warm but sharp, like she didn’t want to shout, but couldn’tnotsay something.
“Did I just see you get dropped off by a certain someone’s truck?”
Hazel blinked, heat already climbing her neck.
Iris tilted her head. Her gaze swept downward, narrowing, catching the hem of Hazel’s sweater— the one that hung past her wrists, too big through the shoulders, faded and soft from years of wear.
Her friend arched a dark brow.
“And you’re wearing hisclothes?”
Hazel slid into the seat across from her with a quiet sigh.
“Shh. Don’t make a scene.”
“I’m not making ascene,”Iris whispered, leaning across the table. “Youare the one who walked intothisestablishment smelling like freshly cut wood and unspoken emotional intimacy. I’m just reacting accordingly.”
Hazel opened her mouth, then closed it again. She reached for the glass of water already set in front of her and took a long sip, trying to buy herself some time.
She should have known that with Iris, there was really no use.
Her friend leaned back in her chair, arms folding, earrings swaying like exclamation marks.
“Well,”Iris said with a theatrical wave of one hand. “I’ll need the full story, from the very beginning, please. Preferably told in chronological orderandwith emotional commentary. Do not spare a single delicious detail.”
Hazel hesitated, then glanced around— at the polished concrete floors, the soft white walls, the delicate flicker of tea lights on the bar counter. The space around them was full but not loud. Gentle conversation drifted from nearby tables. A server passed with a tray of Bellini’s balanced perfectly between manicured fingers.
She let out a breath. “Okay… but you can’t interrupt.”
