Three properties in different stages of crisis, three days of negotiations and number-crunching, and careful conversations with people whose entire lives hung in the balance. Yesterday had been Diane and her peach orchard—twenty acres of neglected trees and a widow who had not known how to move forward without her husband. Today, it was the vineyard—a young couple who’d overextended themselves but had the passion to make it work if he could just buy them time.
He should feel good about it. He was helping people, doing what he did best.
But all he could think about was Wes.
Jake pulled out of the vineyard’s gravel drive and onto the main road. It was just past two. He could head back to the Hawthorne House and get a jump on tomorrow’s paperwork. Be responsible. Professional.
Instead, he found himself driving past the Hawthorne House, through the square and to the other side of Spoon.
Just lunch, he told himself.You have to eat.
He soon saw the yellow barn-shaped building of the Dairy Dream and pulled into its parking lot, telling himself he was going there for food and definitely not because there was a chance—however small—that Wes might stop here.
It was stupid. He was being stupid.
But he went inside anyway.
The fast-food joint was busier than he’d expected for a Thursday afternoon. A mix of teenagers fresh from school and a few older locals filled the red vinyl booths. The air smelled of grease and nostalgia—the kind of place that hadn’t changed its menu or decor since 1985.
Jake ordered a pimento cheeseburger and fries at the counter and took his plastic number tent to a booth by the window where he could see the parking lot.
He was halfway through his burger, scrolling on his phone, when a familiar truck turned in.
The hair on Jake’s forearms tingled. He felt his lips reflexively curling into a smile.
Wes climbed out, in flannel, jeans, and work boots, heading for the door. He looked tired—his shoulders slumped with the kind of exhaustion that came from physical labor.
He also looked beautiful.
Jake watched him walk in, watched him pause just inside the door to scan the room.
Their eyes met.
Wes did a quick, comic double-take, but then his expression changed—surprise melting into something softer. He walked over.
“Hey,” Wes said.
“Hey.” Jake gestured to the empty seat across from him. “Join me?”
“What are you doing here?” Wes asked, sliding into the booth.
“Late lunch. Had a meeting at the vineyard in Wrightsville. You?”
“Same. Late lunch, I mean. Been loading trees all morning.”
They looked at each other. The air between them felt tight, stretched thin with what they weren’t saying.
“How’d it go with the vineyard?” Wes asked.
“Good. They’re young, eager. Made some mistakes, but nothing fatal. They’ll be okay.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah.” Jake pushed his fries across the table. “Want some?”
Wes took one. Jake watched his fingers—thick, calloused from years of manual labor. Working hands. So different from Jake’s own soft city fingers that only knew keyboards and pens.
“I talked to Pedro yesterday,” Wes said.
