The second, much louder, growl of my stomach reminded me that I was starving, and I turned my attention to the glass cases of baked goods, wondering if there were any high-protein options. I stopped at the chalkboard advertising the Sugar Peaks Croissant of the day. Behind it were a set of antlers. With bells. The kind that had jingled in the wind that blew across the skating rink last night as their owner winched my truck out of the ditch.
Shit.
Twice in less than twenty-four hours?
Charlotte's voice faded into the din of the coffee shop. The music, some kind of folk, turned into a muffled distant noise. I didn't have to wonder if she recognized me. Her eyes were wide, and like me, she seemed frozen in time. Her hand held up responding to a wave from Charlotte. The smile faded from her face, and she looked away first, then turned and disappeared into the back of the coffee shop.
The sounds came back, the music had instruments again, and I wondered if I could have imagined Clara Dalton. Maybe the airbag to the face had given me brain damage.
"Mr. Shepherd?" Charlotte's voice brought me back.
"Yes." I glanced to the doorway where the antlers had vanished from sight and then turned all of my focus on the tiny realtor in front of me.
"Come this way. Mavis has ordered us breakfast."
Thankfully, my chair faced the street and not the restaurant. I shrugged out of my jacket, shook the gnarled hand of the mayor and the confident council member, took a seat, put away the local boy, and brought out the successful development consultant for the wealthiest NHL team owner in the country.
After friendly introductions and a few jokes about being attacked by the airbag, I pulled out the file folder with the glossy business proposals.
"Hold on, there kiddo." Mavis rested her hand on mine. "Around here, we have breakfast before business."
"Of course," I said, slipping the folder back into my messenger bag.
A pretty woman with brown hair, wearing the same apron as Clara, refilled our coffee and delivered breakfast sandwiches made with croissants.
"Thank you, Megan,” Mavis said. "Have you met Beckett Shepherd yet? He used to live on Boxcar Drive."
"We haven't met yet." She wiped her hands on a tea towel and shook my hand. "Welcome home for the holidays." Her voice was friendly, but in a polite small-town way. It was the kind of tone that told me Clara had already filled her in. I wasn't Beck Shepherd, small-town boy made good, but Beckett Shepherd, small-town boy turned asshole.
"Really?" Charlotte tilted her head. "I lived on Railway Way."
"You?"
There was only one street worse than Boxcar Drive, and that was Railway Way. If a hot girl named Charlotte lived there, I would’ve known. The only girls I remembered from the TrainTrailer Park were the Bunkman sisters. The younger one was in high school when I was in elementary school, and she was hot, but her name wasn't Charlotte.
"I'm not the only one who went away and came back." She sipped her coffee and peeled a layer off the top of her breakfast sandwich.
"I'm just here for business." I chuckled. The idea of moving home to Chance Rapids was as likely as coming out of hockey retirement and winning the Stanley Cup again.
Mavis's laugh was hearty. "That's what Charlotte said too."
Charlotte nodded. "I swore I would never come back. Get ready, The Rapids will pull you back in."
"And that's a good thing?"
"The best thing that ever happened to me."
There wasn't an ounce of sarcasm in her voice. How could I not remember a beautiful black-haired girl named Charlotte? As a kid, we all had crushes on the hot high school girls, but Charlotte wasn't one of them.
"Eat." Mavis scolded me like a mom.
While we devoured the sandwiches, Councilman Cooper droned on about his move to Chance Rapids, and Mavis explained the winter carnival activities, as if I hadn't been to the carnival every winter I'd lived in this damn town. The only change was the ski-joring, which sounded a lot cooler than the ear-splitting chainsaw carving contest.
Charlotte sat back and watched, and I wished I could figure her out. A local girl who lived in Sugar Peaks, would she be a supporter of the new King Complex, or would her small-town roots and nostalgia for the old rink be stronger?
Had Clara emerged from the kitchen? Without turning completely, I couldn't know, but the way the skin on the back of my neck burned told me someone was pouring her angry gaze directly into me.
"They look pretty busy. I'll get these out of the way." Charlotte cleared the plates, and I let my gaze follow her as she delivered them to the back.
