“She’s winning you over.”
They throw up their hands in exasperation. “If you hadn’t slept with her in Hawaii, would you still think she was the bad guy?”
“Yes.” No. I don’t think she’s the bad guy.
Iwantto believe she’s the bad guy so that I can sleep at night, face her at work, and keep focused on what I need to do to convert the café that’s currently liningmypockets with a decent profit for a café without the guilt that’s starting to creep into my gut.
Zen’s glaring.
That doesn’t happen often.
“Uncle Grey. You’re being ridiculous. Is Chachi an asshole? Yes. But Sabrina’s keeping that café running, everyone here loves her even if they whisper to not get on her bad side, which I wish people would say about me, by the way, and I really don’t think she has any ulterior motive beyond keeping what’s been normal for as long as she can. And the people herelovethe café. She’s not doing it for the money. She’s doing it for her family and her friends and her community. What about that saysbad guy?”
None of it.
Absolutely none of it.
“Ask her for help. Do this with her instead of in spite of her,” Zen says.
“Where’s my puzzle from yesterday?”
“Ugh. I’m going to the movie theater. They’re showingWhen Harry Met Sally. But you stay. I don’t want you to come with me.”
“You know your obsession with Nora Ephron movies is the reason I can’t trust your judgment about people, right?”
I get a double middle finger.
Probably deserve it.
Honestly, I kinda enjoy it.
“Can you at least light a fire before you go?” Yes, I’m pushing my luck here.
But it’s fun.
I miss fun.
And I’m finding fun here.
I’ll apologize to Zen for being a cranky prick tomorrow.
Probably.
Depends on how long they rant and rave at me.
Not that either of us can generally stay mad at the other for long.
“Here’s an idea,” they say. “Ask her out.Talk to her. Go bang her again. Talk to her some more. And then tell me you don’t respect the hell out of the fact that she loves the café that Choochoo Sullivan hasn’t once evendriven pastsince you bought it off of him.”
“Choochoo?”
“Way to miss the point, Uncle Grey. I’m out.” They stalk back to the door, keys jangling in their pocket. A blast of cold air makes every part of me shrivel as Zen yanks it wide open.
And then makes a stifledurp!
“Oh, hello dear. So sorry to startle you,” a woman says in a very proper British accent. “I’m Bitsy. Live just down the way there. Are you the new owner of Bean & Nugget?”
I run a hand through my damp hair and step behind Zen. “Hello. I’m Grey. I bought the café.”
