“It’s not that I don’t eat bread,” he said after the server had taken their order. Everyone else had ordered bacon and eggs, while Oliver asked for an egg white omelet and sliced fruit. He’d do his best not to eye Seb’s bacon too longingly when it arrived. God, he missed bacon. “The average American eats fifty-three pounds of bread a year.”
“My youngest son doesn’t even weigh fifty-three pounds!” Penny said. She owned the diner, and she and Martin formed a fast friendship as they’d rallied the town when the bookstore burned down the previous year.
“Exactly.” Oliver nodded. “And the nutritional value of your typical slice of mass-produced white bread is—”
“Oh my God.” Seb wrapped his arms around his head and collapsed to the table. “Penny, please don’t encourage my brother. Oliver, don’t you have an ‘off’ switch? This is the only day you’re not at work. Can’t you loosen up and eat like a normal human being?”
Oliver could have pointed out that his whole business model was based on not taking days off. Instead, he smiled indulgently at his brother and patted the back of his head.
“How are things going?” Penny asked as she sipped her coffee.
“Pretty good!” Oliver forced his smile until his cheeks hurt. “I think the market stall is going to be a great addition and more than make up for keeping the shop closed on Saturday mornings.”
“You know one of us could work at the store on Saturdays.” This was from Martin, who sat next to Seb. Oliver turned his perma-smile toward him. Martin could be painfully shy, so offering to help out in any kind of customer service capacity said a lot. But Seb and Martin were still getting their own art gallery off the ground, so he couldn’t ask for more of their time. And anyway, he needed to be able to say he’d made the business a success on his own. Cooper said it couldn’t be done, that it would be too much work for one person. But Oliver wasn’t afraid of hard work. He could do this.
“It’s fine,” he said, responding to Martin’s offer. “The market will be the boost I need. It gets Pulpability introduced to a different segment of the community and to the tourists, when they start coming, and regular customers will know that’s where they can find me through the spring and summer.”
“I still think that name is terrible,” Seb said as he sat up again.
“No one asked you.” Martin wrapped an arm around Seb’s shoulders.
“Well, they should have.”
Better thanHabeus Juice Us.
No. Not thinking about that.
“I’m running a workshop this week, if any of you would like to come.” He couldn’t ask for more of their help, but a little moral support couldn’t hurt.
“What kind of workshop?” Seb asked with narrowed eyes, at the same time that Martin said, “We’d love to!”
“It’s about home juicing. It doesn’t always have the same benefits as what I’ve got at the store, but done right, it can be a pretty good alternative.”
“I don’t believe it. He’s still working,” Seb hissed to no one in particular.
“We’ll be there.” Martin elbowed him gently, and Seb grumbled agreement.
Seeing someone wrangle Oliver’s spitfire brother into—if not exactly submission—at least a measure of civility was still disconcerting. Seb had always done his own thing. Watching him acquiesce to the quiet man sitting beside him was some kind of magic or miracle.
“So how did your date go?” Martin asked.
Oliver bit his tongue to fight back a blush. “Fine. He seemed like a nice guy.”
“That’s what Brian says. He told me he and Nick started working at the station about the same time, but Nick had an accident a few years ago. I think Brian still feels like he’s letting Nick down somehow.”
“He said he works dispatch.”
Seb snorted. “Can’t imagine that’s a very demanding job. Nothing here is. Did you see the headline in the paper yesterday? Controversy over the new possum-proof garbage cans.”
“Well, actually—” Penny started.
“What do you think?” Seb turned back to Oliver. “Is Nick the guy you want in your corner when the possum army comes for your family?”
Nick seemed to have the build and the disposition for a crisis. Tough and strong, quiet but purposeful.
Like the way he’d purposefully manhandled Oliver into near public indecency. If he was nursing an old injury, it hadn’t been evident as he’d pushed Oliver up against a brick wall.
Their food arrived. Before Oliver could even take a bite, a piece of buttered white toast dropped out of the air and landed on his egg whites. Oliver glared up at his brother; he stared blandly back.
