“I knew we could,” Emmett shrugs. “I just didn’t know how good it would feel.”
Brody nods and catches my eye. “And I think we should ride the high and talk about what happens when we get back to real life—actual planning. Maybe about a café?”
My heart jumps in my chest. I haven’t thought about it lately with all the stupid drama we’ve endured. “I like that idea.”
“Over breakfast,” Emmett adds, wiggling his brows at me. “I’ll even cook.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Youare going to cook?”
“Yep,” Emmett straightens his shoulders. “You’ll be amazed. I swear it.”
I lift the empty mug. “Challenge accepted.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re all seated at the table in the main lounge area, Emmett’s plate of eggs and biscuits in front of us.
Brody slides his tablet down the table toward me but waits until I actually pick it up before speaking. “So, here’s the building again.” He glances at the others. “What do you want to do with it, Georgie?”
I grab a biscuit and take a bite, knowing good and well it came from a can. Still, I turn to Emmett. “They’re good.”
He grins. “Thanks.”
I nod and then go back to the tablet, scrolling through the pictures of the building—my potential cafe. I stare at the tablet for a long moment, flipping through the photos. Bare brick, cracked tile, dusty windows with the skyline of downtown barely visible through years of grime.
It’s ugly.
It’s fucking perfect.
I can’t help it—I start picturing my own tables, mismatched chairs, the menu chalkboard with my handwriting at the top. The smell of sourdough and cinnamon and coffee at six in the morning.
“What do you think of it?” I hear the worry in Brody’s voice.
I look up and smile. “I want it to be a place where people feel safe. Not fancy or intimidating, but not so basic it’s just another hole in the wall. I want to walk in and know exactly what time of year it is from the way it smells. I want families to come in aftersoccer games and writers to stay too long and couples to fight quietly over the last scone. I want it to be like that.”
Emmett raises his hand. “Will there be free WiFi, or do we make them talk to each other like animals?”
“Free WiFi,” I shoot back, “but only if they order a second drink.”
He grins. “Cruel and unusual, but okay.”
I keep going, because now I can’t stop. “I want gray-blue walls. Rope light fixtures. Big windows—round, like portholes—and if I can find a salvage shop that’ll sell me one of those ship wheels, I want that bolted to the host stand. I want it to be like they’re setting out to sea.”A reflection of us.But I keep that part to myself.
Brody nods. “What about the kitchen?”
“I want it open,” I say, without hesitation. “I want everyone to see what’s happening. I want them to smell the salmon before it even hits their plate and that we’re not hiding anything.” I tap the tablet, flipping through the property photos until I find one of the old, battered brick walls. “I want to leave some of it unfinished, like this. Let people know it’s still New York under the paint.”
Miles clears his throat, swallowing his eggs. “Menu?”
I shoot a look at Emmett, who’s already halfway out of his seat. “We need to keep it tight,” I say, “but not boring. We’ll have a few breakfast favorites—cinnamon rolls, obviously, and a Benedict with homemade hollandaise. Lunch is soups and sandwiches, but with one curveball every day, something weird and seasonal. Dinner… I want Mediterranean, but not the cliché stuff. Think saffron, think harissa, think roasted whole fish!” My voice starts picking up with excitement. “For special occasions, we could offer private events for family dinners and businesses.”
Emmett is already sketching something on a napkin. “Can I be the wine director?”
“Only if you don’t drink the profits,” Miles mutters.
Brody leans back, arms crossed, a rare full smile blooming. “It’s a solid vision,” he says, “and it’s yours. I can get the permits started when we get back, and we’ll have a contractor on site in a week. We can be open by late fall if we push—if that’s what you want, obviously.”
“Don’t promise her that,” Miles says, and for a second, I think he’s going to rain on my parade, but he’s just methodically checking things off. “We need a food handler’s cert, a liquor license, ADA compliance, and probably three times the staff you think you need. But I can run point on the legal on all that. If that’s what you want.” He eyes me.
Emmett joins in. “If you need a marketing push, I can run all the socials.”
