There were eight years between us, and while it was a small town, I certainly didn’t know everyone there. Especially not since I’d moved to Houston.
“No. San Luis. My dad just works in Blueshore. With yours.” She sipped her coffee, then added with a chuckle, “He guilted me into this. He’s kind of old-fashioned and pushy. But now he pulled the ace card: ‘Your mother would have agreed with me. She would have wanted you to do it.’” She gave a shruggish wave. “I couldn’t do anything against that. So thanks for agreeing to meet.”
“Helps me too. And sorry about the guilt trip.”
She smiled. “When my dad said something like, ‘Why are you two so against it?’ I figured I could be honest with you about making a deal.”
We chatted for a while about the usual stuff—jobs, cities, school. The place was busy; customers flowed in and out, the door swinging open every few minutes and letting in the crisp October air. Inside, our conversation wove through the hiss of the steamer, murmur of voices, and some unobtrusive Spotify playlist in the background.
A sweet, familiar hint of honey drifted past. Faint, like a memory.
She was nice, pretty, smart, amusing even.
I should want this; it’d be easier if I did.
But she wasn’t Ruby.
No one was.
About thirty minutes in, I brought it to a close. “I’ve got to get back to a friend’s place.” My heart twitched at how small that word felt.
“Oh, yes, of course.” Julie rose to her feet and offered her hand again. “Thanks. It was really nice talking to you. If ... if you ever want to meet again for coffee, I’d be happy to.”
I gave her a close-lipped apologetic smile. “Thanks, Julie. It’s been nice.”
The last remnants of light disappeared as I returned to my car.
I could try to engineer it. Try to want what made sense.
And maybe this was how it’d be—someday settling for someone almost right, because Ruby Locke never could unlock her heart.
29
Ruby
“YOU CAN COME OVER ANDsee for yourself, ma’am,” the paint warehouse lady said in an indifferent tone that screamedI don’t work on commission.
If Dave hadn’t vouched for this place and promised a discount if I mentioned his name, I wouldn’t have bothered driving out of town. But since no one there seemed capable of answering my questions about the exact shades of green, blue, and yellow I wanted, I gave up on the phone call and went in person.
The lady turned out to be the owner’s twenty-something daughter, who had greeted me with, “Oh, it’s you. Yeah, here are our swatches. Holler if you have questions. I need to close soon.” She was about as warm as the paint samples.
“Your dad knows you’re this good at sales?” I muttered before leaving, colors finally chosen for when the main house job was done.
Needing caffeine strong enough to revive the dead, I pulled into Brew It On, the café my Aunt Amy once bragged about poaching a barista from for her coffee shop in Riviera View.
The busy place smelled like heaven—coffee, sugar, and cinnamon, which made me miss the good days of my breakfast room at the inn. I couldn’t wait to have it running again.
Behind thoughts of colors, materials, timelines, contractors, and bookings, my mind still reeled with thoughts of Sebastian and what-ifs.
I stood at the counter, surrounded by others, scrolling through my phone while waiting for my turn to order.
A laugh—bright, feminine, warm—cut through the noise.
I glanced over from behind someone’s back.
And just like that, all the noise in my mind completely shut down.
And my heart nearly ceased beating.
