Damn it.I turn to the woman at the end of the counter, waiting—albeit somewhat impatiently—for her latte.
“Sorry,” I say, as she huffs and taps her foot on the floor.
I quickly grab the milk jug from below the counter, my wrist twinging as I pour the milk into the metal carafe to restart the process. I manage to get her latte out quickly enough that she doesn’t put up a fuss as she leaves.
A few seconds after the door shuts behind her, the bell chimes again, and my head snaps in that direction. But the moment I look up, my chest hollows out, taking my breath with it when it’s not him.
It’s the lawyer, Craig.
Dressed in his ill-fitting beige suit, his leather briefcase no doubt containing all the paperwork required to make it official and take Thistle + Thorne away from me.
It’ll become property of the government and auctionedoff, likely to a developer. And I’ll be simultaneously out of a place to live, and my livelihood.
Bile rises to the back of my throat as I think of what will become of this place, my aunt’s legacy, the one I’ve painstakingly preserved and taken care of. That I was entrusted with.
He barely smiles as he approaches me, his face a stoney, unreadable, mask.
“Poppy,” he says.
I do my best to force out a cheery smile.
“Hi!” I squeak out, my voice an octave or two too high. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Maybe if I delay this, if I win him over with a delicious hand-crafted latte, I might have a fighting chance. Even as I think it, I know it’s a long shot.
“Black coffee is fine.”
As I turn to pour it, he takes a seat at the table in the window. The same spot he sat in when he told me the café could be mine… if I got married.
I did that. I went to great lengths to secure this place to my name and now… it’s going to be taken away. And I’ll have lost everything. The café, Jett… it’s all too much to bear.
Walking slowly and steadily with the mug of black coffee, I make my way over to the table and set it down amongst the papers he’s pulled out of his briefcase.
I hover nervously over the table, frozen, unsure if I want to sit and get this over with or run out of the café and find somewhere to hide.
“Sit,” he instructs, so I do.
He goes to open his briefcase, surely to take out whatever documents he needs to charge me with fraud. I’m surprisedhe didn’t bring the police with him. Is that how it would even work?
Craig fiddles with the clasps on his briefcase for an uncomfortably long time, and I shift in my seat, sweat beading on the back of my neck.
“I have some papers here that I forgot to get you to sign last time, and then we can start processing the transfer of the deed.”
My brain stalls.
Transfer the deed?Does this guy live under a rock?
I stammer a moment, trying but failing to close my mouth that has fallen open like a trout.
“I thought… Haven’t you…” He stares back at me as I try to form words, again, failing miserably. “You haven’t seen the news,” I finally get out, and I instantly worry that I shouldn’t have said anything at all.
Idiot.
But I need to know. I need to know if he’s going to walk out of that café, open his phone and see the article—articles, by now—and come marching back in here, ripping the deed in half in front of my face.
“I have,” he explains, his tone calm and measured. He folds his hands together on the table, and for the first time, meets my gaze. “It was certainly something we took into consideration. The town council held an emergency meeting last night, being that this involves a historic building.”
The anticipation is killing me.
