***
Hot Plates is busy for a Monday night. The race car-themed restaurant offers made-to-order meals that taste homemade but better. Black and white tiled floors are accented by the bright red tables and chairs that are all full of customers. It’s one of the few nice-ish places to eat in town—not that there are many options.
Looking around the restaurant, I see that June isn’t here yet, which is normal. She works at Honey’s Diner as a waitress and our dinners together help keep us sane in this town. She was the first friend I ever made in Rose Prairie and she’s been by my side ever since.
It doesn’t take long for the blonde beauty to walk in wearing her honey gold 60s-inspired uniform. I love her, but the girl is so unaware that she turns heads wherever she goes.
“So sorry I’m late. There was a table of college kids who wouldn’t stop complaining about their cafeteria food,” she huffs out in one breath as she plops in the seat across from me. “They tipped well though, so dinner’s on me.”
“Absolutely not,” I snort. This is an ongoing argument we have every damn week. “It’s my week to pay. You paid last week. I’m not going to let you.” She tightens her ponytail and gives in with a giggle.
We place our orders, and I fill her in on my mess of a day. “You’ll never guess who showed up in town today. Think blast from my past.” The spinach and artichoke dip breaks my chip and I focus on digging out the fragment from underneath all the melted cheese.
Ice clinks in her glass as she hums to herself. “A blast from your past…” she trails off, her eyes going distant as she thinks. “Can you give me something else to go off of?”
Giving up on my search, I reach for another chip, biting into it with a satisfying crunch. “Ex,” I mumble through a full mouth.
Her exclamatory gasp draws looks from around the restaurant. “Shut the front door!Smith?”
The familiar waitress, I think her name is Marianne, sets our plates in front of us, as she issues a warning about the hot plates. I thank her with a smile, recognizing her from my coffee shop. I think she bought a book yesterday now that I think aboutit. Would it be too weird to ask if she likes it? Maybe she’s interested in joining our book club…
“The very one,” I reply with a sigh as the waitress moves on to her next table. June was there for the fallout of my relationship with Smith all those years ago when I fled the city, my heart broken. An echo of pain ripples through my chest, the wound still fresh after all this time. I take a bite of my shrimp taco, the perfect combination of honey and spice mingling on my tongue. “And, you remember the journalist Sammie begged me to show around this week?” June’s blue eyes widen as she nods her head, busy chewing on her steak. “Well, Smithisthat journalist.”
She takes her time mulling over the information, her brows furrowing as she chews. June sets her utensils down as she leans in beckoning me closer with a wave of her hand. “Should we cut his balls off?” she whispers deadpan, her serious question throwing me off. My composure breaks with a loud snort as I desperately suck in air as my body wracks with laughter. June stares at me for a beat, a bewildered expression on her face before she chuckles with me. “I was being serious,” she explains when I finally manage to calm down. “I really think we should cut his balls off.”
“I know you did. That’s why it was so funny.” June is my ride-or-die, and even though I’ve never told anyone what happened with Smith and me, she’s willing to do anything if I ask.
“So wait, did you know it was going to be him when she asked you?”
I share my tumultuous story about seeing my ex-boyfriend walk into my coffee shop as we eat, occasionally stopping for June to ask questions. When I explain all the arrangements I made this week forthe journalist, she stops me.
“Hold up. Let’s think this through for a minute. Why don’t you throw in some extra activities,” she adds with air quotes. “You know, to get him off your back?”
My eyes narrow. “What are you thinking over there, June?”
She leans back against the bright red metal of her chair, sipping through her straw. “I don’t know. Maybe throw in something unpleasant.”
A very specific person comes to mind and excitement bubbles in my chest.
I know exactly what to do.
Chapter Four
Smith
The second I saw Cara, I knew I was going to try to win her back. How could I not when those honey-brown eyes flash in my mind every time I blink?
She looks amazing. I hadn’t seen her in six years and still, the sight of her had my heart racing. Her generous curves, the way her jeans hugged her hips, and the way her lips parted in shock were almost more than my poor heart could handle. By the time I checked into the bed and breakfast after wandering around Cara’s shop and speaking with locals, the overwhelming shock had dulled, but only by a fraction.
The Rosebranch Bed and Breakfast is a large white farmhouse wedged back in a picturesque prairie with tall grasses, which look like they’re full of flowers during the spring. A large wrap-around porch features half a dozen rocking chairs and comfortable seating that looks out over the prairie. A shiny gold-plated sign by the door distinguishes the house as a historic Rose Prairie building.
The wide staircase creaks with every step down to the dining room, the enticing smell of bacon frying beckoning me closer. Several other guests are staying here this week and I’m greeted by the sound of knives scraping against plates as I reach the bottom step.
Hank and Darla Richards have owned and operated The Rosebranch Bed and Breakfast for the last forty years. They seem like a typical older couple who’ve been together forever. Hank is quiet and stoic while Darla is warm and welcoming. The minute I stepped through the door she wrapped in a hug only a grandmother could give. She made sure I knew when breakfast was and that she was known around town for her cooking skills, and based on the aromas seeping through the swinging doors from the kitchen, I bet she wasn’t lying.
The long dining table is set up for breakfast. Pitchers of juice and coffee sit in the middle of the table ready for guests to pour. A middle-aged couple sits side by side talking quietly while they sip their coffee. Places are set with white china with orange and yellow decorative napkins resting across the plates bundled by silver napkin rings. Several other guests are seated, spread out along the banquet table quietly eating their breakfast and reading the local newspaper.
“Good morning,” I greet everyone with a soft smile, that stubborn piece of hair bouncing over my forehead. A chorus of polite responses greets me as I take my seat.
