“I love this place in the morning,” Grandma said, voice filled with nostalgia. “So I decided to stop by.” I was glad she was here. Her presence brought a steady warmth to the place, anchoring my day before I even tied my apron.
I smiled and shrugged off my coat, slipping into the diner’s familiar rhythm. Stainless steel counters gleamed under the overhead lights, biscuit dough was being rolled out at the prep station, and someone had already queued up a playlist of ‘50s rock and roll. I gave the old jukebox in the corner a pat as I walked by. My grandfather had loved that jukebox. He claimed it made the hash browns crispier.
The place was humming. We had regulars in booths by the windows, a couple of tourists checking out the pie case, and the line cook humming along to “Great Balls of Fire” while flipping pancakes. It was chaotic and warm and comforting in the way only a good kitchen could be.
I grabbed the coffee pot—strong enough to wake the dead—and leaned on the counter to watch for a customer who needed a refill.
The talk around town today was about the Honeybrook Hollow Taste-Off. Apparently, the flyer was now posted in the town square, the date was set, and my grandmother insisted it would be good for me to enter. Said it was tradition, the Pennywhistle entered every year.
The Taste-Off was the kind of event that drew everyone out of their routines and into the park, where booths were set up beneath strings of colorful lights. I remember going to a few of them when I was here visiting as a kid. All the local restaurants entered their best dishes, each hoping to impress the crowd with something special. People wandered from booth to booth, sampling everything from savory casseroles to decadentdesserts, and cast their votes for their favorites at the end of the night. It always brought the community together—neighbors chatting over bites of pie, families sharing plates, and old friends reminiscing about past competitions.
My grandparents had won a few times with their classic recipes, and their framed certificates still hung proudly in the diner’s hallway, a testament to the Pennywhistle Pantry’s place in Honeybrook Hollow’s heart.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about entering. It was my first year, and I was still learning the lay of the land. But Grandma was already talking smack like we were front-runners.
And now there was this new restaurant opening across from the library. Rumor had it, the owner was a big-deal chef from Portland. Probably wanted to bring “elevated cuisine” to Honeybrook Hollow. I didn’t know much about him, but the town seemed excited. Curious.
I should’ve been worried about competition.
But all I could think about was Eliza.
How she’d looked this morning. The way she’d hesitated—like she was toeing the edge of something new—with me. And how badly I wanted to be the one she trusted enough to step over that edge with.
I poured myself a cup of coffee and looked out at the morning crowd. This place was starting to feel like mine. This town was starting to feel like home. And maybe I was finally ready for more.
Chapter 8
Eliza
The early afternoon lull was settling in at the Coffee Cabin when I saw him--Graham, striding up like he hadn’t spent the last year tearing through my heart. My stomach twisted, my hands clenched the counter, and for a moment I couldn’t breathe. Same confident posture, same award-winning smile, same smug charm, and yet I wanted nothing more than to turn and run the other way. Or hurl every coffee cup on the shelf at him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark blond hair that never seemed to fall out of place and a jawline so sharp it could slice through ego and expectation alike. He had that polished, confident look that made people trust him without question, and a smile that could sell lies wrapped in velvet.
“Afternoon, Eliza,” he said smoothly, like we were old friends instead of awkward exes. “Heard the coffee here is the best in town.”
My smile was automatic, professional. “We haven’t burned the place down yet, so I guess that’s something.”
Behind me, Grandma gave a small hum as she wiped down the pastry case. She hadn’t looked up, but I could feel her curiosity brewing stronger than the espresso.
“I’ll have a tall drip, whatever’s fresh, and maybe something sweet,” Graham said, leaning slightly on the counter.
“I’m fresh out ofsweet,” I muttered under my breath as I turned to pour his coffee, wishing he would leave.
“What was that?”
I smiled again, wider this time. “Nothing. We’ve got lemon scones and almond croissants.”
“Perfect. I’ll take one of each. I love trying new things.”
I handed him the bag and cup right as the back door opened and Cara walked in, holding a shopping bag from her bookstore.
“Well, look who’s back in town,” she said brightly, her gaze landing on Graham as she stepped up behind me at the window.
He turned with his politician-level charm and extended a hand over the counter. “Cara Darlington. You haven’t changed a bit.”
She laughed. “Liar. But I’ll take it. Last I heard, you were some big shot up in Portland. What are you doing back in Honeybrook Hollow? I heard the new restaurant opening up is yours.”
“It is. Right across from the library. Hoping to bring a little fine dining flair to town.”
Cara’s eyes sparkled. “We could use some of that. Everyone’s already talking about it.”
