He left, and the usual bustle resumed—a steady rhythm of orders, laughter, and the hiss of steam. I straightened up the counter between customers and tried not to linger in that moment, replaying his question and the softness behind it. The walk-up bell chimed twice, each time bringing in another piece of the morning, and I let myself believe for a minute that things could actually be this simple.
The morning thinned to a manageable hum. My grandma popped by with a thermos for me to fill and a kiss to my temple before heading to the Inn to “terrorize the linen closet.” The morning rush faded, and I relaxed into the silence as I cleaned up.
That was when the shadow fell across the window.
“Busy morning?” Graham asked, as if he hadn’t practiced that effortless, boy-next-door tone in the mirror a thousand times.
I didn’t flinch. I wanted to. “Always.”
He looked maddeningly perfect—tall, tailored coat, casual scarf, smile set topleasant public figure. The kind of man people assumed could do no wrong because his hair always cooperated and he’d perfected the art of a benign smile.
“I heard you’ve found a new way to keep busy,” he said lightly. “The Honeybrook Hollow Taste-Off. With the Pennywhistle Pantry.”
“That’s right,” I said, keeping my voice even. “We’re entering a dish.”
“We,” he repeated, chuckling as if it were a joke only he got. His gaze slid past my shoulder, taking in the cabin like it was a quaint exhibit. “I would have thought you’d want to keep your name off something like that. You had real potential to make something of yourself, Eliza. At least enterthisplace, or The Honeybrook Inn’s restaurant. Come on.”
My fingers curled into my palms, nails digging in, hurting just enough to ground me. “The entry is under the Pennywhistle,” I said, clipped and final. “I’m helping as a friend.”
He leaned an elbow on the sill, too casual, too familiar. “If you want people to forget you left fine dining for a coffee hut, hitching your wagon to a nostalgia diner seems like a strange choice.”
There it was—the sugar-laced bite.
My jaw tightened. I forced it to loosen before my teeth could grind loud enough for him to hear. “You’re opening across from the library in a small tourist town,” I said mildly, though heat flashed behind my eyes. “Bold of you to disparage nostalgia.”
A car rolled up in the drive-thru, saving me from saying more. I took the order, rang it through, kept my movements smooth, and my face carefully neutral. Behind my calm, something feral paced.
Graham waited, smile fixed, voice pitched low enough for only me to hear. “You were promising, Eliza. People here might not know that. I do.”
I looked at him then—really looked—and let him see the edge I no longer hid behind politeness. “I remember,” I said quietly. “I remember everything. That’s why I’m not with you anymore.”
The smile didn’t crack, but his eyes cooled, the warmth draining out of them. “Careful,” he said. “Aligning yourself with a competitor is one thing. Trying to beat me in a public vote? That’s… unwise.”
I leaned closer to the window, just enough for him to understand I wasn’t shrinking. “Public votes have a funny way of reflecting what the public actually likes,” I said evenly. “And around here? They like the Pennywhistle.”
“And you?” he asked softly. “Do you like it? Playing sous chef to a former attorney with a new hobby?”
“What’s your problem? I know you’re not jealous.” I met his gaze, refusing to flinch.
“Of course I’m not jealous. I’m curious. That’s all. After all the time we spent together, why are you here? Doing something beneath your talents. At the very least, people know you worked for me. Look at you now.”
“Maybe I’m tired of pretending to want things I don’t.” The words felt heavier in the air than I expected, but I didn’t pull them back. “Besides, talents are wasted if you only use them for yourself. Nate is a great guy, and the Pennywhistle is amazing. His grandma can’t cook this year, so I stepped in. Not that it’s any of your business.”
Something behind me, near the back door, rustled; I didn’t look. A walk-up customer had drifted near the porch bench off to the side. Another pair of footsteps rounded the corner on the gravel, slowly—maybe people were listening, but I was too angry to care.
I handed a latte to the drive-thru customer and turned back to Graham, my pulse steady now, my grip firm on the counter.
“And furthermore,” I said, my voice calm in a way that surprised even me, “I like doing work I’m proud of. With people who don’t make pride feel like a mistake—and who don’t criticize everything I do.”
He leaned in fractionally, voice sweetening, the way it always did right before the knife. “You always were dramatic when you were hurt.”
Something clicked.
Not a spark. Apattern.
He wasn’t here because he missed me. He wasn’t here because he cared. He was here because he was threatened. Because for the first time, he could see it—really see it—that I might beat him. That I was good. That the thing he’d spent years minimizing was now standing in his way, tied to a diner this town loved and a competition he fully expected to win.
The realization settled into my chest, warm and steady. Almost… satisfying.
