“—mybusiness,” I finished. “Which is why I’m going to keep mine running and let you discover that we can coexist without all this bullshit.”
He laughed softly, like we’d reached the witty banter portion of the afternoon. Then he leaned forward, elbows on the table, and let the nice peel back just enough to show the blade under it.
“Don’t get tangled up with her,” he said. “You’ll end up regretting it.”
I met his gaze and let the smile ease right off my face. “She’s an adult. You don’t have a say in her life. And you sure as hell don’t get to tell me what to do with mine.”
He held my stare for three beats. Four.
“Just some friendly advice,” he said again, lighter. “Like I said.”
“Here’s mine.” I kept my voice level, conversational, hiding the threat that simmered beneath. Low enough that he could hear me clearly, and the three closest tables could pretend they didn’t. “Youstay away from her. She’s already starting to forget you exist.”
The fork on the next table clinked. Someone’s chair scraped. The room didn’t go silent, exactly—it went intentional. They were listening.
Graham, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He took another sip of his water, set it down, and smiled like a man collecting data. “Confident,” he murmured. “That’ll be useful—for a while.”
“It’ll be usefulforever,” I scoffed. “Dessert?”
He considered declining. Then pride told him not to be the one who walked away. “What do you recommend?”
“Cherry pie,” I said. “Classic.”
I comped it because I set the tone in this place, not him. He ate half, paid without comment, and slid out of the booth with that exact same stage posture. On his way to the door, he paused at the counter and set down a heavy, cream card embossed in gold.
“By the way,” he said, voice smooth. “Grand opening, day after tomorrow. Industry friends, a few local leaders. You should come by, get a taste of what amodernkitchen feels like.”
I glanced at the invitation, didn’t touch it. “I’ll try to stop by. But I might be too busy feeding the locals right here.”
His smile thinned. “Suit yourself.”
“Break a leg,” I said.
He paused, hand on the door. “The sandwich was better than expected,” he said. “The fries were…ambitious.”
“Glad you enjoyed your lunch,” I said, light back on. “We’ll keep a booth ready for you.”
He left without further word.
“Y’all good?” I asked the staff.
The restaurant settled back into its usual rhythm—booths wiped down, the steady hum of conversation replaced by the familiar clatter of dishes and laughter from the kitchen. I took a breath, feeling the weight lift off my shoulders as the place quieted. I slipped into the storage room to text Eliza. I needed to see her. I couldn’t wait.
I pulled out my phone and typed a quick message to Eliza:
Me: Hey, any chance you’re free tomorrow? Want to come over for dinner? Or come over and cook with me? For fun.
I hesitated for a second, then hit send, hoping she’d say yes.
A few seconds later, Eliza texted back:
Eliza: What time?
The knot in my chest loosened—her answer was exactly what I’d hoped for. I grinned at my phone, thrilled, and already started gathering my stuff to head home and get ready.
Outside, the street had that early-evening glaze Honeybrook wears in winter—gold on glass, breath hanging, the kind of cold that made you walk faster to get out of it. Across the way, Graham’s place glowed behind its papered windows. A shadow moved, or maybe I imagined it. It didn’t matter.Hedid not matter.
I locked the door and didn’t look again. I turned toward Sycamore. Toward the Inn’s porch lights. Toward the outline of the Coffee Cabin tucked under strings of bulbs that were always a little crooked, and then I went home.
