“Can you send me clothes or not?” I bit out, done with his psychoanalysis.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Text me the address. And hurry the fuck up with whatever you’re doing and get back home so we can get to work.”
“Is this place reopening?” An older man strolled up beside me as I ended the call. A thin layer of white fuzz covered each side of his head. His glasses hung from a lanyard around his neck over a dark brown jacket. He held a half-eaten French cruller in one hand and had a rolled-up newspaper tucked under the opposite arm.
I slipped my phone into the back pocket of my jeans. “If all goes to plan.”
Next door, the bakery door opened. “Bertram,” a heavily pregnant woman called as she waddled to us. “You left your wallet.”
He smacked his forehead. “It’s your damn sweets, make me lose my mind.”
A slow smile overtook her face, and she turned to me. “Is this old geezer bothering you?”
Bertram cut in before I could reply. “I’m notbotheringthe young man. He should be nice to me, considering I’m a future customer.”
“Lord help you,” the woman remarked. “I’m Gemma, owner of the bakery.”
We shook hands.
“Nathan Sharpe. You probably knew my dad.”
“You’re Gordon’s kid?” Bertram asked, raising his bushy gray-black eyebrows. “Sorry for what happened to him, and not only because he still owed me money.”
“Of course he did,” I muttered under my breath as Gemma hissed, “Bertram!”
Midbite of his donut, the old man responded, “What? He did. Do you expect me to lie to the boy?”
Gemma blew out a breath in exasperation. “He didn’t ask!” She turned her attention to me. “I’m sorry for your loss. Your dad was always nice to me when he stopped in.”
“Nicer than that C-U-next-Tuesday.” Bertram gestured toward the café. Gemma hissed at him again.
This man was growing on me. “Not a fan of Allison’s, huh?”
“She’s always trying to kick us out. Gordon never cared how long we stayed.”
“That’s because he was part of your group of gamblers,” Gemma argued. She cocked an eyebrow. “Generally, raucous guests are not good for business, but Allison could handle it better.”
Bertram huffed. “That’s an understatement.”
“I met your fiancée the other day,” Gemma said, skillfully navigating the conversation away from Allison. “You’re a lucky man.”
“She’s not… we’re not…” I stuttered, scratching the back of my neck. “Did she say that?”
I wanted to slap myself across the face.Of course,Brenna hadn’t said that.
Bertram laughed, unfortunately not oblivious to the way the incorrect statement threw me. “I need to meet this gal. She inside?”
Gemma rolled her eyes and pointed to Bertram with her thumb. “Do not let him in. You’ll never get him to leave. Strict boundaries are crucial with this one.”
“If he makes Allison mad, he’s fine by me,” I said, looking back inside. At least Allison was making calls. Maybe putting up with her attitude would be worth the value of her input. “It’ll be at least a month before we’re ready to reopen.”
Bertram returned his glasses to his face, then fumbled through his pockets for his phone. “A month,” he repeated. “I’ll let the guys know.”
Gemma slowly shook her head. “You have no idea what you just did.”
I shrugged. “He seems harmless.”
“I should get back inside.” She flashed another bright smile. “I told your f— I told Brenna you’re welcome any time. At least until I pop.” Her hands massaged her baby bump.
