“Hope that helps!” I call out in farewell, with a jovial wave.
Sadly, these flowers aren’t gonna plant themselves in the cute window boxes I got for the café’s plate glass displays—just like the rest of the restaurant isn’t going to finish itself—and I need to wrap this up.
I wanted to get these babies in their new homes now, before the sun gets any angrier for the day, and with plenty of time to water them and let these bad boys get comfy in the couple weeks we have before the opening.
Heights Bites is going to be the cutest restaurant downtown.
Okay, technically it’s theonlyrestaurant downtown.
I mean, yeah, you can get some type of food at the bar, Smoky Suds, the pizza place, Smoky Slice, the coffee shop, Foamy Heights, the bakery Smoky Sweets, the wine bar Smoky Sips, and the ice cream parlor, Smoky Scoops, but this will be the one and only place to come in, order off of a complete menu, have a full meal, and just allow yourself to be taken care of.
Downtown Smoky Heights hasn’t had a real restaurant since our dad left town, far too long ago. The diner was the only place to go back then, and since it shuttered its doors when my dad took off for his new wife, we haven’t had options. Until Rorytook on the project of restoring downtown and turned it into something out of a Hallmark movie.
Look at us now! The two-block stretch of Main is full of shops, restaurants, and establishments that are open, or nearly open. The Downtown Smoky Heights grand opening isn’t until the end of the summer, but after the soft opening next month, the place will finally be in full swing.
Doing what I can to give the locals a place that feels like home to enjoy their daily meal feels like a family legacy I had to fulfill.
After all, Rory is doing her part in Mom’s memory.
My stomach clenches and my mouth turns to sand, the way it always does when the loss of her comes back to me. The pain locks in my determination to stay focused. Heights Bites is what I can do for our family, and this whole town.
Running a restaurant is new to me, but it takes a lot to break me. This place is getting all I’ve got. Starting with making the flower display cute as possible apparently. Then we can worry about some of the bigger problems. Like what I’m supposed to do for a chef, or how on earth we’re going to open in two weeks.
Footfalls break my concentration on the small floating garden I’m planting—I really need to get my sister to put some more of the commission’s budget toward landscaping—and steal my focus.
It’s not that there haven’t been passersby all morning. There have been. It’s the distinctsoundof the footfalls. Heavy, like thuds. And maybe squeaky? It’s a combo I can’t recall ever hearing before, which is what makes me look up. And up. And up.
To the face of a man I’ve never seen. Possibly the largest man I’ve ever seen, he is massive. Gotta be six and a half feet tall, thicker than a sequoia, and absolutely covered in tattoos that sprawl his gargantuan build. Arms, hands, fingers, neck, and up his neck to his carved jawline. My eyes freely wander down histree trunk thighs and wonder if they’re covered beneath those dark pants too.
A bead of sweat that has nothing to do with the heat or the physical exertion drips between my breasts, my face—my whole body—suddenly flushed from much more than the temperature.
Nowthisis what I call the universe answering prayers.
Black hair, almost spiky, is held back from his strong face with a black bandana, tied around his forehead. The face itself is that of a warrior. Chiseled, but flawed. There’s nothing perfect about this man. He looks like he’s been through battle and out the other side, even though he can’t be over thirty. Normally way too young for me, but there’s something about this guy that says I might break a few rules for him.
The one thick eyebrow I can see has a scar running through it, and his tanned, olive skin looks almost weathered. I’d like to get acquainted with the rest of him and get to know all the stories his flesh has to tell.
As I’m gawking over his face—hoping it comes off as mere curiosity about the newcomer to town, not like I’m mapping out how to ride it later—I watch it screw up while he takes in the signage above the door, and the logo on the large window display.
He snorts and instantly my blood boils. Where I was running hot for him just a second ago, that little sound he just made, dismissive and patronizing, it’s got my six-and-a-half-foot temper trapped in a five-foot-eight, curvy body flared up in a flash.
“What?” I ask him defiantly, still kneeling on the ground on the edge of the sidewalk.
“Is this for real?” he asks, pointing at the sign. The sleeves on his white chef jacket are rolled up to his elbows, and pushed up a little above that, revealing an entire gallery of artwork along the canvas of his skin.
It’s hard not to gawk, but I’m getting the idea that if he opens his mouth, he’s going to make that easier on me.
“What?” I ask again, even more defensive this time. The acid in my voice should fucking warn him to tread carefully, but doesn’t seem like street smarts is his cup of tea.
“The name? Heights Bites?”
“What’s wrong with it?” Eyes narrowed, my arms cross over my filthy overalls, and his eyes so dark they look black flash as they follow the movement, my breasts pushing up as I stare him down.
The guy looks back at the window and points, outright points with one of those tattooed fingers, turning his body so his outstretched arm gestures at the entirety of downtown in one sweep.
No manners and no taste. The man is wearing blackCrocswith his chef uniform. I mean,ew. That explains the squeaky steps.
“The names of every shop on this street are ridiculous.”
