The front door doesn’t slam as she leaves, it’s got one of those stoppers on it so it closes gradually, and I bet that just made her even madder. The thought makes me smile, sends a little extra blood down to my cock, and I grin at the trail she left from the kitchen.
What a spicy surprise waiting for me in this quaint little town.
I take another bite of my dish, getting about half the chicken breast in my mouth in one go—making sure to get plenty of white wine and shallot sauce with it—and then I pull up the email I got from the owner, working on my own response.
Attaching the best of the photos I took, I take a deep breath, decide to add Aurora on the CC list as a Hail Mary, whisper a prayer I heard mynonnasay a thousand times, and hit send.
FOUR
LEXI
Rory Grady
New Heights. Now.
Me
Nah, no thanks
It’s not an offer.
Sighing heavily, I take an extra few minutes to admire the flower boxes where they hang below the plate glass window to delay my punishment.
It really does add a lot of charm to the window display, the golden mix of thriller, filler, and spiller for the win. Booths line the other side of the window, but you can see past that into the café itself, and the shades of pinks and whites from the flowers I planted play well off of the colors inside the restaurant, the pale pink walls, almost white in color, tying together the exterior and interior aesthetics.
Not like most people won’t already choose to eat here, but I hope this adds a little kick to their dopamine like it’s doing to mine when they come in, or even just stroll by.
After that encounter with the tattooed cactus enthusiast, I need the hit tomydopamine.
Wilder left shortly after sending that firebomb of an email. With nothing but a wicked grin in my direction, he took back off toward whatever dimension he came from.
I have zero questions as to why my little sister is texting me to meet her at her office. She’s ordering me to show up for an impromptu meeting, like she’s my boss. For the first time in my life, I don’t have a boss, but something tells me I’m about to get the worst verbal smackdown of my career to date.
If working in a grocery store for twenty years can be considered a career.
My current path of following the insane idea to open a restaurant when I have absolutely zero experience in the industry feels more like a cry for help than a career. If there were a life choice equivalent to cutting your own bangs, it would definitely be opening a business you’re not qualified to run.
But with my sister’s guidance and the internet at my fingertips, I’m pretty sure I can figure this out.
I should’ve just cut my own bangs.
Stopping by the west central parking lot on my way to Rory’s office, I take my time putting away the supplies I used to make the flower displays in the trunk of my trusty blue Nissan, and eventually, I’m out of ways to stall.
I even went back to the café, cleaned myself up again in the restroom, inspected the kitchen to make sure he’d cleaned up after himself, and the asshole did. It’s like he was never there.
I’d like to keep it that way.
The front door locks easily, thanks to the brand-new lock and key that got installed when I took ownership only a few weeks ago. Rory’s office is just four doors away from mine, right across the street, but I find a way to dawdle, saying hi to the elderly residents of the Heights as I meander.
There’s a whole flock of them who like to idle their days away sitting on sunny benches, watching the younger crowd who roll through at mealtimes or after their shifts, and those who have the luxury of wandering throughout the day. The elder generation do their part to keep everyone informed, spreading the gossip amongst all equally. Today, they’re tittering about how Weston—town playboy—seems to be serious about the tiny newcomer with the big attitude, Amelia.
Rory must figure out what I’m up to, because the door to the New Heights Headquarters opens, and her body emerges, door still held open, impatient as ever.
“Alexis Marjorie Weiss!”
Her resemblance to our mother in this moment isuncanny, and the memories that invokes—the thousands of times my mother called my full name in warning, jest, or dressing down—make the bridge of my nose sting abruptly. My brain reminds me (unnecessarily) that I’ll never hear her say it again, and I try to shush it.
“Sorry, Ernie,” I tell the man who’s sitting in front of the hardware store until Dallas or Duke opens up Suds for the evening. “Family business.” One of my thumbs jerks in Rory’s direction, and he gives me a knowing look.
