She’d spent hours combing through bank statements, hoping to find a clue. But all she found were a series of monthly payments to “Worthington” with no memo or details to explain them. It was like finding a treasure map with no X to mark the spot.
When the bank statements led nowhere, she started making calls. One by one she contacted the people in Lolly’s address book, a floral-patterned relic that looked like it hadbeen run over a few times. She was hoping for answers, some hint to help her unravel the mystery of the loan.
Instead, she got a parade of stories that added to Lolly’s legend. Her hairdresser spent twenty minutes recounting the time Lolly had dressed as a squirrel for the elementary school’s book fair, carrying around a bucket of acorns to give out like prizes. Mr. Johnson from Sunrise Bait and Fried Chicken insisted she’d won the town’s annual fishing tournament with nothing but a piece of twine and a soda can tab.
Not exactly useful financial information.
Still, the calls came with kind words and offers of help. The Sunrise book club pledged to dig into its rainy-day fund. The ice cream shop on the waterfront said they’d put out a donation jar. Even Dr. Willa, Governor Sam’s veterinarian, promised she’d hold a “Paws for a Cause” event to raise money for the café. By the end of her phone marathon, Cora had scraped together promises totaling about five thousand dollars. At that rate, they’d save The Salty Spoon sometime in the middle of the next century.
She rubbed her temples, the dull throb of a headache building behind her eyes. The numbers on her spreadsheet blurred. One hundred thousand dollars. It might as well have been a million.
“Think, Cora,” she muttered, trying to dig a solution out of the wreckage of her exhausted brain. “There’s got to be something you’re missing.”
But the only thing missing was her sanity, which seemed to have packed its bags and taken off on an impromptu vacation. Probably somewhere tropical, wearing a tacky Hawaiian shirt and sipping a pina colada with a tiny umbrella in it. Traitor.
She glanced at the clock on the wall and groaned. How was it already dinner time? The entire day had slipped away, and all she had to show for it was a pile of crumpleddocuments, a few paper cuts, and a newfound appreciation for file folders.
The walls of the tiny office closed in around her, the air growing stuffier with each passing second. She needed a break, some fresh air, and maybe a large glass of wine. Or a barrel.A barrel of wine would do nicely.
Grabbing her purse, she made a quick exit, letting the door swing shut behind her. The lack of progress weighed heavily on her shoulders as she headed toward the waterfront, hoping the familiar crash of waves against the boardwalk would help clear her head.
She ended up at the edge of the dock, staring out at the expanse of water. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she’d been so caught up in digging through Lolly’s jumbled filing system that she hadn’t even stopped for lunch. A group of pelicans dive-bombed for their dinner with a precision that made her wince.Poor fish. One minute they’re swimming along, minding their own business, and the next—bam! Straight into a pelican’s beak.She could relate.
Not far away, a couple sat on a bench, heads bent together, hand in hand. They laughed, sharing some private joke, and her first instinct was to hurl something at them. A rock, maybe, or a sliver of seashell a tourist had left behind on the dock’s weathered railing. But she caught herself. Maybe the guy wasn’t a liar. Maybe he wasn’t about to get her fired. And despite her frustration, it wasn’t their fault that Cora was alone, broke, and one secret loan away from losing everything.
Then it hit her.Alone. She was totally, utterly alone.If The Salty Spoon went under, she’d lose everything—her shot at getting back to New York, Lolly’s legacy, and her one chance to prove she wasn’t a complete disaster.No pressure or anything.
But her pride wasn’t going to save The Spoon. It wasn’t going to make a hundred grand magically appear. And it sureas heck wasn’t going to fix the dumpster fire that was her life. She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath, willing away the anxiety clawing at her chest. She needed to make a decision, and she needed to make it fast. But she couldn’t do it by herself. She needed help. And she knew exactly who could give it.
Someone who understood the stakes. Someone who wouldn’t sugarcoat the truth or try to protect her from it.
Jack Harlow.
Her stomach did a little flip at the thought.Definitely just hunger, she told herself. Nothing to do with his movie star dimple or how he filled out a T-shirt.
As she walked back to the café, she rehearsed what she’d say to Jack.Hey, remember how I said I didn’t need your help? Well, surprise, I lied.
Yeah, this was going to go great. She’d nail it for sure.
But there was no turning back. It was time to face the music. And by music, she meant Jack Harlow and his stupidly perfect face.
Cora woundher way through the tree-lined streets of Sunrise, passing familiar tourist spots and slipping into the quieter parts of town. Finding Jack’s place turned out to be easier than expected, thanks to Aggie’s unmatched knack for keeping tabs on everyone. “Oh, honey, you don’t live in a small town this long without learning how to keep one eye on your own business and two eyes on everyone else’s.”
The steps to Jack’s front porch creaked loudly beneath her feet, blending with the soft lapping of waves against the shore. His cottage, weathered blue and faded by years of saltwater and sun, sat right on the water’s edge. Window boxes overflowed with marigolds, adding a splash of sunshine against the peeling paint. It was the kind of place thatbelonged in a romance novel, not in real life, and definitely not as the hideaway of a brooding, bad-boy chef with a chip on his shoulder the size of a cast-iron skillet.
Her knuckles hovered inches from the door, hesitation rooting her in place. How was she supposed to start this conversation?Hey, sorry I’m selling my grandmother’s beloved café, but maybe we can still be friends. Oh, and I really need your help to save it so I can take the money and run.She almost wished she’d asked Aggie for advice and not just directions. With her, though, it would be a toss-up between humor and vigilante justice, and neither seemed like the right approach to a chat with Jack.
She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and knocked. The sound echoed through the quiet evening air, loud enough to send a nearby seagull flapping off in a huff.
No answer.
She knocked again, louder this time. Still nothing.
Fantastic. She’d worked up the courage to come here, and he wasn’t even home. That’s what she got for trying to be mature and proactive. Clearly, the universe preferred her wallowing in self-pity.
She was about to turn and leave when a flicker of movement down by the water caught her eye. Squinting through the golden light of the setting sun, she made out a familiar figure sitting on what had to be the ricketiest dock she’d ever seen.
Of course. Jack Harlow couldn’t brood in normal, structurally sound locations like everyone else. She picked her way across the uneven ground, silently questioning the last time she’d had a tetanus shot.
