The room went cold.
Jack didn’t move, but the tension rolled off him. “That was a long time ago,” he said evenly.
Nathaniel’s gaze hardened. “Some things aren’t easily forgotten.”
Cora swallowed hard, fighting the knot in her stomach. “So this is about an old family feud?”
Nathaniel’s voice was icy. “Call it what you will, but this town is changing, and The Salty Spoon doesn’t fit. You think I’m the bad guy here,” he continued, “but as far as I can tell, I’m the only one with a plan. You’re clinging to a legacy that was never going to last.”
“What are you saying?” she asked, her heart pounding.
Nathaniel stood, signaling the end of the conversation. “I’m saying The Salty Spoon’s time is over. The plans are already in motion.”
Jack’s voice was tight with anger. “What plans?”
Nathaniel’s lips curled into a smile as he delivered the final blow. “I’m going to tear it down.”
A knock interrupted the silence.
The receptionist opened the door just enough to lean in. “Mr. Worthington, your next appointment is here.”
Nathaniel adjusted his cufflinks and glanced at Cora with cool detachment. “If you’ll excuse me, I have an important meeting.” He pointed toward the door and then opened a folder on his desk.
He didn’t look up again.
Cora pacedthe café’s kitchen, her sandals kicked off hours ago in favor of sneakers that squeaked on the worn-out linoleum. The conversation with Nathaniel Worthington played on repeat in her head.
The calendar on the wall still read June, but each day she marked off brought her closer to losing the café to him. Their fundraising efforts still hadn’t made a dent in the amount she’d need to save it.
Her laptop sat open on the counter, displaying her trusty spreadsheet. She’d been staring at those numbers for most of the afternoon, but no matter how she twisted them, they refused to cooperate. Income: nonexistent. Expenses: horrifying. Savings: laughable. She even considered cashing in a retirement fund until she remembered,Oh, right, I don’t have one.
“Way to go, Cora,” she mumbled, jabbing at the keyboard. She picked up her phone, thumb hovering over her old contacts. In New York, there had always been someone to meet for drinks or a quick bite. But now she couldn’t think of a single person she’d call just to talk to. Not really.
The only person who’d reached out at all was Brad-slash-Alex-the-Jerk, who’d sent three increasingly all-caps texts demanding she “CALL ME IMMEDIATELY.”
She didn’t call him immediately.
She didn’t call him at all.
Instead, she’d stared at the screen, rolled her eyes so hard it gave her a headache, and then tossed the phone onto the table.
Her stomach growled loud enough to rival the ticking clock. She yanked open the bottom drawer next to the fridge and pulled out a stack of takeout menus. They were pristine, clearly never touched, unlike her dog-eared, coffee-stained stash back in New York. Lolly would have been mortified.Why order in when you’ve got a perfectly good kitchen?She sighed, eyeing the pots and pans hanging over the counter. Agreasy burger might not solve her problems, but it couldn’t hurt.
A sharp knock at the back door interrupted her spiral of self-pity. She spun around to find Jack standing there, arms loaded with brown paper grocery bags, looking like some kind of lumberjack food fairy—the kind she definitely shouldn’t have inappropriate thoughts about when her life is falling apart.
“Seems I’m right on time,” he said.
“Jack?” She blinked. “What are you doing here?”
He nudged the door wider with his foot and stepped inside, his gaze flicking past the open laptop and the stack of menus before landing on her. “Saving you from whatever sad takeout you were about to order,” he said, setting the bags on the counter. “And from the looks of that spreadsheet, you need all the help you can get. Lolly always said you can’t think on an empty stomach, so I brought brain food.”
Cora watched, stunned, as he unpacked fresh produce and herbs. There was enough in those bags to cook for an army. Her heart did a little flip at his thoughtfulness. But there was no line item on her spreadsheet for getting attached to Jack Harlow, no matter how considerate he was.
“Brain food?” she echoed, peering into the remaining bags. “Unless you’ve got a winning lottery ticket stashed in there, I’m not sure food is going to solve my problem.”
Jack’s expression softened, and he rolled up his sleeves. “We eat first. Then we figure out a plan.” He shot her a grin. “Ever made chicken and dumplings?”
She snorted. “Does opening a can count?”
