She swallowed, the weight of his words sinking in. “So, what am I supposed to do instead?”
His eyes held hers, steady and searching. “What do you want to do?”
That was the problem. She didn’t know. She had a multi-step, color-coded plan to sell this place and hightail it back to the predictability of her life in New York as quickly as possible. But there was another part of her—the part Jack seemed to unravel every time he got close—that wanted to fight for something messier.
He must’ve sensed the battle going on inside her because his expression shifted, growing serious. “Look, I get that you’re set on cashing out. But this place, it means a lot to thetown. And to me. So how about this: I’ll help you save the restaurant so you can sell it,” he said, his gaze never wavering, “if you help me figure out Lolly’s story and let me use her recipes, even after you’re gone.”
She blinked, taken aback. That wasn’t what she’d been expecting. “You’d do that? Help me sell, even though you don’t want me to?”
He nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. “This place deserves to live on, even if it’s not exactly the same. If I can recreate what Lolly had here, I might be able to get some investors and open my own place again.”
She hesitated. His offer to help was generous, but it also meant spending more time with him, which would distract her from her carefully constructed plans. “Wouldn’t helping me sell the café be...I don’t know, betraying your principles?”
He shrugged, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Haven’t you heard? My principles are pretty flexible.”
She raised an eyebrow, sensing a catch. “What’s the catch?”
Jack tapped his finger on the laptop lid, his expression serious. “You can’t touch your spreadsheet until we’re done.”
Chapter Seventeen
Cora jolted awake, her heart pounding. For a disoriented moment, she thought she was back in her New York apartment, where random noises usually meant her upstairs neighbor was rearranging furniture at three in the morning. Again.
But as she blinked away the fog of sleep, reality set in. She wasn’t in New York. She was in Sunrise, in Lolly’s old room above The Salty Spoon. And that banging ...
She glanced at the clock. Who in their right mind was making that much noise before breakfast? Grumbling, she dragged herself out of bed, still in her oversized T-shirt and shorts. Whoever woke her up was about to get an earful, and she didn’t care if she looked like she’d been electrocuted on her way there.
The banging got louder as she stomped down the stairs, accompanied by the thud of something heavy shifting on the porch. She yanked open the front door, fully prepared to let loose, and froze.
There, sprawled on the porch like it belonged to him, was Governor Sam. He blinked up at her with lazy, droopy eyes, completely unfazed by the racket.
“Sam,” she sighed, rubbing her eyes. “Come on, big guy.Let’s go inside.” She tried to coax him up, but he just yawned, flopped onto his other side, and settled in for a nap.
Before she could try again, she caught sight of the actual culprit behind the noise. A very shirtless, very sweaty Jack, in the middle of replacing one of the old porch boards. The morning sun caught the sheen of sweat on his shoulders, highlighting every muscle as he worked. Suddenly, she was acutely aware that she wasn’t wearing a bra.
“Good morning.” He grinned, clearly amused by her slack-jawed stare. “Rest well?”
“Well, Iwas,” she muttered, crossing her arms over her chest, trying to regain some composure. “What...how long have you been here?”
“Since about five-thirty,” he said casually, as if waking up at dawn to do manual labor was a perfectly reasonable thing.
“Five-thirty?” she squeaked. “Are you insane?”
He shrugged, grabbing his water bottle. “Maybe. But I figure the sooner we get this place fixed up, the sooner you can get Worthington off your back and live happily ever after.”
The reminder of why he was really there hit like a splash of cold water. She needed to sell the café, which she could either do by raising enough money to pay off the loan herself or by finding a buyer who would help pay it off on her behalf before it ended up in Worthington’s hands. That was the plan. No matter how distractingly attractive the help might be.
“Right,” she said, forcing some enthusiasm into her voice. “Well, um, thanks. I should ...” She gestured vaguely at herself, now aware of her bedhead and lack of pants too.
“You might want to put on shoes before you start helping,” he said with a grin. “Splinters are no joke.”
She blinked. “Helping?”
“Unless you’d rather supervise,” he teased. “Though I’ve got to warn you, the view might be distracting.”
Her cheeks flushed. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, turning to head back inside. “Give me ten minutes.”
“Take your time,” he called after her. “I’ll just be out here, sweating manfully and doing macho things.”
