“Jack!” Cora’s voice cut through his thoughts. “We need more cinnamon rolls. Mrs. Henshaw’s threatening to start a riot!”
He grinned and gave her a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am. Can’t have her leading an insurrection. She’s feisty enough as it is.”
Right on cue, Mrs. Henshaw hollered from across the room. “Young man, if I don’t get one of those rolls in the next five minutes, I’ll show you exactly what this cane can do!”
“Coming right up, Mrs. H!” he called back, trying not to laugh as he made a beeline for the kitchen. “Wouldn’t want to be on the wrong end of that cane. I hear it’s got a higher body count than most action movies.”
As he emerged with a fresh tray of rolls, Jack caught sight of Governor Sam sprawled across the back porch, his massive frame taking up more space than seemed physically possible. His belly was up, his paws twitching in some dream, while his tail thumped lazily against the wooden boards.
“The governor looks comfortable,” he chuckled, setting the tray on the counter.
Cora appeared beside him, her eyes crinkling at the sight. “He’s been managing the crowd all morning. Exhausting work.”
“Must be. Between the naps and the drooling, it’s a wonder he hasn’t collapsed.”
“He’s earned his rest. After all, he’s the one who puts up with my cold feet every night.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “Wait a minute, I thought that was my job.”
“Sorry, handsome. You’ve been demoted to second-string foot warmer. Governor Sam’s got seniority.”
He sighed dramatically. “Betrayed by my own dog.”
Sam, utterly indifferent, gave a lazy “woof” before rolling over to find another patch of sun.
The café hummed with the comforting rhythm of regulars flowing in and out. From behind the counter, Jack watched Cora charm a group of tourists with her easy smile. She pointed to a framed photo on the wall. It was a picture of her, no older than fourteen, standing sheepishly in front of The Spoon, covered in soot and flour, with Lolly beside her, beaming proudly. Three firefighters stood in the background, holding hoses like they’d just put out a fire.
“Wow,” one of the tourists said, squinting at the photo. “You’ve come a long way. You must be a great cook now!”
Cora let out a warm, unguarded laugh, glancing back at Jack. He held up his hands in mock surrender.
She grinned, shaking her head. “Oh, don’t let that picture fool you. I still can’t cook to save my life. But you know what they say. The secret is falling in love with someone who can.”
The tourists swooned on cue.
“Well,” Jack said, shrugging, “someone’s got to keep her from setting the place on fire again.”
Cora made her way back to him, wrapping her arms around his waist.
“So,” he murmured into her ear, “how does it feel to be a bona-fide small-town café owner? Glad you traded in your big-city dreams for endless pie and gossipy regulars?”
She tapped her chin, pretending to consider. “Hmm...let’s see. I’ve got a successful business, a cookbook I adore, and a devastatingly handsome chef who makes a mean cinnamon roll. I’d say I’m doing pretty well.”
He grinned. “Devastatingly handsome, huh?”
“Don’t let it go to your head, Harlow.”
Before Jack could respond, a commotion at the door drew their attention. Lincoln stumbled in, his arms full of paint cans and tools. “Jackie! Where do you want these?”
He rushed over to help him. “Gramps, what is all this?”
Lincoln grinned. “Figured since we’re sprucing up the place, we might as well go all out. Got some ideas for that back porch.”
Jack shared a look with Cora, who was biting her lip to keep from laughing. “And these ideas required an entire hardware store?”
Lincoln waved him off. “Don’t worry about the details, son. I’ve got it all figured out.” He tapped his temple, sending a small cloud of sawdust onto the floor.
“Oh, boy,” Jack muttered, though he couldn’t keep the fondness from of his voice. “All right, Gramps. Just...maybe don’t knock down any walls without warning?”
