6. Culture Shock
Chapter 6
Culture Shock
“ A s you can see from the Q3 projections-“ My carefully rehearsed presentation to the board was interrupted by what sounded like a dinosaur being murdered outside my window. The prestigious members of Cole's board of directors watched via video call as I jumped at the sound of Mrs. Henderson's prize rooster announcing the dawn.
Again.
“Everything alright, Ethan?” Reuben's amusement was poorly concealed.
I maintained my professional smile while shutting the window against what had become a full-blown rooster choir. “Just some local color. Now, about the neural interface patents-“
Another crow pierced through the allegedly soundproof glass. In her video square, Mia pressed her lips together, clearly fighting back laughter.
“I have to ask,” Hayes leaned forward in his Manhattan office, “why exactly are you conducting business from what appears to be... is that floral wallpaper?”
“We're exploring potential locations for our new tech hub initiative,” I lied smoothly. The truth - that I'd specifically requested this room for its view of the ranch trail where Jimmy took his morning walks - seemed less professionally advantageous.
“In a town that doesn't appear on most maps?”
“Sometimes innovation comes from unexpected places.” Like a small-town bar where a music manager with amnesia made my carefully constructed world tilt on its axis. “Mia, the acquisition numbers?”
She stepped in with perfect timing, directing attention back to spreadsheets and projections. Crisis averted for now.
After the call, I faced my next challenge.
Coffee. My usual service - which imported single-origin beans at prices that would make most people choke - didn't deliver to Oakwood Grove. Which meant facing The Daily Grind.
The bell above the door announced my entrance to what appeared to be the entire town's senior population. Mrs. Henderson's coffee club tracked my movement like a nature documentary, whispering behind their mugs.
“Well, if it isn't Moneybags himself.” The barista - whose hair was currently three different neon colors - gave my Rolex a pointed look. “Let me guess: triple shot oat milk latte, extra hot, with a pump of sugar-free vanilla?”
I blinked. “How did you-“
“Sarah from the diner texted me your order. Said you'd be in once you realized Lorenzo's Premium Bean Service doesn't deliver here.”
The coffee club's whispers grew louder. I caught fragments about my “jogger's physique” and “such a shame about the situation with Jimmy.”
My phone buzzed with Mia's seventh message of the morning.
Mia
Board wants full report on 'tech hub initiative.' I bought you 48 hours. You're welcome.
Three messages from my father.
Fatherly Figure
Reuben called.
What are you really doing in that town?
Call me.
And somehow, impossibly, a text from an unknown number.
Unknown Number
Riley Stanton, Oakwood Grove Gazette. Any comment on your intentions toward our recently amnesiac music manager? Also, does Cole Innovations have plans to develop locally, or is this visit purely personal?
The barista - their nametag read “Sky/They/Them” - slid my perfectly made latte across the counter. “That'll be $4.75.”
I handed over my black Amex.
“Yeah, no. We don't take those.” They gestured to a sign: “Cash Only (Yes, Really).”
“I don't carry-“
“Put it on his tab,” Mrs. Henderson called from her corner. “Like everyone else.”
“I don't have a tab.”
“You do now, dear.” She turned to her friends. “Did I mention he runs six miles every morning? In those lovely shorts...”
My phone buzzed again. Mia:
Mia
Also, your father's planning a surprise visit. Tried to stop him but you know how he is. Might want to figure out your cover story.
Shit.
The inn's front porch promised better WiFi and a break from the coffee shop's running commentary. What I got instead was a masterclass in small-town surveillance techniques.
Sloan from the hardware store managed to walk past three times in twenty minutes, each time finding a new reason to adjust his tool belt while sneaking not-so-subtle glances my direction. The local patrol car drove by with such regularity I could have timed my emails to it.
I was in the middle of a video call with our Tokyo office when movement caught my eye. Jimmy, walking a horse along the ranch's fence line in the distance. My hand went automatically to straighten my tie - a gesture caught by both my Japanese partners and, more alarmingly, the entire senior coffee club who had mysteriously relocated to the diner's front porch.
“Such nice weather for sitting outside,” Mrs. Henderson called over, failing spectacularly at casual observation. “Don't you think, dear?”
I muttered something about connectivity issues and ended the call.
The diner seemed like a safe retreat. I was wrong.
“Well, look who finally decided to try our local cuisine,” Sarah said, appearing at my table with a menu and a knowing smile that made me wonder if there was some sort of town-wide group chat about my movements.
“Just a coffee, please.”
“After Sky's artisanal masterpiece? You need real food. You're getting the special.”
The “special” turned out to be some kind of gourmet grilled cheese that looked nothing like any grilled cheese I'd ever seen. Sarah watched me examine it with barely concealed amusement.
“Jimmy created that,” she said, pulling up a chair without invitation. Apparently personal space was another big-city concept that didn't translate here. “Three AM inspiration. He was convinced that grilled cheese had untapped potential.”
I stared at the sandwich, trying not to think about Jimmy awake at three AM, experimenting in this very kitchen.
“The caramelized onions were controversial,” Sarah continued, settling in like we were old friends. “But he insisted they added 'depth and character.' Started this whole thing where customers would bring him random ingredients to try. The jalapeno-pineapple incident was... memorable.”
“He doesn't remember any of this,” I said quietly, poking at the perfect golden crust.
Sarah's expression softened. “Maybe,” she said with the air of someone imparting great wisdom, “some things are worth learning twice.”
The words hit like a board meeting ambush, leaving me momentarily defenseless.
“You know,” she added, standing to refill my coffee, “even with his memory gone, he still gravitates toward the same things. Same coffee order, same way of helping people, same terrible jokes.” She gave me a pointed look. “Some things stick around, even when we think they're gone.”
I took a bite of the sandwich to avoid responding. It was, annoyingly, perfect.
“Though speaking of things sticking around,” she glanced out the window where the coffee club had now been joined by what appeared to be the entire quilting society, “you might want to vary your walking route. Mrs. Henderson's got your schedule down to the minute.”
“Does everyone in this town report my movements?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“Only the ones who care about Jimmy.” She patted my shoulder as she passed. “Which is everyone. Welcome to small-town life, Mr. Cole.”
Through the window, I could see the coffee club had acquired opera glasses. Actual opera glasses. My father would have an aneurysm if he could see his heir apparent being surveilled by a group of elderly women with more determination than most corporate spies.
But Sarah's words kept echoing: Some things are worth learning twice.
The universe, I decided, had a twisted sense of humor. My sports car - a masterpiece of engineering that could practically drive itself - was currently being defeated by Oakwood Grove mud. Apparently, last night's rain had turned the ranch's access road into something better suited for monster trucks than luxury vehicles.
I stared at my ruined designer shoes, now caked in red mud, and contemplated how many board members would have strokes if they could see me now attempting to push his own car.
“Well,” a familiar voice drawled, “this is a new one for the town gossip mill.”
I looked up to find Liam and Caleb watching me with barely concealed amusement. Perfect. Just what this moment needed - an audience.
“I don't suppose,” I said with what dignity I could muster while knee-deep in mud, “either of you has a tow truck?”
Instead of answering, they both moved to help push. The gesture was unexpected enough to leave me momentarily speechless.
“What's going on out here?”
My heart stopped. Because of course Jimmy would show up now - while I was covered in mud, my carefully maintained image literally stuck in the dirt.
“Mr. Cole's car had a disagreement with gravity,” Caleb explained, and I caught the way Jimmy's mouth twitched, fighting a smile that felt achingly familiar.
“Need a hand?” he offered politely. The formal tone felt wrong in every way, like hearing a favorite song in the wrong key.
Before I could answer, one of the horses whinnied from the nearby paddock. Jimmy turned automatically, his whole demeanor shifting as he called back to the mare. The confidence in his movements, the easy way he handled the horses - it was like watching him find pieces of himself he didn't know he'd lost.
“Melody's getting impatient for her afternoon check,” he explained, still with that polite distance that felt like sandpaper on my skin. “But these two should be able to help with the car.”
I watched him walk away, the sight of him so at peace here - finding the kind of simple happiness I'd once promised him - feeling like some sort of cosmic joke at my expense.
With a final push and some creative engineering from Caleb, we freed the car. I was attempting to salvage what remained of my professional appearance when Caleb lingered, watching me with an unreadable expression.
“You know,” he said quietly, “he hasn't had a panic attack since starting work with the horses.”
The information felt like both gift and warning. “I'm glad he's found something that helps.”
“The accounting software you sent? He took to it immediately. Muscle memory's a funny thing.” Caleb's tone was casual but his eyes were sharp. “He can't remember learning bookkeeping, but his hands know exactly what to do with numbers. Makes you wonder what else his body remembers, even if his mind doesn't.”
The comment hit like a physical thing, leaving me off-balance in ways that had nothing to do with the mud. Because I remembered teaching Jimmy those exact bookkeeping skills during late-night study sessions, watching his hands move confidently over keyboards while complaining about accounting standards.
“I should go,” I managed. “I have calls-“
“You might want to take the main road next time,” Caleb suggested. “Less scenic, but better for Italian leather.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Through the paddock fence, I could see Jimmy with Melody, his movements sure and natural, like he'd found a piece of home he didn't know he was looking for.
Mia's text about my father's imminent arrival had left me restless. I needed somewhere to think, somewhere that wasn't my hotel room with its judgmental floral wallpaper and Mrs. Henderson's roosters providing commentary. That's how I found myself back at The Watering Hole, claiming what had become my unofficial corner booth.
The truth was, I wasn't really working, though my laptop provided excellent cover for what I was actually doing - watching Jimmy help Nina with inventory. My screen filled with urgent emails, piling up like digital accusations.
Mia's latest message was particularly pointed:
Mia
Either come back or admit why you're really there. Also, your shoes are trending on local social media. #MuddyBillionaire
I was composing a suitably vague response when Jimmy's laugh cut through the bar noise - that familiar sound that made my hand tighten on my glass. He was grinning at something Nina had said, the expression so achingly like his old self that for a moment I forgot to breathe.
“I just don't think I can handle the festival finances,” Jimmy was saying, his voice carrying to my booth. “The spreadsheets make sense, but coordinating vendors, managing cash flow... it's like looking at a puzzle with half the pieces missing.”
Nina's reassurance was cut off by my own voice - apparently my mouth had decided to act without consulting my brain. “Cole could help.”
They both turned, and I immediately regretted speaking. But corporate autopilot kicked in, and I found myself falling into presentation mode.
“We have a full event management division. Digital ticketing systems, vendor coordination platforms, real-time financial tracking...” I was using my board meeting voice, the words coming out too polished, too formal. Nina's expression shifted from surprise to bristling defensiveness.
But Jimmy... Jimmy looked interested. “That sounds actually really helpful.”
“We've managed fine before,” Nina started, but Jimmy shook his head.
“Yeah, and Past Jimmy apparently knew what he was doing. Current Jimmy needs all the help he can get.”
Our eyes met, and for a moment, something electric passed between us - a flash of real connection that made my chest tight.
“Does this mean Cole Tech is officially involved in the Harvest Festival?” Riley's voice cut through the moment like a knife. He materialized beside our table, notebook already out. “Any comment on this surprising investment in small-town entertainment?”
“It was just a suggestion,” I said carefully, retreating to my corner booth. But I could feel Jimmy's eyes following me, thoughtful and curious.
My phone buzzed again. The executive team was now in full panic mode:
“Miller Tech making moves on our integration”
“Your father's called three emergency board meetings...”
“Tech Insider asking for comment on your 'rural sabbatical'...”
Eight years of building an empire, and here I was, letting it potentially crumble while I sat in a small-town bar offering to help manage pumpkin contests and pie competitions.
Jimmy's voice drifted over again, explaining something about vendor contracts to Nina. He sounded more confident now, like pieces were starting to click into place. I watched him move through the space - still hesitant sometimes, but finding his rhythm. Finding his place.
My laptop pinged with another crisis requiring the CEO's immediate attention. The responsible thing would be to go back, handle the hostile takeover attempt, smooth things over with the board. Be the corporate titan I'd spent eight years becoming.
Instead, I opened a new email:
“Mia - Have legal draw up preliminary sponsorship contracts for a small-town harvest festival. Full package. And find out what Miller Tech's weak points are. I'll handle both situations from here.”
My empire might be under siege, but watching Jimmy slowly find his way back to himself - even if that self might never remember me - felt more important than any hostile takeover.
Besides, I'd learned corporate warfare at my father's knee. Miller Tech had no idea what they were walking into. And neither did the Harvest Festival committee, for that matter.