CHAPTER 12
Harper
“I’m just saying, it seemed like he wanted to help us, he went on and on about sample product strategy but you know how I get, my eyes glazed over,” Steven says as he gets his coffee and muffin.
“No. He’s the worst,” I repeat.
I don’t explain further to my audience, larger and totally captive this morning after yesterday’s drama. Tyrone, Maxine, Mr. Newman, Steven, Shelly and Betty are all here today claiming they want coffee. They want the inside scoop.
They came to the wrong girl.
Yes, he beelined it to my booth to shake my hand. Yes, he had a run in with Stuart. Yes, he may have been sweaty and in tight, dri-fit gym clothes at the time. Yes, he commanded my wayward dog with the deepest, gruffest, not sexy at all, voice, ever.
He also continues to be mean, obnoxious, and…exhausting. He’s exhausting. Everyone always leaves us after a few days, so what is he still doing here?
I shake my head at myself.
Doesn’t matter, he’ll leave eventually.
“He’s trying to keep our town alive,” Shelly starts, then corrects herself, “Well, half of it.”
“He wants to sample the local goods,” her sister murmurs.
Steven laughs, “They always do. Then they bolt. He’s at least got a vested interest in staying around.”
I try not to react to that.
“Shouldn’t take an investment for him to see how great our little town is,” Tyrone argues, looking at me like he’s not talking about our town at all.
I sigh and start to blush, tired of this same old conversation.
“Exactly,” Maxine says, “I can think of two humdingers that are definitely the worst.”
“Yeah,” Shelly adds, all of them being obvious and talking to me about me, “One of which even left you with—”
Ding!
In walks the devil we’re talking of. Speaking of. Whatever. He looks as Evil-Lord-Ish as ever, freshly shaven, pressed suit, dark eyes scanning the room.
The room that is now silent.
“Please, don’t stop on my account,” he says, eyeing us like he knows we were talking about him. Well, they were. I was mostly shaking my head because he. Is. The. Worst!
I remember his sneering tone in my head.
“Your ideas thus far have been a smashing success, well done, you, very well done.”
What a snobby, rude, condescending, well…asshole! I try to see the good in people but he’s wearing me down. I really want to deny him coffee right now but it’ll just add fuel to the flames of gossip already lighting up my little shop.
I try to tell everyone go ahead and get on out of here with my eyes, which they all see, understand, and promptly ignore.
The big jerk looks around at all of us knowing we were talking about him and not caring at all.
He is almost smirking when he steps to the counter and says, “Large, black coffee, please. And an order of your cinnamon rolls, as requested by the crew.” He leans over the counter like he’s some benefactor, gracing my little store with his presence and his big order and all his money.
I flinch, and he knows. He knows as I turn and get to work, wordlessly gathering cinnamon buns into a box, that I want to give him his order for free, on principalities. But principalities—its principles, Harper. On principle! Ugh!— they don’t keep the lights on, unfortunately. Which he also knows.
I feel like he knows the schedule too, since he came during the one small window where I’m by myself. Forced to face him. But not forced to talk.
And, what he didn’t know is that the whole freaking town would be in here to bother him. I don’t have to say a word with all of them here. Heck, I don’t have to talk if just Steven is here.
Today, everyone’s involved, not just Steven. They’re hazing the crap out of our resident billionaire. I love it.
“Then the second you took your helmet off, you got sprayed straight in the mouth!” Shelly teases.
“Then he stalks over, all like, I demand my coffee, Madison,” Steven mocks in a pretty spot-on, almost-British impression.
“Mhm,” Aiden says. I don’t turn to look at him but he sounds annoyed. He doesn’t protest the teasing, though. No snarky comebacks. Almost like he’s being a good sport. Weird.
Also like he’s staring at me. Which, duh, I’m making his drink. What else is he going to watch, Maxine’s crazy cat earrings jingling while she talks?
I turn and place the coffee in front of him, shift down to the iPad, twist it toward him, and run back to the box of buns.
I add a fresh dollop of icing on the cinnamon rolls and pop them in the microwave for 14 seconds.
I brace myself when they’re done. You can look up and say thank you and run back to the kitchen. Two words, Harper. You can—
“DJ!” I melt with relief at the sight of my employee coming in through the back.
He’s still wearing his backpack and not in an apron and not yet clocked in and I do not care.
“Can you please take these to Mr. Vanderwell right now, before you clock in?” He frowns, as this is out of the appropriate order, but he does as I ask.
And I, total boss babe that I am, dash down the hall and hide in the deep freezer.
_____
“Ow,” I moan when my butt hits the bike seat.
I knew my dad’s car wasn’t going to make it much longer, and I love my bike, I do.
It was another post-trauma-impulse-purchase and I’d buy it again and again.
It’s exactly like the gal’s in the ad, who was biking down the Santa Monica pier.
It’s the retro design style, in a very bright, happy orange color, with cute basket.
A cute, tiny basket. My oversized purse won’t fit, plus I need to keep the quiches—tonight’s dinner—from getting squished. Guess I’ll have to start wearing a backpack? I have one from school in the attic maybe? That’ll work.
At least it’s warm out! And bonus cardio! Think of the heart health points you’ll get on your watch!
It’s all true. But I roll my eyes at myself anyway.
I’m just flat-up too tired for this. Yesterday I barely sat down from literal sun up to sun set. And that was after not quite recovering from the Maple Tap right before.
I take a deep breath before I transition from the back parking lot to the road. I look at the spring green coming in all around me. I get out my headphones and put on the best boy band that ever lived. Immediately, I feel better.
Until I get to the house.
“Dad?” I say as I walk in. I go in to hug him, but spot the scowl right away. I deflate. And I wasn’t totally inflated to begin with on account of the exhaustion.
Lovable, Dreamer Dad, who opened the Roasted Chestnut, has been gone a long time. These days I sometimes get Tired Dad or Grateful Dad. Tonight though, and often, I live with Bitter Dad. I can’t blame him.
“Quiches again?” He complains, then coughs a bit while rolling his eyes at me. “Same damn left over food and your damn dog is out again.”
I deflate even more.
But I don’t respond with words. They don’t help. I just get up and take action instead. I grab the leash and dash out, running left toward the field Stu loves to run through.
“Stuart! Stuuuuuu!” I call.
I look around at the yards and houses and reach the clearing.
Not here. I start to panic a little bit.
Everyone on the street has adapted pretty well because they’re good neighbors.
They put up higher garden fences, secured the latches on their gates.
They all know I can’t afford a whole new, Stuart-proof fence around Dad’s yard.
They get that I don’t exactly have a ton of extra time right now to walk him.
But the dog is completely unhinged.
I don’t think I could fit enough walks in each day to wear him out.
Or that a Stu-proof fence exists. He just gallops and gallops, and one day he’s going to gallop onto the highway.
He’s not really my dog and he knows it, doesn’t listen to me worth a flying flip.
He eats my aprons and my underwear and I think he taunts me. I think he loves getting me frazzled.
Even so, the sun is setting and I don’t want him hurt and afraid, alone in the dark somewhere.
“Stuuaaarrt!” I try again as I walk in the opposite direction down the street. I walk slowly, scanning. The I hear him, somewhere ahead of me. Spooked.
He darts out into the street, awkwardly flopping along being chased by an…empty chip bag. I swear this dog is afraid of his own skin! I yell his name but he barrels away from me.
“Stuart!” A voice calls. His voice.
Aiden storms out of his front door to the sidewalk and calls, “Stuart. Sit.”
I snort and almost laugh except…what the…Stu is just…listening to him?
“Stuart. Come.” The dog—certainly not my dog right this second!— at least hesitates for a second before just doing it. Just doing exactly what the big not hot bully told him to do!
I walk up behind them and Stuart gets twitchy. He loves making me chase him around. But Aiden simply says, “No.”
The dog submits right away and with that tone of voice, honestly, I get it. It doesn’t help that the pointing hand is connected to a big, tanned, bulging arm.
I walk up to the giant drooling doofus and he clocks the leash. “Stuart, stay,” Aiden adds. Unbelievably, instead of fighting me like always, he sits, calm and happy, as I put the leash on.
Aiden nods once, pats Stuart on the head and says, “Good. Well done.” For some reason, my whole being reacts to those words and the warm tone in Aiden’s voice. Exhaustion, I guess.
I’m standing, still shocked, when the man glares at me.
He raises an eyebrow, “You’re welcome.”
My eyebrows scrunch down. He is so smug all the freaking time! But I am a nice, polite person. So I reply, “Thank you,” and pull on the leash. Stuart doesn’t budge. “Come on,” I tell the dog.
“Louder, Harper. Like you’re in charge,” Aiden commands me like he commanded the dog.
I lock eyes with him, shut my mouth and yank on Stuart’s leash instead. Stu gets up and trots toward me. I nearly sprint to my own driveway.
“See you in the morning, then,” he calls out, taunting. I think he wants me to flip him off again. I don’t know why. But if that’s what the man wants, then, obviously, I’m not going to give it to him. You cannot cave to the bully.
In fact, I won’t even go into the shop in the morning. I’ll have Madison cover for me and second shift can clock in a couple hours early to relieve her. I’ll sleep in on a non-sleep-in-day, a treat, and start my afternoon shift a little early.
Done.
So I won’t see Aiden at all.
…why don’t I feel more relieved about that?