Chapter 6
Six
Thursday Afternoon.
Jake signed the last of the paperwork for the vineyard, shook hands with the owners, Keith and Sarah Whitlock, and climbed into his rental car feeling wrung out.
Three properties in different stages of crisis, three days of negotiations and number-crunching, and careful conversations with people whose entire lives hung in the balance.
Yesterday had been Diane and her peach orchard—twenty acres of neglected trees and a widow who had not known how to move forward without her husband.
Today, it was the vineyard—a young couple who’d overextended themselves but had the passion to make it work if he could just buy them time.
He should feel good about it. He was helping people, doing what he did best.
But all he could think about was Wes.
Jake pulled out of the vineyard’s gravel drive and onto the main road. It was just past two. He could head back to the Hawthorne House and get a jump on tomorrow’s paperwork. Be responsible. Professional.
Instead, he found himself driving past the Hawthorne House, through the square and to the other side of Spoon.
Just lunch, he told himself. You have to eat.
He soon saw the yellow barn-shaped building of the Dairy Dream and pulled into its parking lot, telling himself he was going there for food and definitely not because there was a chance—however small—that Wes might stop here.
It was stupid. He was being stupid.
But he went inside anyway.
The fast-food joint was busier than he’d expected for a Thursday afternoon. A mix of teenagers fresh from school and a few older locals filled the red vinyl booths. The air smelled of grease and nostalgia—the kind of place that hadn’t changed its menu or decor since 1985.
Jake ordered a pimento cheeseburger and fries at the counter and took his plastic number tent to a booth by the window where he could see the parking lot.
He was halfway through his burger, scrolling on his phone, when a familiar truck turned in.
The hair on Jake’s forearms tingled. He felt his lips reflexively curling into a smile.
Wes climbed out, in flannel, jeans, and work boots, heading for the door. He looked tired—his shoulders slumped with the kind of exhaustion that came from physical labor.
He also looked beautiful.
Jake watched him walk in, watched him pause just inside the door to scan the room.
Their eyes met.
Wes did a quick, comic double-take, but then his expression changed—surprise melting into something softer. He walked over.
“Hey,” Wes said.
“Hey.” Jake gestured to the empty seat across from him. “Join me?”
“What are you doing here?” Wes asked, sliding into the booth.
“Late lunch. Had a meeting at the vineyard in Wrightsville. You?”
“Same. Late lunch, I mean. Been loading trees all morning.”
They looked at each other. The air between them felt tight, stretched thin with what they weren’t saying.
“How’d it go with the vineyard?” Wes asked.
“Good. They’re young, eager. Made some mistakes, but nothing fatal. They’ll be okay.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah.” Jake pushed his fries across the table. “Want some?”
Wes took one. Jake watched his fingers—thick, calloused from years of manual labor. Working hands. So different from Jake’s own soft city fingers that only knew keyboards and pens.
“I talked to Pedro yesterday,” Wes said.
“Yeah? How’d that go?”
“Good. Really good, actually. He had a lot of ideas. Expanding things, events, using the farm for more than just trees.”
“That’s great, Wes.”
“Yeah.” Wes stood. “I should order.”
“Get whatever. I’m buying.”
“No, you’re not. Why?—”
“Because I want to.”
Wes looked at him for a beat, then went to the counter. When he came back with his own number tent, he sat down more slowly this time, deliberately, like he was choosing to be here instead of just grabbing food to go.
“Can I ask you something?” Jake said.
“Sure.”
“So, Pedro helped? Really?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I worry sometimes that I’m pushing too hard. Telling folks more what to do instead of listening to what they need.”
Wes studied him. “You listen a helluva lot more than most people.”
“I try.”
A server brought Wes’s burger and Coke, then disappeared back behind the counter.
They ate in silence for a moment, comfortable but aware, like sitting next to someone in a movie theater and pretending to watch the screen.
“Tell me more about yourself,” Wes said suddenly.
Jake looked up, surprised. “What do you want to know?”
“You mentioned foster care. What was that like?”
Jake set down his burger, wiping his hands on a paper napkin. People rarely asked about his childhood, thinking it was too painful or too personal, perhaps. But Wes was looking at him with genuine curiosity, not pity.
“It was difficult. A lot of moving around. Seven different homes between the ages of eight and eighteen. Some were okay. Some weren’t.” His eyes glanced again at Wes’s hands. “I built up calluses, so to speak. Learned not to get attached to places or people because nothing’s ever permanent.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“It was.” Jake picked at a fry. “I used to dream about having a real home. Not just a house, but roots… history… family.”
Wes’s expression softened. “Is that why you do this? Save farms? Help people?”
“Part of it. I can’t have that history for myself—can’t manufacture generations of family legacy. But I can help other people keep theirs.”
“You could still have a home. Build your own history.”
Jake smiled, small and sad. “Maybe. I’ve kinda gotten used to the nomadic lifestyle. Never really found the right place, I guess.”
“What would it look like? Your perfect place?”
Jake thought about it. “Land. Not a lot, but enough to feel like I’m not boxed in. Old house with character—crown molding, original hardwood, windows that stick when it rains. Workshop for projects. A garden, maybe. Somewhere quiet but not isolated.” He paused. “Someone to share it with.”
The last part slipped out before he could stop it.
Wes went very still.
“Sorry,” Jake said. “I didn’t mean—”
“No, it’s nice. The picture you paint.” Wes took a drink of his Coke. “For what it’s worth, I think you’d be good at it. Building a home.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’re attentive and considerate. You help rebuild and maintain foundations, making things last. That matters.”
Jake blushed a little. “Thanks.”
They looked at each other across the table, and Jake felt that pull again—the one that made him want to reach across the Formica and touch Wes’s hand, consequences be damned.
“This is weird, right?” Wes said suddenly.
Jake laughed, relieved. “Yeah. Really weird.”
“I don’t usually—” Wes stopped, shook his head. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Me neither.”
“You seem like you have everything figured out.”
“I really don’t.” Jake leaned forward. “I’ve been thinking about you since Saturday. I can’t concentrate on work. I came here today hoping I’d run into you, which is completely unprofessional and probably a little creepy—”
“It’s not creepy.”
“No?”
“I’ve been thinking about you, too.”
Jake’s heart was pounding. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Wes looked down at his half-eaten burger. “Pedro said something yesterday. About trusting your gut. Following your feelings even when it’s complicated.”
“What does your gut say?”
Wes met his eyes. “That this is a bad idea.”
Jake’s stomach dropped.
“But also,” Wes continued, his voice quieter, “that sometimes the things that scare you most just might be the things you need most.”
Jake considered, then asked: “What about your dad?”
“What about him?”
“You seemed out to your friends at the tavern, but does he know?”
Wes’s jaw tightened. He looked down at his food, stirring ketchup with a french fry. “Not exactly.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. It started with my being the only son, you know? I didn’t want to disappoint him. Then Mom got sick, and that wasn’t the right time. Then she died, and he was grieving. Then he had the big stroke, and his health is so fragile now. The stress...”
“Wes.”
“I know. I know how it sounds.”
“What do you think would actually happen if you told him?”
Wes was quiet for a long moment. “Honestly? He’d probably be fine with it. He’s not a bigot. He knows Pedro and Titus and likes them. Votes for Titus every election.”
“Then why—”
“Because once I tell him, I can’t take it back.” Wes finally looked up. “And what if I’m wrong? What if it is too much stress? What if something happens, and it’s my fault?”
Jake reached across the table, covered Wes’s hand with his.
“You’re protecting yourself,” he said gently. “Not him.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that. But at some point, you’ll have to decide if you’re going to keep living for his comfort or start living for yourself.”
“Big talk from someone who’s never had to.”
It could have been cruel, but Wes’s tone was soft, almost apologetic.
Jake nodded. “You’re right. I don’t know what that’s like. But I know what it’s like to hide parts of yourself because you’re afraid of losing the only stability you have.”
They sat with that for a moment.
“If this—” Wes gestured between them. “If this becomes something, then I’ll have to tell him.”
“Yeah.”
“That scares the shit out of me.”
“One step at a time.”
“Yeah… yeah. Friday—” Wes continued, his voice stronger now, more decisive. “Let’s keep Friday strictly business.”
“Okay.” Jake would have agreed to anything if it meant not breaking the fragile connection building between them.
“I need this restructuring to work, Jake. The farm, my father, everything depends on—”
“I know. I’ll make it work regardless. This—” Jake also gestured between them, the space that felt simultaneously too wide and not nearly wide enough. “—doesn’t change that. I promise. My job is my job. This is... separate.”
Wes studied him for a long moment. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I trust you.”
The words hit Jake with unexpected force. Coming from Wes–a man who had also been carrying things alone for quite some time–those three little words meant everything.
Wes stood, pulled out his wallet.
“I told you I’m buying,” Jake said.
“You can buy next time.” Wes smiled, tossing a twenty on the table. “But I should go. Miguel’s alone at the farm.”
“Right. Of course.”
Wes took a step toward the door, then stopped, turned back. The afternoon sun through the window caught the auburn highlights in his hair, turning his eyes to warm honey.
“Jake?”
“Yeah?”
“Tomorrow. After we do the paperwork... can I show you what I’ve been working on? In the workshop?”
Jake’s pulse spiked. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Wes nodded, gave him a small smile, and walked out.
Jake sat there, watching through the window as Wes climbed into his truck and drove away.
Friday.
Tomorrow.
Might as well be next year.
He pushed his cold fries around the plate, watching the sun begin to slant through the blinds.
I trust you.
Jake had come to Spoon to save people.
He was starting to think Spoon might save him right back.