Chapter 6 Eliza
Eliza
Istared at the to-go cup in my hand like it might give me the answer to life’s most pressing question: what the hell was I doing?
“You’re going to lunch,” my grandmother said, hanging her coat on the hook by the back door and grabbing an apron. “Not walking into battle.”
She could pull off a glittery cardigan and a matching knit beret like she was strutting onto a Paris runway instead of just running the Coffee Cabin.
She always looked cute and fancy—her outfits were as bold as her personality, and she never missed a chance to add a little sparkle, both to her clothes and her words.
Sassy didn’t begin to cover it; she could make me laugh even when I was terrified, tossing out jokes and encouragement like confetti at a parade.
Maybe that’s why I told her all about my date with Nate.
“Says the woman who used to wear combat boots to disco night,” I muttered, tightening the scarf around my neck. “I’ve seen the pictures.”
“That was fashion. This is flirting. Try to have fun.”
I tried to steady my nerves, swirling the cup as if the movement could stir up some courage.
My reflection in the window looked uncertain, cheeks flushed from both the cold and anticipation.
Grandma’s words echoed in my ears—reminding me this was supposed to be fun, not a test I could pass or fail.
I pressed my lips together, determined not to let anxiety steal the whole afternoon.
She shooed me out the door with a wink and a “Go get him, tiger,” before sliding behind the espresso machine like she owned the place. Technically, she didn’t anymore; she’d given it to me. But she and the staff at The Honeybrook Inn had run it for years, and in many ways, it would always be hers.
I still couldn’t believe I’d told her where I was going—that I was meeting Nate and that it wasn’t a big deal, so she’d better not make a thing of it.
The words had practically strangled me on the way out of my mouth. I’d sworn her to secrecy with the kind of dramatic gravitas normally reserved for mafia confessions.
“You breathe a word of this to anyone, and I’ll start putting decaf in your morning espresso,” I’d warned.
Her gasp had been appropriately horrified. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
Now here I was, halfway down the street with my heart threatening to beat straight out of my chest.
The sky was a pearly gray, soft and heavy like it might snow later, and the air had that late winter bite that made you rethink every fashion decision that didn’t involve fleece-lined leggings and a heavy winter coat.
I crossed Sycamore Street and slowed down near the library—where a big Coming Soon sign hung in the window across the street, advertising Maison Graham—then headed toward the park.
My jaw tightened as I passed Graham’s restaurant, all glass and polish, built to be admired.
The reaction was instant and physical—heat in my chest, a hard knot in my stomach.
I didn’t slow down. Places like that thrived on restraint and performance.
I kept walking, choosing warmth over spectacle, substance over shine.
The Honeybrook Hollow town park wasn’t huge, but it was one of those small-town treasures that looked like it had been lifted straight from a storybook or an episode of Gilmore Girls.
A cobbled path looped around the perimeter, winding past clusters of leafless trees and snowy bushes.
Fairy lights still wrapped the gazebo in the center, a leftover from Christmas no one had the heart to take down yet.
The covered picnic tables near the gazebo offered just enough shelter to eat outside without freezing one’s ass off entirely.
In the far corner, the dog park was enclosed with wrought-iron scrolls and had two benches, a decorative fire hydrant, and a well-worn sign that read “Sit Happens.”
I spotted Nate before he saw me. He was standing by the gazebo, holding a brown paper bag in one hand and a takeout tray with our drinks in the other, looking like he belonged in one of the Hallmark movies I would never admit to binge-watching.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark hair mussed just enough to be interesting.
His winter coat was unzipped, and I could see the outline of his thermal Henley underneath—charcoal gray, with jacket sleeves pushed up, even though it was cold, his forearms on full display.
He wore jeans that fit far too well and had that relaxed, hometown guy confidence that made me forget my own name for a second.
He caught sight of me and smiled—slow and unguarded, that familiar, crooked grin that felt unfairly personal, like he’d been waiting for me specifically—and something warm and hopeful fluttered in my chest despite my very best efforts not to let it.
Game over. I was toast. He was too hot to be real.
“Hey,” I said, stepping under the gazebo while eyeing the huge bag he’d set down. “That’s a huge bag. Bring enough food for the entire population of Oregon?”
He held up the milkshake. “We agreed on burgers. I’m just a man following orders.”
We sat at the picnic table, and he passed me a takeout box and a carton of fries like it was some kind of peace offering.
I opened the lid. “Extra pickles? You remembered.”
“Of course. I stuck to your burger preference text as if it were the letter of the law. I aim to please.”
The gazebo blocked the wind, and the wood underneath still held some warmth from the weak midday sun despite the chill in the air.
For a few minutes, we ate in silence—comfortable silence, which surprised me more than anything. It wasn’t awkward, it was easy.
“So,” Nate said, after a sip of his Coke. “How long have you been in Honeybrook Hollow?”
“A year this spring,” I said, dunking a fry into our shared mound of ketchup.
“You like it?”
I shrugged. “I like the Coffee Cabin. I like my grandparents. And I like being close to my sisters—even when they treat me like a wounded baby bird who needs rescuing.”
“Why do they treat you like that?” he asked softly.
I smiled, a little crooked, because there wasn’t a simple answer.
“Because I’m the youngest and I have a history of looking fine while quietly imploding.
” I shrugged, trying to keep it light. “So now they hover. Snacks appear. Feelings get checked on. I’m a project.
” I glanced up at him, amused despite myself.
“Apparently, I give off strong needs supervision vibes.”
Nate didn’t laugh or ask me to explain further. He just listened. And somehow, that made me feel steadier than all the hovering ever had.
I chewed slowly, suddenly uncomfortable with how warm that made me feel.
“What about you?” I asked, deflecting. “Why leave Portland for a life of diner grease and cherry pie milkshakes?”
He leaned back slightly, elbows on the table. “Because I wanted something simple. Something settled and peaceful. And because the house my grandparents gave me has a built-in pantry that smells like creamed corn and reminds me of my childhood.”
I smiled despite myself. “And Tilly?”
“She’s everything,” he said simply. “She made it easy to walk away from the old life. I want more time with her, not like it was in Portland, when I worked almost nonstop. Eighty hours a week is good money, but it doesn’t leave much time for anything else.”
My stomach flipped. He didn’t say it with bitterness. Just truth.
I took another big bite of my burger, sighing like it was the best thing I’d ever tasted. Honestly, it might’ve been. Nate’s eyebrows lifted in amusement as he sat across from me.
“Was that a food sigh?” he asked.
“Mmhmm,” I said around a mouthful. “Better than therapy.”
“That’s what I was going for. Burgers and breakthroughs.”
I grinned at him, the sun filtering through the trees overhead, casting shifting shadows across his flannel. “You always this good at emotional manipulation via cheeseburgers?”
“Only with the people I like.”
I looked away, smiling at the way my heart stuttered like it hadn’t learned how to handle compliments yet.
We chewed in silence for a few moments. The breeze smelled like pine and grass with exactly the right amount of chill in the air.
“So,” I said, nudging his foot with mine. “Brothers? Sisters? Any more Winters kids running around Portland?”
“Nope. Just me. My parents were busy being important, and I was busy turning the Pennywhistle into a second home and begging to visit my grandparents any chance I could.”
“You seem like someone who should have a loud sibling or three.”
He laughed. “That’s what my grandma says. She’s always saying I’m too quiet for my own good.”
“Yeah, well,” I said, picking at my fries. “I have four sisters, and I still feel like I don’t belong half the time.”
He watched me, his intense brown eyes sweeping over my hair, my cheeks, the curve of my mouth, and then back to my eyes. I felt every point of his gaze, a strange warmth making my chest tighten.
“I don’t know,” he said softly, almost a murmur. “You look like you belong to me.”
I blinked, caught off guard, and my mind stumbled over the words. Did he mean, “You look like you belong, to me”? Or “You look like you belong to me”? My stomach fluttered, and heat crept up my neck. Of course, he didn’t mean anything by it.
Instinctively, I shifted back on my seat, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear and trying to look anywhere but him. My fingers fidgeted with the toggle at the end of my coat, my pulse hammering in my ears. I wanted to step away, to make space.
I liked that about him. He didn’t perform honesty—he was honest. And kind. And funny. And absurdly attractive.
“You’re very charming. Has anyone ever accused you of that?” I asked, but I was smiling.
“I have many layers,” he answered with mock solemnity.
“Like an onion?”
“Like a really sarcastic parfait.”
The wind softly whistled through the evergreens along the back fence.
“You know,” I said, “it’s kind of weird seeing you without your entourage.”