Chapter 7 Nate
Nate
The Coffee Cabin looked almost ethereal in the cold morning light—warm glow spilling out of the windows, steam curling from the vents, and the smell of espresso drifting across the parking lot like a promise I actually believed in.
Cars were stacked three deep in the drive-thru lane, engines idling, defrosters humming.
Honeybrook Hollow was fully caffeine-dependent before nine a.m. I parked in one of the two short-term spots up front—someone had just vacated the other one, with tires crunching over thin ice as they backed out.
I’d already dropped Tilly at Pre-K, where she’d marched inside wearing glitter socks, her star hoodie, and the confidence of someone who had thoroughly conquered the concept of “show and tell.” Lois had been delivered to my grandfather for a long morning walk, tail wagging so hard her entire body moved with it.
For once, I was on time. Early, even.
And for reasons I wasn’t prepared to examine too closely, I found myself headed toward the Coffee Cabin window like a man magnetized.
The covered porch heater buzzed warmly, cutting the edge off the cold. I took a seat on one of the stools at the walk-up window and watched Eliza move behind the counter.
She was wearing a fitted long-sleeve shirt under her Coffee Cabin hoodie, sleeves shoved up to her elbows.
Her hair was twisted up in that messy, half-fallen way that shouldn’t have been attractive but absolutely was.
Her leggings bore a light sprinkle of powdered sugar, and her winter boots, worn and well-loved, gave her the look of someone ready for anything.
I should’ve been exhausted. I was exhausted—my eyes gritty from a late night at the diner finishing payroll, my shoulders aching from leaning over the service counter too long, but sitting there, watching her tuck a loose piece of hair behind her ear and call out an order to the drive-thru?
I felt awake for the first time all morning.
She turned, noticed me, and paused long enough to raise one eyebrow.
“You know your diner serves coffee, too?”
“Doesn’t taste as good as yours, and I wouldn’t have the pleasure of your early morning snark.”
“Mm-hmm.” She turned to grab a cup. “You look tired.”
“I am tired.”
“But you’re still going to flirt with me, aren’t you?”
“Obviously.”
That earned me the smallest, fleeting twitch of her lips before she focused on the espresso machine again.
I watched her from my stool as she worked—quick, efficient movements, tapping the portafilter, steaming milk, wiping the wand with practiced precision.
It was the kind of rhythm someone got from doing something they were good at, even if they pretended they didn’t care.
Her grandma, Mabel, stood nearby taking orders from the drive-thru window, and when she spotted me watching her granddaughter, she gave me a knowing little smile.
“You’re early today,” Mabel said.
“Lucky timing,” I replied.
“Eliza doesn’t admit it, but she likes it when familiar faces show up in the morning,” Mabel said conversationally. “Some people bring good tips. Some bring warmth. Some bring—”
“Grandma,” Eliza said sharply without looking up.
Mabel held up her hands. “I was going to say some bring consistent coffee orders. Heavens. Black coffee, right? Dash of sugar?”
“Yeah,” I answered with a chuckle. “Please.”
Eliza groaned under her breath, but the corner of her mouth softened.
“It’s fine,” I said. “I’m used to grandmas liking me more than their granddaughters do.”
“You’re too much,” Eliza murmured. “How am I supposed to handle all this charm?”
She handed me my coffee a moment later. Her fingers brushed mine—barely—but it was enough to send a faint jolt through my tired brain.
“You really do look sleepy today,” she said, leaning on the counter. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “We’re finally settling into a rhythm. Tilly’s getting the hang of school. Lois is sleeping through the night more. The diner doesn’t feel quite so overwhelming anymore. Small wins, even though payroll was a beast last night.”
“You look a bit overwhelmed,” she said, softer now.
“Okay, I confess. I am,” I conceded. “But also… I’m good. Happy. Mostly.”
She nodded slowly, studying me, something shifting in her expression for just a second.
“I was thinking,” I said, clearing my throat. “Now that things have calmed down a little… maybe we could try a second date. This weekend? If you’re free.”
Eliza froze. Not dramatically. Just a small, subtle stillness—like she was surprised I’d asked, or surprised she wanted to say yes.
“Nate,” she said quietly, “you’re busy. You have so much going on. Are you sure—”
“Yes,” I said immediately.
She blinked, surprised. It made me wonder what had happened in her life to make her doubt her appeal.
I tried again, calmer, less eager. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
Her mouth curved—not a smile, exactly, but something more careful. Hopeful.
“Okay,” she said. “We can make plans.”
Which I’d learned was Eliza-speak for I want to, but I don’t know if I should.
I nodded. “That’s all I’m asking.”
From inside, Mabel tapped an order slip onto the counter and called, “Honey, if you don’t say an immediate yes to that one eventually, I’m putting decaf in your morning latte and telling everyone it’s a medical necessity.”
“Grandma!”
Mabel hummed innocently.
I laughed, taking a sip of my coffee as warmth spread through my chest—some from the drink, most from her.
“See you tomorrow morning?” I asked.
Eliza hesitated a moment. Then—“Yeah,” she said quietly. “See you tomorrow.”
And somehow, the day didn’t feel quite so overwhelming anymore.
I drove through Honeybrook Hollow with my coffee in the cup holder and Eliza still very much on my mind.
The streets were already lively—dog walkers wrapped in coats, older kids with backpacks heading toward school buses, and the glow of Sycamore Street storefronts casting a golden light on the sidewalk frost. Even in winter, this town moved at the easy rhythm of people who felt they belonged.
I’d always appreciated that about it—how it made space for you without expecting anything in return.
But today, something felt different.
Seeing Eliza this morning had knocked something loose. I kept replaying the way her voice softened when she looked at me. The way she noticed that I was tired. How she didn’t shut me down when I asked her out again. The flicker of something warm in her eyes—hesitant, sure, but real.
I wanted more of that.
I wanted her.
But wanting her and deserving her felt like two different things.
I turned into the alley behind the Pennywhistle Pantry and parked in my usual spot. The back entrance was already propped open with a bucket of potatoes—my grandma’s trick to keep deliveries moving quickly—and the comforting smells of butter, bacon, and coffee met me before I even stepped inside.
“Morning, Nate,” my grandmother said from behind the griddle. “You’re late.”
I checked the clock. “It’s 7:48. Nancy was in charge of opening today. So technically, I’m early.”
“Ahh, fair enough,” she called back.
“Morning, Nancy,” I called, giving a wave to one of my grandma’s oldest friends as she whisked past the pantry shelves.
Nancy had worked at the Pennywhistle for over twenty years, and there wasn’t a trick or secret in this kitchen she didn’t know.
She could flip a pancake with her eyes closed and settle a lunch rush squabble with just a look.
Seeing her here always made the place feel more like home.
“I love this place in the morning,” Grandma said, voice filled with nostalgia. “So I decided to stop by.” I was glad she was here. Her presence brought a steady warmth to the place, anchoring my day before I even tied my apron.
I smiled and shrugged off my coat, slipping into the diner’s familiar rhythm.
Stainless steel counters gleamed under the overhead lights, biscuit dough was being rolled out at the prep station, and someone had already queued up a playlist of ‘50s rock and roll.
I gave the old jukebox in the corner a pat as I walked by.
My grandfather had loved that jukebox. He claimed it made the hash browns crispier.
The place was humming. We had regulars in booths by the windows, a couple of tourists checking out the pie case, and the line cook humming along to “Great Balls of Fire” while flipping pancakes. It was chaotic and warm and comforting in the way only a good kitchen could be.
I grabbed the coffee pot—strong enough to wake the dead—and leaned on the counter to watch for a customer who needed a refill.
The talk around town today was about the Honeybrook Hollow Taste-Off. Apparently, the flyer was now posted in the town square, the date was set, and my grandmother insisted it would be good for me to enter. Said it was tradition, the Pennywhistle entered every year.
The Taste-Off was the kind of event that drew everyone out of their routines and into the park, where booths were set up beneath strings of colorful lights.
I remember going to a few of them when I was here visiting as a kid.
All the local restaurants entered their best dishes, each hoping to impress the crowd with something special.
People wandered from booth to booth, sampling everything from savory casseroles to decadent desserts, and cast their votes for their favorites at the end of the night.
It always brought the community together—neighbors chatting over bites of pie, families sharing plates, and old friends reminiscing about past competitions.
My grandparents had won a few times with their classic recipes, and their framed certificates still hung proudly in the diner’s hallway, a testament to the Pennywhistle Pantry’s place in Honeybrook Hollow’s heart.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about entering. It was my first year, and I was still learning the lay of the land. But Grandma was already talking smack like we were front-runners.
And now there was this new restaurant opening across from the library. Rumor had it, the owner was a big-deal chef from Portland. Probably wanted to bring “elevated cuisine” to Honeybrook Hollow. I didn’t know much about him, but the town seemed excited. Curious.
I should’ve been worried about competition.
But all I could think about was Eliza.
How she’d looked this morning. The way she’d hesitated—like she was toeing the edge of something new—with me. And how badly I wanted to be the one she trusted enough to step over that edge with.
I poured myself a cup of coffee and looked out at the morning crowd. This place was starting to feel like mine. This town was starting to feel like home. And maybe I was finally ready for more.