Chapter 14
Eliza
By the time I opened the Coffee Cabin, the world had narrowed to manageable things: heat, coffee, routine. It was the only place my thoughts didn’t immediately run ahead of me.
I called my grandma the moment the anxiety started whispering its usual lies. She picked up on the first ring.
“Coffee Cabin’s yours for the lunch shift,” I said. “I’ve got plans.”
There was a suspicious pause. “Plans, huh?”
“Don’t make it a thing, Grandma.”
“I’m not,” she said, already amused. “Except to say I wore lipstick the last time I had ‘plans’ in the middle of the day.”
I groaned. “I’m hanging up now.”
“You’d better. And wear something that says you’re not just coffee and sarcasm. Go home and put on something cute. No, you’re young, change into something tight.”
“Oh my god, you’re impossible.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Thank you.” I ended the call and stood at the counter, questioning my life choices. What the hell was I thinking?
I said goodbye to Grandma at the Coffee Cabin door, her smirk hinting she knew more than she let on.
As I slid into my car and pulled onto the road, I could still feel the adrenaline buzzing in my veins.
The silence in the car made it easy for my doubts to creep in—had I completely lost my mind?
I replayed the morning in my head, the anxious pulse of possibility, wondering if nerves and hope had finally outpaced my common sense.
By the time I parked in front of my place, I was half convinced I’d gone temporarily insane—all for a lunch that wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
I stared into my closet like it might offer a life raft. My heart ping-ponged between This is just lunch and This is a terrible idea.
I still wasn’t sure why I’d called him. I guess I just needed to hear his voice.
Maybe I even missed him. And now here I was—trying to figure out if I could sit across from Nate Winters without falling face-first into my feelings.
But most of all, I didn’t want to hurt him.
Or let Graham hurt him. And then there was sweet, wonderful Tilly to consider, too.
I slipped into jeans, my nicest sweater, and boots that looked like I’d tried without trying too hard. Remy and Linguini sat on the bathroom counter, judging me as I twisted my hair up.
“This isn’t a date,” I told them. “Just a meeting between two people who kissed like they meant it and then pretended they didn’t.”
Linguini sneezed. Judgment confirmed.
Nate was already waiting in a booth when I got there—jeans, thermal Henley, faint smell of cinnamon and something warm and woodsy. Like autumn and sin and bad ideas.
“Hey,” he said, standing when he saw me.
His smile did things to my insides I wasn’t ready for.
“You look nice,” I said before my brain could stop me. “You know—for someone not trying to date me.”
He chuckled. “You look nice too—for someone pretending she doesn’t want to be right here.”
Touché.
The table had a view of the dog park, where a golden retriever was gleefully rolling in mud, and a woman in a pink scarf was swearing under her breath.
Nate passed me a to-go box from the Pennywhistle.
“I got us the special instead of burgers, if that’s okay.
Pulled pork grilled cheese with apple slaw.
And sweet potato fries, just like you wanted.
Comfort food. Figured we could both use it. ”
“You trying to woo me with melty cheese?”
“Is it working?”
I didn’t answer. I took a bite and tried not to moan. “This should be illegal,” I muttered.
“Wait till you try the sweet potato fries.”
“So,” I said, unwrapping my sandwich, “how’s Tilly today?”
Nate smiled immediately, the kind that showed up fast and stayed. “Good. Very good. She announced this morning that she’s officially brave now.”
“Based on what criteria?” I asked.
“Snack access and knowing where the bathroom is,” he said. “She said those are the cornerstones of confidence.”
I laughed. “She’s not wrong.”
“She also informed her teacher that our dog sleeps in her bed sometimes and that this was apparently relevant to class introductions.”
I grinned. “I love her honesty.”
“Less so when it’s about me,” he said, still smiling. “But she waved goodbye like she had a schedule to keep, so I think we’re doing okay.”
The warmth in his voice settled something in my chest, and for a moment, lunch felt easy again.
I almost let myself relax then—until Nate set down his Coke and looked at me carefully.
“I have an idea,” he said. “Something that doesn’t involve dating. Just spending time together. Doing something fun.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Define fun.”
“The Honeybrook Hollow Taste-Off. My grandma is not up to entering this year, and the Pennywhistle has always been at least a finalist. I need a partner. Someone who knows what they’re doing.”
“And by someone you mean—?”
“You. A little birdy told me you went to culinary school.”
I wiped my hands with a napkin. “Yeah, I did. But I haven’t cooked seriously in a long time.”
“You make muffins every morning.”
“Basic muffins.”
“You’re selling yourself short.” He leaned forward. “Help me win. The Pennywhistle is my legacy. I don’t want to let my grandparents down. Or the town. I’m feeling some pressure, I admit it.”
That got my attention. “Go on,” I said slowly.
“I know you’re incredible in a kitchen.”
My cheeks flushed. “You don’t have to butter me up. And how would you know that?”
“Because you’re incredible at everything else.”
“Stop it—”
“I mean it. Do it for the diner. Or for the excitement of competition. No romance attached. Just you and me. Kicking ass. Casually.” He smirked. “Unless you want to get romantic because I’m good with that too.”
I shot him a look, but I wasn’t entirely unamused. “Fine. Maybe. Let me think about it.”
He grinned, triumphant but not smug. “Deal.”
He passed me the printed registration form with a grin, as if I’d said yes instead of thinking about it. “We need to decide which dish to enter. Comfort food is obvious, but we could try something fancier if you’re feeling bold.”
I ran my finger along the categories on the Taste-Off form, trying to distract myself from the way Nate was watching me. “You really think we could win?”
“I think you could win. I’m just the guy with the big kitchen. Though, technically, you could enter the Coffee Cabin and try to beat everyone.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re kind of confident today for a guy who admitted to burning the diner’s toast when you first started.”
“That was one time. The toaster was lying.”
I laughed. “Sure. Blame the appliances.” I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop smiling. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re stalling,” he pointed out, nodding at the form between us. “So, are we doing this or what?”
The warmth in his voice, the ease of him—it made something in my chest unlock. He wasn’t pushing—well, not seriously. Just waiting. Hoping, maybe. And somehow, that felt more persuasive than any grand gesture.
I picked up the pen.
Nate leaned back in the booth and gave me that look again—the one that made me feel like I was the most fascinating thing in the room, despite the fry grease smell and the laminated menu stuck under my elbow.
“So,” he said, settling back in the booth. “If we’re going to cook in front of half the county, we should probably have a plan.”
I lifted my brows. “Half the county?”
He shrugged, easy. “Well, it’s not just Honeybrook Hollow. A few places from the neighboring towns always enter.”
That made my stomach flip—for reasons that had nothing to do with nerves. “Great,” I said lightly, circling my mug with one finger. “So now we’re impressing people who don’t even know our names yet.”
Nate’s smile tilted. “Even better. No expectations.”
“Still,” I said, leaning forward despite myself, lowering my voice, “there will be competition. Fancy ingredients. Big personalities. People who think food tastes better if it has a French name.”
His gaze dropped to my mouth. It lingered long enough that I forgot what I’d been about to say. “Let them have it,” he said. “We’ll stick to what we’re good at.”
“And what’s that?” I asked.
His foot brushed mine beneath the table—soft, intentional. My breath caught. “Comfort food. Butter. Garlic. Cooking like we actually want people to enjoy themselves.”
Heat curled low in my stomach. “You make a convincing argument.”
“And,” he added, voice quieter now, “I think we’d be good together in a kitchen.”
I laughed softly, more breath than sound. “Careful,” I said. “Keep talking like that, and I might start believing you.”
“You already do,” he said, just as quietly.
He leaned forward then, slow enough that I could have pulled back if I wanted to. I didn’t. The table between us felt like nothing at all. His hand slid across the surface, fingers brushing mine as he reached for the pen—and for one suspended, dizzy second, his mouth hovered just shy of mine.
My pulse roared in my ears.
Then someone laughed nearby. A chair scraped. The world rushed back in.
Nate stilled, eyes searching mine, breath shallow. I swallowed, fingers curling around my mug like it could anchor me. When he finally leaned back, the space he left behind felt loud and unfinished.
“Worst case scenario,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt, “we eat our mistakes.”
His smile was slow, knowing. “Best case?”
I met his gaze, heart pounding. “We give more than just Honeybrook Hollow, something really good to remember.”
He looked down at his hands, like he was giving both of us a second to breathe, and I realized mine were still shaking.
I pressed my knees together under the table, trying to quiet the storm he’d kicked up inside me.
That almost-kiss replayed on a loop—how close he’d been, how easy it would’ve been to lean that last inch. How much a part of me had wanted to.
Don’t, I told myself. You know better than this.