Chapter 16 Eliza
Eliza
Iwoke up with the remembered taste of Nate’s lips on my tongue.
For a few seconds, I lay still, watching the shadow of the ceiling fan move across the wall while Remy snored like a tiny chainsaw at my feet and Linguini purred on my hip.
Last night replayed in flashes—heat from the oven, Nate’s quiet laugh, the way his hand had trembled just the tiniest bit when he brushed flour from my cheek. My face went hot.
I’d kissed him.
And then I’d told him we should slow down.
Which, if there were awards for mixed signals, would get me a glittering trophy and a stern talking-to from the committee.
Still, I couldn’t stop replaying the way the night had ended: his smile, my hesitation, the charged silence between us.
Every detail felt amplified by morning light, making it harder to sort out what I actually wanted.
I wished I could bottle that feeling—with all its mess and sweetness—and keep it close for the moments when I doubted myself.
My heart flipped between regret and hope. Had I ruined something perfect or just pressed pause on a story neither of us was ready to tell? The memory of our laughter in the kitchen lingered, grounding me as I tried to find my courage for whatever would come next.
I rolled out of bed, fed the boys, and pulled on jeans, a black long-sleeve T-shirt, and my Coffee Cabin hoodie. I twisted my hair into a knot and leaned my elbows on the kitchen counter, phone in hand, composing and deleting a bunch of different texts:
Sorry about last night?
Not sorry at all, actually.
I’m a chaos gremlin. Please advise.
My phone buzzed before I could humiliate myself.
Nate: Morning, beautiful. No overthinking allowed today. Last night was good. You’re good. We will be good.
I exhaled, a little shaky, a little lighter.
Me: Is this your way of making me feel better? Because yes, please.
Nate: Pretty much. And I’m proud of us. Whatever pace feels right to you—I’m with you. I’ll swing by the window before work.
I set the phone down and let the relief sit quietly in my chest, warm as a fresh cup of coffee. Then I grabbed my keys, kissed both cats between the ears, and headed out.
The Coffee Cabin wore morning like a crown—strings of lights still twinkling under the roofline, the first smear of sunlight shining up from behind the Inn across the lot.
Frost sugared the porch rails. Somewhere, someone’s radio was playing an old carol out of season.
Honeybrook Hollow didn’t really care about calendars when it came to coziness.
I flipped on the brewers, checked the pastry case, and ran a quick test pull of espresso. The early rush arrived in a clatter of snow-dusted boots and wake-me-up energy.
The drive-thru stacked up—contractor truck, yoga leggings SUV lady, the newspaper guy who tipped in quarters and gossip. I moved without thinking: steam, tamp, pour, smile, mild judgment. A rhythm I knew by heart.
The bell above the walk-up window jingled once—low, familiar because I felt his presence before I saw him.
Nate.
He wore a gray hoodie and a lined denim jacket, hair damp from a shower, eyes bright like he’d invented mornings and wanted to share them with the class.
My pulse did an unhelpful little hop. His smile was easy, like he belonged here amid the warmth and bustle, and for a moment, I felt the quiet thrill of routine—the simple magic of knowing just who would show up and when.
“Good morning,” he said, voice soft enough that it somehow cut through the noise to become all I could hear.
“Inspection time,” I said, lifting a sample spoon toward him. “Today’s special: maple cinnamon whip. Not too sweet.”
He leaned in to taste it—close enough for the scent of his soap to find me—and gave me a look that landed somewhere between impressed and you’re trouble. “I’d like that on everything I own.” He grinned. “One black coffee. One cocoa with a cloud of that, to go.”
“For Tilly?”
“My grandparents are stopping by the diner with Tilly; they’re having breakfast together.”
He passed over cash, our fingers brushing. Just a graze, but it was enough to make me want to lock up and follow him wherever he went.
“You okay?” he asked quietly while I capped the cups.
“Yeah,” I said, meaning it. I hesitated, fingers tightening around the lids, unsure whether he meant the day or something deeper.
“I’m okay,” I said, keeping my voice light.
It was easier than letting anything complicated spill out, especially with the line crawling toward the register.
For a second, his eyes searched mine, almost like he wanted to ask more, but he just smiled and stepped aside.
He nodded once, like he’d been waiting for that answer, then stepped back to let the next customer through. “See you later, Eliza.”
“See you,” I said, and it echoed a little in my chest after he walked away.
He left, and the usual bustle resumed—a steady rhythm of orders, laughter, and the hiss of steam.
I straightened up the counter between customers and tried not to linger in that moment, replaying his question and the softness behind it.
The walk-up bell chimed twice, each time bringing in another piece of the morning, and I let myself believe for a minute that things could actually be this simple.
The morning thinned to a manageable hum. My grandma popped by with a thermos for me to fill and a kiss to my temple before heading to the Inn to “terrorize the linen closet.” The morning rush faded, and I relaxed into the silence as I cleaned up.
That was when the shadow fell across the window.
“Busy morning?” Graham asked, as if he hadn’t practiced that effortless, boy-next-door tone in the mirror a thousand times.
I didn’t flinch. I wanted to. “Always.”
He looked maddeningly perfect—tall, tailored coat, casual scarf, smile set to pleasant public figure. The kind of man people assumed could do no wrong because his hair always cooperated and he’d perfected the art of a benign smile.
“I heard you’ve found a new way to keep busy,” he said lightly. “The Honeybrook Hollow Taste-Off. With the Pennywhistle Pantry.”
“That’s right,” I said, keeping my voice even. “We’re entering a dish.”
“We,” he repeated, chuckling as if it were a joke only he got.
His gaze slid past my shoulder, taking in the cabin like it was a quaint exhibit.
“I would have thought you’d want to keep your name off something like that.
You had real potential to make something of yourself, Eliza.
At least enter this place, or The Honeybrook Inn’s restaurant. Come on.”
My fingers curled into my palms, nails digging in, hurting just enough to ground me. “The entry is under the Pennywhistle,” I said, clipped and final. “I’m helping as a friend.”
He leaned an elbow on the sill, too casual, too familiar. “If you want people to forget you left fine dining for a coffee hut, hitching your wagon to a nostalgia diner seems like a strange choice.”
There it was—the sugar-laced bite.
My jaw tightened. I forced it to loosen before my teeth could grind loud enough for him to hear. “You’re opening across from the library in a small tourist town,” I said mildly, though heat flashed behind my eyes. “Bold of you to disparage nostalgia.”
A car rolled up in the drive-thru, saving me from saying more. I took the order, rang it through, kept my movements smooth, and my face carefully neutral. Behind my calm, something feral paced.
Graham waited, smile fixed, voice pitched low enough for only me to hear. “You were promising, Eliza. People here might not know that. I do.”
I looked at him then—really looked—and let him see the edge I no longer hid behind politeness. “I remember,” I said quietly. “I remember everything. That’s why I’m not with you anymore.”
The smile didn’t crack, but his eyes cooled, the warmth draining out of them. “Careful,” he said. “Aligning yourself with a competitor is one thing. Trying to beat me in a public vote? That’s… unwise.”
I leaned closer to the window, just enough for him to understand I wasn’t shrinking. “Public votes have a funny way of reflecting what the public actually likes,” I said evenly. “And around here? They like the Pennywhistle.”
“And you?” he asked softly. “Do you like it? Playing sous chef to a former attorney with a new hobby?”
“What’s your problem? I know you’re not jealous.” I met his gaze, refusing to flinch.
“Of course I’m not jealous. I’m curious. That’s all. After all the time we spent together, why are you here? Doing something beneath your talents. At the very least, people know you worked for me. Look at you now.”
“Maybe I’m tired of pretending to want things I don’t.
” The words felt heavier in the air than I expected, but I didn’t pull them back.
“Besides, talents are wasted if you only use them for yourself. Nate is a great guy, and the Pennywhistle is amazing. His grandma can’t cook this year, so I stepped in. Not that it’s any of your business.”
Something behind me, near the back door, rustled; I didn’t look. A walk-up customer had drifted near the porch bench off to the side. Another pair of footsteps rounded the corner on the gravel, slowly—maybe people were listening, but I was too angry to care.
I handed a latte to the drive-thru customer and turned back to Graham, my pulse steady now, my grip firm on the counter.
“And furthermore,” I said, my voice calm in a way that surprised even me, “I like doing work I’m proud of. With people who don’t make pride feel like a mistake—and who don’t criticize everything I do.”
He leaned in fractionally, voice sweetening, the way it always did right before the knife. “You always were dramatic when you were hurt.”
Something clicked.
Not a spark. A pattern.