Chapter 17 Nate
Nate
Morning came quietly and cold, the kind that fogged the front windows of the Pennywhistle in slow breaths. I stood behind the counter with the lights still low, listening to the coffee drip and the heaters tick. My phone lay face up by the register, Eliza’s text from last night still on the screen.
I’m okay. Sisters in full guard-dog mode. Thank you for everything.
I read it once more, then slid the phone into my pocket. Okay was good. Guard-dog sisters were even better. I didn’t need to rush in and try to fix anything. I just needed to be there if she needed me.
I decided not to waste any more time second-guessing if it was right to want her—I simply knew I did.
The certainty settled quietly inside me, warm and uncomplicated, like a favorite song played low in the background.
I liked her so much it sometimes made my heart stumble, but there was no rush, no pressure; I was content to wait for her, hopeful and patient, knowing she’d come to me when she was ready.
It was enough just to care, enough to want, and to hold that longing gently until the moment was ours.
I turned the lights up, rolled out the pastry case, checked produce, and made a mental list for the lunch special.
The place now looked like a second home—chrome gleaming, red booths, napkin holders shining from last night’s wipe-down.
Outside, a few early birds shuffled past in puffs of steam and small-town gossip.
By the time I opened up, the first wave had already formed a loose line.
Mr. Hawkins ordered the lumberjack breakfast and said he’d heard there’d been “a bit of theater” at the Coffee Cabin.
I told him the pancakes were extra fluffy today and left it there.
Two guys from the fire department came in next, trading rumors about a new restaurant’s “grand” this and “soft opening” that.
I slid plates across the pass and kept the tone light.
Grandma arrived midmorning, and I swore the bell rang with a brighter jingle for her than for anyone else. She wore a lavender cardigan and a grin that could have powered Sycamore Street.
“Your coffee is weak,” she sniffed, already pouring herself a cup. “Which means your nerves are strong. Tell me.”
“My coffee is perfect,” I said, passing her the cream. “You’re just dramatic.”
“Yeah, always. Your grandpa’s bringing Tilly to the playground later today once they wrap up their project for her class.”
She gave me a sideways look, the kind that saw right through the veneer. “You’re humming thunder today, sugar. Is it that Graham?”
That Graham. She knew something. “I’m fine,” I lied, then told a nearby table to holler if they needed more syrup.
“Okay, fine. You’re fine. I know, honey.” She patted my hand. “Anyhoo, fine and steady are good. She needs someone steady, and it’s going to be you.”
“I know, I’m patient. I’m waiting. I’m sticking around just like you said.” I eyed her suspiciously. “You know something, don’t you?”
“I probably know more than you do,” she answered with a smirk. “But I’m not telling tales out of school. You’ll find out everything when she tells you. Not when I do. One thing Mabel and I have learned over the years is to be discreet. Or at least mostly discreet.”
She left with a wink and an extra biscuit wrapped in a napkin.
The lunch rush hit a minute later, the kitchen finding its rhythm the way it always did when the bell started dinging, and the noise turned into a song.
It grounded me. This would always ground me.
The more time I spent here, the more I loved it.
That Graham came in at one o’clock sharp.
He chose the middle booth—the one that couldn’t help but resemble a stage under the pendant light—and removed his scarf with a flourish like everyone was expecting him. Tall. Tailored. Waiting for a reaction. A couple of heads turned. It was obvious he wanted them to. I kept working.
“Welcome in,” I called over, using as neutral a tone as I could manage. “We’ll be right with you.”
He gave me a two-finger salute and slid into the booth, back straight, arm draped along the top like it was a photo shoot.
When I stepped over with a menu, he waved it away. “Surprise me with your signature,” he said, like a dare. “If you have one.”
“The brisket melt,” I said, writing it down. “Onion jam, house aioli. Fries okay?”
“That depends.” He tilted his head. “How crisp is your idea of crisp?”
I smiled benignly. “The kind that doesn’t ask for notes.”
His mouth tightened in a way only people who knew what kind of man he was would see. “Then yes. And a club soda with lime. I have a meeting soon. I’m kind of in a rush.”
“Coming up.”
I didn’t hurry. I also didn’t dawdle. When the sandwich landed, it was a showstopper, like usual—melted cheese, steam curling up, the crust just shy of dark, a pile of fries like golden confetti. I set it down. He didn’t thank me. He stared at the sandwich like it should be nervous.
He ate half the melt and a few fries, then set the sandwich down very precisely. I was refilling the sweet tea urn when his voice floated over, pleasant as static.
“It’s still a lovely little place.”
“Appreciate it,” I said, still working.
“Charming. Nostalgic. A time capsule.” He dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “If I were you, I’d protect that carefully.”
I wiped my hands and walked over. “We intend to.”
He leaned back. “May I offer some friendly advice?”
“No,” I said, and smiled so he’d think I was joking.
He smiled back with a chuckle, like we’d agreed on something. “Eliza looks well.”
There it was—the point of his visit.
“Yeah. She always does.”
“Mm.” He tapped his glass. “She’s a bit sensitive about her past, about how things ended for her in Portland. I’d hate to see her dragged into performative rivalries. Or put on display.”
“Then stop showing up to her place and talking at her.”
He blinked once, slowly, as if recalibrating. “You don’t quite understand how this works here, Nate. Honeybrook Hollow loves a hometown success story. They’ve been waiting for me to come back and give them a restaurant.”
“They’ve had a hometown favorite for going on forty years,” I said, nodding at the room. “They didn’t have to wait.”
A smile, thinner now. “You’re busy. Running a small business is—”
“—my business,” I finished. “Which is why I’m going to keep mine running and let you discover that we can coexist without all this bullshit.”
He laughed softly, like we’d reached the witty banter portion of the afternoon. Then he leaned forward, elbows on the table, and let the nice peel back just enough to show the blade under it.
“Don’t get tangled up with her,” he said. “You’ll end up regretting it.”
I met his gaze and let the smile ease right off my face. “She’s an adult. You don’t have a say in her life. And you sure as hell don’t get to tell me what to do with mine.”
He held my stare for three beats. Four.
“Just some friendly advice,” he said again, lighter. “Like I said.”
“Here’s mine.” I kept my voice level, conversational, hiding the threat that simmered beneath. Low enough that he could hear me clearly, and the three closest tables could pretend they didn’t. “You stay away from her. She’s already starting to forget you exist.”
The fork on the next table clinked. Someone’s chair scraped. The room didn’t go silent, exactly—it went intentional. They were listening.
Graham, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He took another sip of his water, set it down, and smiled like a man collecting data. “Confident,” he murmured. “That’ll be useful—for a while.”
“It’ll be useful forever,” I scoffed. “Dessert?”
He considered declining. Then pride told him not to be the one who walked away. “What do you recommend?”
“Cherry pie,” I said. “Classic.”
I comped it because I set the tone in this place, not him. He ate half, paid without comment, and slid out of the booth with that exact same stage posture. On his way to the door, he paused at the counter and set down a heavy, cream card embossed in gold.
“By the way,” he said, voice smooth. “Grand opening, day after tomorrow. Industry friends, a few local leaders. You should come by, get a taste of what a modern kitchen feels like.”
I glanced at the invitation, didn’t touch it. “I’ll try to stop by. But I might be too busy feeding the locals right here.”
His smile thinned. “Suit yourself.”
“Break a leg,” I said.
He paused, hand on the door. “The sandwich was better than expected,” he said. “The fries were…ambitious.”
“Glad you enjoyed your lunch,” I said, light back on. “We’ll keep a booth ready for you.”
He left without further word.
“Y’all good?” I asked the staff.
The restaurant settled back into its usual rhythm—booths wiped down, the steady hum of conversation replaced by the familiar clatter of dishes and laughter from the kitchen.
I took a breath, feeling the weight lift off my shoulders as the place quieted.
I slipped into the storage room to text Eliza. I needed to see her. I couldn’t wait.
I pulled out my phone and typed a quick message to Eliza:
Me: Hey, any chance you’re free tomorrow? Want to come over for dinner? Or come over and cook with me? For fun.
I hesitated for a second, then hit send, hoping she’d say yes.
A few seconds later, Eliza texted back:
Eliza: What time?
The knot in my chest loosened—her answer was exactly what I’d hoped for. I grinned at my phone, thrilled, and already started gathering my stuff to head home and get ready.
Outside, the street had that early-evening glaze Honeybrook wears in winter—gold on glass, breath hanging, the kind of cold that made you walk faster to get out of it.
Across the way, Graham’s place glowed behind its papered windows.
A shadow moved, or maybe I imagined it. It didn’t matter. He did not matter.
I locked the door and didn’t look again. I turned toward Sycamore. Toward the Inn’s porch lights. Toward the outline of the Coffee Cabin tucked under strings of bulbs that were always a little crooked, and then I went home.