Chapter 4
FOUR
LEXI
Rory Grady
New Heights. Now.
Me
Nah, no thanks
It’s not an offer.
Sighing heavily, I take an extra few minutes to admire the flower boxes where they hang below the plate glass window to delay my punishment.
It really does add a lot of charm to the window display, the golden mix of thriller, filler, and spiller for the win.
Booths line the other side of the window, but you can see past that into the café itself, and the shades of pinks and whites from the flowers I planted play well off of the colors inside the restaurant, the pale pink walls, almost white in color, tying together the exterior and interior aesthetics.
Not like most people won’t already choose to eat here, but I hope this adds a little kick to their dopamine like it’s doing to mine when they come in, or even just stroll by.
After that encounter with the tattooed cactus enthusiast, I need the hit to my dopamine.
Wilder left shortly after sending that firebomb of an email. With nothing but a wicked grin in my direction, he took back off toward whatever dimension he came from.
I have zero questions as to why my little sister is texting me to meet her at her office.
She’s ordering me to show up for an impromptu meeting, like she’s my boss.
For the first time in my life, I don’t have a boss, but something tells me I’m about to get the worst verbal smackdown of my career to date.
If working in a grocery store for twenty years can be considered a career.
My current path of following the insane idea to open a restaurant when I have absolutely zero experience in the industry feels more like a cry for help than a career.
If there were a life choice equivalent to cutting your own bangs, it would definitely be opening a business you’re not qualified to run.
But with my sister’s guidance and the internet at my fingertips, I’m pretty sure I can figure this out.
I should’ve just cut my own bangs.
Stopping by the west central parking lot on my way to Rory’s office, I take my time putting away the supplies I used to make the flower displays in the trunk of my trusty blue Nissan, and eventually, I’m out of ways to stall.
I even went back to the café, cleaned myself up again in the restroom, inspected the kitchen to make sure he’d cleaned up after himself, and the asshole did. It’s like he was never there.
I’d like to keep it that way.
The front door locks easily, thanks to the brand-new lock and key that got installed when I took ownership only a few weeks ago. Rory’s office is just four doors away from mine, right across the street, but I find a way to dawdle, saying hi to the elderly residents of the Heights as I meander.
There’s a whole flock of them who like to idle their days away sitting on sunny benches, watching the younger crowd who roll through at mealtimes or after their shifts, and those who have the luxury of wandering throughout the day.
The elder generation do their part to keep everyone informed, spreading the gossip amongst all equally.
Today, they’re tittering about how Weston—town playboy—seems to be serious about the tiny newcomer with the big attitude, Amelia.
Rory must figure out what I’m up to, because the door to the New Heights Headquarters opens, and her body emerges, door still held open, impatient as ever.
“Alexis Marjorie Weiss!”
Her resemblance to our mother in this moment is uncanny, and the memories that invokes—the thousands of times my mother called my full name in warning, jest, or dressing down—make the bridge of my nose sting abruptly.
My brain reminds me (unnecessarily) that I’ll never hear her say it again, and I try to shush it.
“Sorry, Ernie,” I tell the man who’s sitting in front of the hardware store until Dallas or Duke opens up Suds for the evening. “Family business.” One of my thumbs jerks in Rory’s direction, and he gives me a knowing look.
“If you drop by Suds tonight, remind me to tell you about the trout I caught!”
Shaking my head, I turn and head to the New Heights office, taking in the model of downtown in the window.
It’s crazy how close Main Street really looks to this scale she had built to illustrate her plan for the New Heights project about a year and a half ago.
So much of downtown has already changed since then.
We’re weeks away from the completion of phase one of her project.
I can’t imagine the sense of fulfillment she must feel at this point.
Can’t imagine it, because I’ve never had a professional accomplishment like that. Probably not a personal one either, if we’re hopping aboard the Depression Express, next stop Toaster Bath Station.
But Heights Bites is going to be that for me.
I don’t need to change the world.
I’m not trying to work on contracts for billion-dollar corporations, like Rory did when she lived in New York.
Or take on a bank that ruined our small town, like she did once she came back to the Heights.
Or bring a town back from near extinction, like she’s spent the last two years committed to doing.
Just living a life I enjoy, doing something I’m proud of, is enough for me. Add in some people I care about—and fuck it, while I’m asking, some great dick from time to time—and I’m set.
It’s not designer shoes and bags that make life worth living for me. I know Rory’s life is about more than just that, but I’m a simple woman. Good times are more important to me than nice things.
When I’m close enough for Rory to grab me, she does, gripping my arm in her talons—seriously, no woman in corporate America needs nails that long—and squeezing, pulling me to her desk like it’s not where I’m already headed.
“What the hell are you doing?” she hisses at me.
“Keeping our town free of pricks.”
Her eyes narrow at me.
“Well, your husband excluded.”
She clucks her tongue at me, doing an impression of her favorite pet.
“Who do you think you are, Nate Bargatze? Enough with the jokes. You didn’t show up to the interview?
I saw the email you sent him, who is the gardener and why are you being a bitch to him?
He moved across the country for this job! ”
“I was there!” I protest, not able to help that it comes out as a shout. “I was there early, getting some gardening done because you still haven’t approved more landscape budget.”
“You’re not getting more budget, we have half a rainforest along downtown.”
“We’ll talk about it later,” I tell her, nose held high, the way she does when she’s not loving what she’s hearing. “My point is, I was there, I was planting the flowers in the window boxes, and this giant jerk appeared and started making fun of downtown.”
Rory’s laminated brow raises, and I go on, sensing my chance. “He was laughing about all of the names of the businesses, he was making fun of our home, Rory.”
“Because he laughed at the names? They’re not exactly refined, Lex. Amusement isn’t a crime.”
There she goes again, thinking she’s too good for the simple life we have to offer in the Heights.
“Heights Bites is cute, and you can fuck right off if you’re gonna talk shit about it.”
Rory sighs, placing a hand on my arm. “Lex, it is a cute name, but just because he found humor in our naming convention—which I blame Duke and his father for starting by the way—doesn’t mean he wouldn’t make a good chef for the restaurant. You make fun of shit around here all the time.”
“It’s not just that.”
She stares, waiting for me to continue.
“Everything out of his mouth is a joke, and most of it sounds bizarrely sexual.”
Rory laughs, ass leaned on her desk as I stand in front of her, arms crossed. “He’s quite a funny guy, and maybe his humor isn’t for everyone—” she cups a hand to her mouth, whispering, “—we should probably keep Mrs. Dixon away from him, but beyond that, his food speaks for itself.”
“He’s over the top,” I insist, feeling my face flush at the implications he made, the way my body responded to them.
How I could picture his hand wrapped around the back of my head, guiding himself into my mouth and down my throat. I squirm where I’m standing, remembering the way I didn’t hate that visual nearly as much as I wanted to. Or the way his low voice slid over my body as he said it.
Thankful these overalls cover the budding of my nipples, I stand my ground, hands on my hips.
“So are you,” Rory laughs. “And good lord, no one is worse than your best friend’s husband.”
A montage of Ronnie, my bestie Gracie’s husband, plays in my mind, proving her right as she continues talking.
“Not even my husband, or his brother. Don’t tell me you’ve turned into a puritan now?”
I let out an exasperated sigh. Of course I haven’t. Not even my pride can go that far to get rid of this guy.
I can’t explain why he irritated me so much.
The way Rory brushes off each of my points so casually is starting to make me think I’m the only one who has an issue with him like this. Does he not get under the skin of everyone else?
Being forced to share a workspace with this man day in and day out might be enough to break me for good. That crazy streak that I try to keep under control most of the time is going to just take the wheel and drive. Quite possibly over him, if given the chance.
My eyes make the mistake of darting up to the giant picture above Rory’s desk—the black and white shot of our mother being loaded into a deputy’s car like she was some famous gangster, not a dying woman trying to make the most of the time she had left—and I inhale sharply, nose stinging all the worse.
I hate coming to my sister’s office. I need to get out of here.
“Did you see the food he made?” she pushes me, refocusing my attention on her.
I roll my eyes, scoffing. “Obviously. I tried it too.”
The photos he attached to that email could be in a culinary magazine. Thank God he couldn’t attach any evidence of how that dish tasted, or I’d have no way to convince Rory that he isn’t worth hiring at the restaurant.