CHAPTER FOURTEEN FALLON
C HAPTER F OURTEEN
FALLON
“Uh, what is he doing here?” Jaz asks, pointing at Sawyer as he takes a seat at our table in the Whistling Kettle.
Sully is at Village Hardware with Tank, hanging out, and I called Jaz to have breakfast with me to go over the plan of attack for reservations.
When I suggested Strawberry Fields to Sawyer, he gripped his stomach and shook his head, begging me anywhere but there.
When his face paled to a dangerous shade of chunder, I knew there was a story behind the pain in his voice, and I have every intention of getting to the bottom of it.
“Maybe we should have some coffee first,” I say to Jaz. “Before we get into all the details.” I slide a cup of coffee toward her—dark roast with half-and-half; she’s pretty simple. “There, there, drink up.”
She eyes the cup. Then she eyes me.
Skepticism shines brightly through her pupils, testing me. What are you about to put me through? is the message creasing the soft anger lines in her frown.
“What did you put in this?” She lightly jiggles the mug at me.
“Nothing,” I say while I push Sawyer’s cup of coffee toward him.
Dark roast as well, but one packet of sugar, no milk.
I, on the other hand, need a caramel macchiato—I like the jolt of caffeine, but my infant stomach needs the dairy and sugar to ease the bitterness of the coffee.
Unless these two want to see me moan and groan, wailing on the floor for the sweet release of death.
“Thank you.” Sawyer grips his cup and brings it up to his mouth, blowing on the liquid before placing his lips on the rim.
“You’re welcome.”
Jaz, on the other hand, she’s silent, looking between us... stewing with fierce observation, ready to pounce with her diatribe of disapproval. Instead of picking up her coffee, she folds her arms over her chest and leans back in her chair. “What the hell is going on here?”
Bristly with fangs poised at the edge of her lips, ready to be unleashed, she drums her fingers on the table, like a best friends Morse code, demanding I explain myself... immediately.
But “denial” is currently my motto, so with a flick of my finger, I pop open the pink carryout box in front of me. “Cinnamon bun? Apple fritter?” And then I lean in close to Jaz and wiggle my eyebrows. “Blueberry fritter...”
Her vehement stare slides back, and a distinct interest pulls at her brow, raising her hairline as she peeks into the box. There it is, resting in all its splendor, the distinguished sugary affair that has swept the townspeople of Canoodle into a sugar-induced orgy.
The blueberry fritter.
Created by Helena.
Duplicated by her staff in droves.
And approved by Miss Daphne Lynn Pearlbottom, the mayor of Canoodle.
The blueberry fritter has swept our tiny nation of mountain locals, and Jaz is no exception.
“Goddamn you,” she says, reaching into the box and grabbing the blueberry fritter.
She’s tended to stay away from the hard-to-come-by baked good as much as possible since last year, when she had an addiction.
It got to the point that she consumed a fritter a day for a month.
She ended up cursing herself and spent a great deal of her mornings reluctantly lacing up her sneakers and running the Harry Balls Trail in order to work off the extra calories.
Like an unhinged animal, freshly released from a stifling cage, she rips into the fritter with a considerable bite. Satisfied, I watch her melt into her chair. It’s just her and that fritter now.
I must say, so far, this is going well.
I turn to Sawyer and offer him the box. “Fritter or cinnamon bun?”
“I had a protein bar, I’m good.”
Or so I thought it was going well...
Eyes blazing, Jaz snaps up, the wrath of all the gods splayed across her face. Her finger morphs into a steel rod of destruction as she jabs our shared table with such ferocity that I’m tempted to check for earthquake recordings.
“You listen to me, and you listen to me good,” Jaz snarls.
“That protein bar you claim to have snacked on earlier—it means nothing to you in this moment. As far as you’re aware, you’re ravenous, and the only thing that can even make a dent in your insatiable appetite is a freaking pastry.
So, take your undermoisturized hand, reach into that box of goodness, and grab a breakfast treat, because there is no way in hell we’re going to sit here, two women with a penchant for baked goods, and chow down on pastries while you’re over there marveling at your self-control while tasting the remnants of your protein bar in the back of your teeth.
Oh, hell no. Pick up a GD pastry and eat it. ”
Face twisted in fear, Sawyer blindly reaches into the box and grabs the first pastry he touches, not bothering to even look.
“That’s what I thought.” Jaz leans back in her chair with a satisfied smile.
And here I thought I’d tranquilized her with a fritter.
Not so much.
Once they’re both settled, breakfast in hand, I hand out napkins.
There’s no point in engaging in conversation right now.
Jaz is three fingers deep into her fritter, while Sawyer nervously chomps away, never letting the cinnamon bun stray three inches from his mouth while keeping one eye on Jaz the entire time.
Not disturbed by Jaz’s outburst—wouldn’t be the first time she’s lashed out over pastries—I take a bite of my fritter, letting the light bustle of the café and bakery fill our silence.
The purpose of the baked goods—to ease the daily annoyance raging through Jaz. I need the sugar to soak into her veins before I begin the conversation about why we’re all here today, munching over a table that is really designed for two people.
Borrowing a little more time, I turn to Sawyer. “From your ignorance about the pastries in this fine establishment, I’d assume you haven’t been here before.”
He glances around the airy, sun-drenched space and shakes his head, drawing my gaze to the blond hair starting to curl under the edges of his hat.
I’ve caught myself studying his hair, and the color seems to be natural, washed out from spending hours in the sun.
It’s the kind of look women pay hundreds of dollars to obtain.
“I’ve only been to the to-go window for some coffee, but never inside.
Reminds me of a building you’d find in Portland.
Rustic but modern—doesn’t really go with the rest of the town. ”
Insightful. I’ve never been to Portland, but I’ve seen pictures, and I can see the resemblance.
“Helena did some renovations last year—ended up breaking a main water valve in the process, and had to replace pretty much everything. It wasn’t pretty, but she was thrilled about the prospect of new floors.”
Sawyer glances down at the white pine floors and taps his toe, the dull thud an example of their sturdiness. “Solid. They’re really nice. I also like the admiral-blue color of the cabinets combined with the black-framed windows and black hardware. Much better than the troll disaster next door.”
“Ha,” Jaz says, her mouth full of fritter. She punctuates her outburst with a lick of her icing-coated finger. “Finally, something we can agree on. Faye has a problem, and no one seems to have the balls to tell her.”
“Have you?” Sawyer asks.
Jaz’s eyes narrow into slits. “Of course not. The woman wields a frying pan like Rapunzel in Tangled . I like my face—I don’t need it smashed in by cast-iron cookery.”
“Has she been known to hit people with a frying pan?” Sawyer asks in horror. Jaz and I both nod.
“She got Tank really good once,” I say. “Broke his nose.”
“What did he do to warrant a broken nose?”
“Told her she should have lined up the trolls in rainbow order,” Jaz answers. I can tell she’s starting to warm up, which is just what I wanted. I knew the sugar would kick in at some point.
Sawyer picks at a piece of his cinnamon bun. “I thought the same thing when I went in there with Sully and the boys. Missed opportunity.”
And the boys ?
He says that with such familiarity that I truly wonder how blind I’ve been to this man. Blind enough to not realize he’s formed a friendship with my grandpa, conducted massive renovations around the property, and established relationships with the boys .
“You went to Strawberry Fields with Sully?” I ask, surprised to hear this. Although I shouldn’t be too surprised—it seems like they’ve started a little bromance behind my back.
“Yup, with Sully, Tank, and Roy.”
“Roy, he’s a gas.” Jaz smirks. “Did they make you get the usual?”
Sawyer’s lips thin in indignation. “Yeah, and they made me not only finish the smorgasbord created for Jesus and his disciples, but they also made me pay the entire check.”
Both Jaz and I laugh. That’s not a cheap bill, nor is finishing “the usual” an easy feat.
I’ve seen Sully take an hour to consume the entire thing, having to take a few breathing breaks in between.
I’ve also seen him do the sign of the cross before diving in, praying for a smooth recovery after consumption.
Devouring “the usual” is an unspoken tradition in Canoodle, an Olympic sport not for the faint at heart.
“Did your stomach want to burst after?” I ask.
“Let’s just say it was not a good day for me.” He brings his fist to his mouth and slowly shakes his head, the memory clearly too punishing to conjure up.
“But you finished?” Jaz asks.
Sawyer lowers his fist and nods. “I did. I didn’t think there was any other option.”
Jaz raises her eyebrows, impressed. “I respect that, but I still don’t like you.”
“Fair,” Sawyer replies.
Grabbing one of the napkins I handed out at the beginning of the meal, Jaz blots at her mouth, clearing away any stray remnants of her fritter.
She sips her coffee. Smacks her lips, and then looks between me and Sawyer.
“Now that you have me hyped up on sugar and coffee, are you going to tell me what the hell is going on here?”