Chapter 5
5
H anna scrolled through Zillow listings in her hometown and sighed, spinning in the chair at her desk in the silent moments before kindergarteners rushed in.
She’d given Orange Beach a good, solid try, hadn’t she?
She missed her sister. Her parents. Familiarity.
She’d wanted to be adventurous, try something new—unlike most of the people from her small town who moved right back to it after college. There was no problem with that, of course. But Hanna wanted to be different .
A lot of good that did her.
She now lived in a place with beautiful beaches but no friends within a stone’s throw. The friends she did have were six hours away.
One was her sister, Bella. If she even counted as a friend, that is. The other was her childhood bestie slash college roommate, Madi—who just so happened to be Bella’s wife.
The two had been in marital bliss for six months now after years of secretly pining for each other, and Hanna couldn’t have been happier for them. But she missed them, even if she didn’t miss third-wheeling.
Her phone buzzed. Much to her chagrin—and reluctant amusement—Madi had changed the group chat name to penis face and her pussy posse.
Bella: Happy Monday! Just checking in on you, sis. You feeling okay after your chaotic weekend?
Of course, after Bradley had drawn penises all over her face—and Tucker so delicately wiped them off—she texted the group chat to let them know a new top three embarrassing moment had happened to her. She’d left out the part about Tucker out—after all, she still hadn’t told them about Burpgate, or her mortifying encounter with him at the coffee shop. God forbid Madi cling to those as some sort of fucked up meet cutes.
Madi: When I told you to get your needs met I figured you’d get an actual penis in your face…
Hanna rolled her eyes.
Hanna: How very… hetero of you to assume I’d want a penis in my face?
Madi: Hey I don’t know what you straights are into I’m doing my best to be supportive
Hanna laughed.
Hanna: Thanks for checking in guys I’m good. Ready to get back to work and put the weekend behind me. I told the principal about Bradley’s behavior and she’s handling it from here
She put her phone away, sat at her desk, and turned on her computer to prep for another day of teaching rambunctious but lovable kindergarteners.
As Hanna opened her inbox, she stilled.
Tucker Whitlock had emailed her.
Shit.
Then she read the subject line.
What the…
Subject Line: Dinner?
Ms. Taylor,
Or should I call you Hanna? I’m sorry to ruin the mystery, but I couldn’t help myself.
Once I had a lead, my detective instincts took over. Which reminds me of another embarrassing story about myself where—at the ripe age of 14—I decided to start a detective business. I’d watched the Sherlock Holmes movie, and I was inspired.
I’ll spare you the whole story, though I’m certain you’ll enjoy it. After all, it involves a run-in with the police, a dead squirrel, and breaking and entering. But if you drop by my restaurant, maybe I could be convinced to humiliate myself for your entertainment yet again.
—Tucker
Hanna’s heart pounded in her chest as she read the email again.
And again.
And again.
Was he asking her on a date? If so, this was the weirdest way she’d ever been asked out. Which was pretty much par for the course, given all her increasingly odd interactions with Tucker Whitlock.
She bit her lip. He was cute. Charming, even. But she felt herself resisting the urge to respond—resisting the urge to find someone here to be attached to, some reason to stay. She’d spent two years in Orange Beach, trying desperately to make it a home. And though her little apartment on the beach felt cozy and she loved her kindergarteners to death, she missed the one thing she needed more than anything: people.
Hanna had taken it for granted—how wonderful it was to grow up in a small town, walking distance to her friends’ houses. How college had almost been an extension of that, living within minutes of friends and less than an hour from family.
She just didn’t realize how hard it would be to make friends as an adult. Her work friends were nice enough, but they already had their groups—their rhythms and routines. Plus, she was the youngest teacher by about ten years.
She’d tried everything in the two years she’d been at Orange Beach: Bumble BFF, Meetups, Facebook Groups—you name it.
But Hanna was so spectacularly awkward, and it was harder to find common ground with strangers than she expected. Plus, her rambly nature and blunt demeanor often rubbed people the wrong way.
She’d all but given up. After the disastrous Fall Festival, she spent the weekend trying to figure out how soon she could move back home. She knew the kindergarten teacher at the elementary school was retiring soon, so maybe she had a chance of snagging that job. The idea of living near her parents and sister again simultaneously warmed and shattered her heart.
Because she forced herself to face it: she was lonely .
Extremely fucking lonely.
She’d fancied herself adventurous and daring, moving somewhere new.
And now, she knew the truth: she was nothing more than a failure.
But reading Tucker’s email, she felt a spark of hope—one she tried to squash. This couldn’t happen. Not after she’d all but decided she was done here.
But the temptation to respond was too great. And what did she have to lose? So before her kindergarteners showed up ready for a lesson she hadn’t finished prepping for, she began to type.
Tucker had been refreshing his email ever since he emailed Hanna after the Fall Festival.
Never mind that she probably didn’t check her work email on weekends.
Never mind that she might not even bother to respond, anyway.
Never mind that he had work to do.
He was coming off desperate—possibly even just shy of creepy. But he’d been a slave to his business for a couple of years now, too wrapped up in his work to hang out with his best friend, Shawn, or drop by his family’s house for dinner or laugh.
And with Hanna, he laughed more than he had in years. With Hanna, he forgot that work existed—let go of his workaholic tendencies and the steady thrum of low-level panic he’d grown used to over the past few years.
He rubbed his eyes, mentally making a to-do list of everything he needed to get done today. Review seasonal menus. Meet with his line cooks. Plan the specials for the next few weeks. Double check on food shipments. Schedule time with his accountant.
He’d become what he promised himself he wouldn’t: a workaholic. He knew it was a problem. Knew he needed to take more breaks and stop working fifteen days in a row. But how could he, when his employees were counting on him to get paid? When his patrons came to his restaurant wanting to be fed? When he’d finally come so close to realizing his dream, even though he was more burnt out than he was willing to admit?
Tucker knew he was lucky. Most new restaurants failed, and the remaining ones took years to turn a profit. He’d spent a couple of years after culinary school running a small catering business and hosting booths at the local farmer’s market—test runs of a sort, to see if he could expand.
And he did. Everything he worked on eventually became what was now Fish Food, an ocean-front restaurant he was insurmountably proud of. It was a calculated risk, renting the property and taking out loans to revamp the space. But he’d done it, and he was on track to pay back his debts ahead of schedule.
Tucker loved his job. He really did. But he was in that precarious position a lot of business owners face where he wasn’t quite profitable enough to hire extra hands to take some of these tasks from his plate. So he did them—working, sometimes, 70 or 80 hours in a week.
It felt lonely, at times, to run a successful business by himself—to sit on the mountaintop and have nobody to share it with, to work twice the amount of hours as the average person and not have anyone to come home to. Sure, his family was proud and came into the restaurant often. Shawn offered to help out whenever he needed it—an offer Tucker couldn’t quite bring himself to cash in on.
This time next year, he dreamed of bringing on more help. Hiring catering coordinator and a restaurant manager and a controller. Maybe even an administrative assistant for him. In his wildest dreams, he worked 40 hours a week and slept eight hours a night.
But they weren’t there yet. Another tourist season, and it was likely he could make at least one or two of those necessary hires. It was a light at the end of the tunnel for him, even if it was a small light that sometimes felt a million miles away.
Tucker grabbed his phone and refreshed his email again, trying not to be annoyed at himself for compulsively doing so less than a few minutes after the last time.
A smile stretched across his face as he saw a reply from her.
Subject Line: Re: Dinner?
Tucker,
After wiping penises off my face, I think it’s only fair that you get to call me Hanna.
I, too, went through a detective phase. Wasn’t much of a Sherlock girl, though. I preferred Nancy Drew. I read, like, 50 of the Nancy Drew books and then carried around a homemade detective kit for the better part of fourth grade. When kids asked to play with my magnifying glass, I haughtily told them it was not a toy to be played with, but rather a tool for solving crimes. It was all quite dramatic. I felt extremely misunderstood, but perhaps if I’d met 10-year-old Tucker, we could’ve formed a crime-fighting team.
Are you sure you want me to drop by your restaurant? What if there’s a repeat of Burpgate? Proceed at your own risk.
—Hanna
P.S. I still have the detective kit. You know, in case there’s an emergency sleuthing situation.
Tucker’s cheeks hurt as he let out a breathy laugh. She was such a little weirdo. He loved it. Wanted to hear more of her odd stories. Wanted to figure out what else was happening in that beautiful brain of hers.
His fingers rapidly moved across his screen as he responded.
Subject Line: Re: Dinner?
Hanna,
I hope you’re around if I find myself in an emergency sleuthing situation. Sounds like that kit would come in extremely handy. And I hope you know that as a fellow former detective, I’d never degrade your magnifying glass by asking to “play” with it. Who raised those kids? Wolves?
Did I not mention that I hope there is a repeat of Burpgate? I’m only interested in you because of your supreme belching skills.
—Tucker
P.S. What if I told you I walked around with a fake tobacco pipe for years as a child? And that as an adult, I bought myself a real one, because the Sherlock Holmes obsession persists?
He hit send before he could overthink it, pressing his lips together to keep from laughing out loud again. God, she was funny. And awkward, in the most endearing and adorable way. He’d spent maybe a collective hour with her since they met a couple of weeks ago, and he already felt like they had about a dozen inside jokes.
He refreshed his phone again, before setting it down and started working on that to-do list he started earlier. But only a few minutes after he’d emailed his accountant to set up a meeting, another email came through from her.
Subject Line: Re: Dinner?
Tucker,
If you think I’d let you borrow my sleuthing kit, maybe you’re not the seasoned detective I thought you were. Are you saying you don’t have your own?
And I hate to disappoint you, but there will be no repeats of Burpgate if I can help it. I’ve lived through enough embarrassing moments to not willingly put myself through another one. If my belching turns you on, perhaps that’s something we can explore in private. Though, I’ve gotta say, I consider myself pretty open-minded, but I’ve never heard of a belching kink before.
—Hanna
P.S. What if I told you that my kink is tobacco pipes?
Witty—she was so fucking witty, and he’d never get tired of it.
But he needed to nail this date down—get her to say yes, to show up, to make him laugh some more while he treated her to the best food at his restaurant.
Subject line: Re: Dinner?
Hanna,
Okay, so let me make sure I have the itinerary for our first date right. First, I’ll treat you to dinner at my restaurant while I tell you damning stories about my childhood detective experience. Then, you’ll help me make a sleuthing kit before we go back to my place and explore all belching and tobacco pipe related kinks. Do I have that right?
—Tucker
P.S. All jokes aside, please come tonight. 6:30 p.m.? I’ll be the devastatingly handsome man in the trench coat.
He set his phone down and took a deep breath. He hoped she said yes—hoped she let this weird and hilarious bit they had going continue into dinner tonight, where he’d try to woo her into another date.
C’mon, he thought. Take the bait.
Shawn, would get a kick out of Hanna. Would think she’s as hilarious as Tucker did. Would have the best time egging her on.
He hoped he could introduce them at some point—but he was getting ahead of himself.
Tucker was jittery waiting for Hanna’s response. He went back to his to-do list, trying—and failing—to focus.
He refreshed his email again, and her response made him beam.
It was short—to the point.
And it was the answer he hoped for.
6:30 p.m. I’ll be the one with the magnifying glass.