Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Willa
Because I’m living out the adage of a watched pot never boils in the form of an unwanted man always appears , I run into Trey at the grocery store after I leave Archer at the mailboxes.
My ex is at the other end of the cereal aisle, though it takes a good ten seconds of staring at the back of his head for me to recognize him. It’s the hair. Trey always kept his light brown locks neatly trimmed while we were dating. He had a standing once-monthly hair appointment all through college, while I’ve always been more of a take scissors to my hair when the mood hits kind of person.
Which is why mine is currently just brushing my shoulders. I chopped seven inches off last month when two people canceled their cookie orders in the same week. I’m still getting used to the length, but I think it suits me.
Trey’s hair is pulled back in a baby ponytail that’s clearly a man bun in the making. I think maybe I’m wrong—because since when was Trey into man buns?—until I see his unmistakable profile as he grabs a box of cereal. An ultra healthy organic brand, I can’t help but notice.
Is this what happens when you spend a few years in France—you trade short hair for a wannabe man bun and a love of Cap’n Crunch for organic foods that promote healthy digestion and have all the taste of a flattened cardboard box?
I immediately go into stealth mode, ducking down behind the grocery cart and pulling the closest box of cereal in front of my face. Please don’t let him turn around , I plead silently with the universe. I’m not sure why since it clearly hates me. Thankfully, Trey turns left toward the crackers and snack aisle, totally unaware of me surreptitiously peeking at him.
As soon as he’s gone, I backtrack, zipping back down the aisle the way I came and turning toward the seafood area. One thing France can’t have changed is Trey’s shellfish allergy. I’ll just hang out and talk to the lobsters in the tank while I wait a reasonable amount of time for Trey to vacate the premises.
“Hey, guys,” I tell the lobsters as I duck down to their level. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to buy and boil you. I just need to hide out for a bit.”
They wave their rubber-banded claws in either their best version of a thumbs-up or a slow-mo plea for their freedom.
The only thing worse than running into Trey at all would be running into him here . Grocery shopping is one of my all-time favorite activities. It’s also my go-to when I’m stressed, even now, when money is a huge stress point. Adding things to my cart can lift my lowest mood.
And this particular Spring Foods location is my personal happy place. Even though there are other stores closer to my parents’ house, I started shopping here in college, long before I lived at The Serendipity. Since it’s downtown, it’s a little more of a neighborhood store. There’s just a vibe.
Trey knows this. More than once, he accompanied me to this exact store when we were home on break. I have a whole host of memories with him here, like making out in the greeting card aisle. And the frozen foods section. And—well, never mind. Probably more places than I want to think about now.
The first few times I came here after the breakup were tough, but I finally managed to exorcise the memories of Trey so I didn’t have to give up my favorite store.
It’s totally unfair that he’s here now. Moving back to town and shopping in my store? No way.
He and I barely talked after I rejected his proposal, but I assumed I got custody of this store in the split. He can have every other Spring Foods and all the Hannafords. Even a Walmart grocery store if he wants to go that route.
Wherever Trey wants to shop, that’s fine. But this is my Spring Foods, and he knows it.
Or he should . Even after four years apart, Trey should remember that this is my signature store and choose another out of respect. But maybe he’s moved on to the point that he doesn’t remember. Or care.
I honestly don’t know which is worse: him not remembering, or him remembering and not caring.
It’s a moot point when what I’m really worried about right now is Trey spotting me. Because I am in no way mentally or emotionally or vocabulary-ally prepared to speak to him right now. I will absolutely end up having an I carried a watermelon word vomit moment if he tries to talk to me.
I thought I had time before running into him. Like, maybe a few months. Or a year. Plenty of time to go over potential scenarios in my head and come up with wonderful and witty things to say. The kinds of things that don’t make me sound like a total loser who’s still living in the same town, still single, and about to bankrupt my small business, while he’s back from France with a new fiancée.
And an attempt at a man bun , I remind myself, which gives me some small semblance of satisfaction. I mean, good for guys who can pull off a man bun. Some do exist. Usually the lumberjack type, pairing it with a full beard, soulful eyes, and flannel.
But that’s a very short list, and I can guarantee Trey will never be on it. I’m not being petty. Just honest. He’s got more of a soft, happy face without the kind of bone structure that can offset a man bun.
“Just think of the bullet I dodged,” I tell the lobsters. But they’ve lost interest in my drama and have slowly drifted toward the other end of the tank.
Where, unfortunately for me and my verbal processing to captive crustaceans, an actual customer now stands. Since I’m still crouching, the first thing I see through the tank is a dark suit. Who wears a suit grocery shopping?
With almost as much cold dread as I felt seeing Trey, my brain immediately thinks of one person who would absolutely wear a suit to the grocery store. He’d probably also wear it to get a new driver’s license or to a sporting event, were he to ever attend such a thing.
Archer Gaines. Because of course he would also be shopping at my favorite store right now. It’s how my life works.
But I’m not positive it’s him until Archer ducks down, his face appearing on the other side of the tank. Our gazes lock with lobsters between us. His irritated expression is comically distorted through the water, making his normally sharp jaw look wider and rounder, giving Mr. Potato Head vibes. It also creates the illusion of Eugene Levy eyebrows.
I stand up. Across from me, Archer straightens to his full height, frowning deeply.
“You’re ubiquitous,” I tell him, shaking my head.
His frown deepens. “I’m what?”
“It means everywhere at once.”
I don’t know why, but I remember almost all my high school vocabulary words, and ubiquitous was one. Perfect for Archer since I can’t escape him. Even when I really, really want to. Like right now, when I’m already trying to avoid someone else I really don’t want to see.
Get in line, buddy.
Though, in this case, I’m surprised to feel like Archer is the lesser of two evils. I can’t even muster up anger when I think about him ruining my business and essentially kicking me out of my apartment.
“What brings you to Spring Foods on this fine day?” I ask. “Spring Foods doesn’t really seem like your scene.”
I glance pointedly at the giant chicken mural above our heads. Since we’re in the seafood section, it’s a chicken with a mermaid tail, which I guess makes it a merchicken?
When I was in high school, Spring Foods decided to start a loyalty program for customers. And whatever genius was in charge of this campaign named the loyalty members Spring Chickens. Serendipity Springs heartily embraced this, which led to the company really going all in on the Spring Chickens thing. There are chickens everywhere. Bumper stickers that say I’m a Spring Chicken! And a whole line of t-shirts. The first official day of spring every year, the stores all have someone dress up like a chicken and take pictures with kids, kind of like Santa or the Easter Bunny.
Needless to say, Archer Gaines is no Spring Chicken.
Archer’s gaze follows mine to the merchicken, and his grumpy expression intensifies. “Grocery stores in general aren’t my scene ,” he mutters. “But I couldn’t get delivery to work.”
“What do you mean you couldn’t get it to work?” I know for a fact that several different stores will deliver groceries to The Serendipity. If I have to worry about running into both Trey and Archer here, I might be forced to switch to delivery myself.
“It just … wouldn’t work.” Archer glares down at the phone in his hand, and I don’t miss the way his grip tightens around it. “Like everything else right now,” he mutters. “ Nothing works.”
Bellamy’s words choose this moment to come back to me. He deserves a chance.
The stubborn part of me still doesn’t want to give him one. But I’m softening as I watch the tension radiating off him.
Archer strikes me as intensely private and closed off. But I can’t miss the obvious signs of stress. The mints are nowhere to be seen, but it’s in the flush of his cheeks and the white-knuckled grip on his phone. There’s almost a visible shimmer of tension radiating off his body, like heat on a summer blacktop.
This is more than stress. It’s the tight coil of anxiety I wish I weren’t intimately familiar with.
I don’t want to feel sympathy or empathy or any other - pathy toward Archer. And yet the man seems to be constantly drawing my unwanted feelings to the surface.
Like the attraction I felt tying on his apron or when we were lying on the floor during the possum incident. That was some intense chemistry—until I remembered who I was chemistry-ing with. Definitely didn’t want to feel that.
Or any echo of it now, staring at Archer across a lobster tank and underneath a merchicken mural.
I don’t want to be attracted to Archer, and I also don’t want to have compassion for him.
“Were you talking to the lobsters?” he asks.
“I, um … no? Okay, fine. Yes.” I glance back into the tank, where the lobsters are now ignoring us. “A little. They’re good listeners.”
“Do you always talk to your dinner before eating it?” he asks.
I blink at him. His stern, handsome face only shows the slightest hint of amusement in the tiniest curl on one side of his lips. “Another joke from you. I think you met your quota for the month. Anyway, I don’t eat lobster. Or anything I have to look in the eyes.”
“You’re a vegetarian?”
“Not technically. Not fully. Just”—I give the lobsters another look—“if I have to face my food.”
Which is partly because watching so many cute cow videos on Instagram makes it hard to eat hamburgers, but also because I’m on a tight budget.
“Are you buying lobsters?” I ask, hoping the answer is no. I’m getting a little attached. These are my emotional support when you run into your ex and also your sworn enemy you’re also attracted to lobsters.
“I don’t even like seafood,” Archer says. “But I can’t find anything in this store. I’m just walking in circles.”
One glance at his cart shows me it is completely empty, save a lonely head of cabbage. “You found the cabbage. That’s a start.”
“That’s not lettuce?”
I’m starting to wonder if Archer has ever set foot in a grocery store before today. “No, it’s not lettuce.”
He stares at the cabbage like it’s a complicated math formula. “But I can still eat it in a salad.”
“Not unless you’re making a slaw. Do you want some help?”
Archer’s frown becomes frownier. “I can figure it out.”
“I’m sure you can,” I say, though the cabbage he thought was lettuce tells a different story. “But I’m here and?—”
“Willa?”
Turns out, not even lobsters can shield me from Trey. Because here he is, standing at the end of the lobster tank, placing me in the most awkward non-love triangle possible between my ex and a man I barely know but whose closet I’ve magically transported to twice.
I would give my right arm to step into my closet right now and be magically transported to anywhere but here.
On the plus side, there is no rush of strong, painful feelings as I square my shoulders and face my ex for the first time in four years. There’s no longing for what we had, no sense of regret. Not even nostalgia, if I’m being honest. Overall, I feel a surprising but pleasing lack of deep feelings as I come face-to-face with my ex-almost-fiancé.
But the moment is painfully and potently awkward. It practically shimmers in the air as Trey and I size each other up.
With his hair pulled back, Trey’s face looks rounder. Or maybe that’s just the result of a lot of French food? I remember once feeling like I could get lost in his eyes, which now look to me like a very forgettable basic brown. I’m having a hard time remembering why I fell for him—and especially why I stayed with him for so long.
I know we had good times, but even as I try to locate a bright, happy memory, they all seem a little meh .
“Hey, Trey.” I barely restrain myself from adding long time no see , but unfortunately do blurt out, “Ha—that rhymes.”
I briefly consider climbing into the lobster tank, but instead I plaster a smile on my face that feels half deranged while trying to decide what to do with my arms.
Why is it that anytime I’m in an uncomfortable situation, my arms suddenly become the only thing I’m aware of? I cross them over my chest, which looks too defensive and confrontational, but when I drop them, it feels like they’re dead weight attached to my body. Like Frankenstein arms, sewn on from some other person.
Ew . Apparently, it’s not just my arms that get weird but my brain.
Trey offers me a smile that’s a little too genuine, then says, “I can see you haven’t changed.”
Though I don’t think he means this to be offensive, I’m offended all the same. But I choose to be the better person and hold my tongue rather than make a snarky comment about his attempt at a man bun.
“So, I hear you’re back in town,” I say.
“I am.” He pauses, his expression shifting. “Did you also hear that I’m engaged?”
Again, there’s nothing painful about hearing his words, but the awkward-o-meter is now reaching maximum levels. I mean, did he have to bring it up? He’s basically creating a new, horrible core memory in my favorite grocery store.
“Congrats,” I say, hating that the word sounds insincere.
The last thing I want is for Trey to think I’m not over him. I don’t want him to imagine me pining over him for the last four years. Which would be acutely embarrassing. And untrue.
“That’s really great. Is she French?”
He laughs, and I’m not sure why this is a funny question. Then he stops abruptly, staring in a way that makes me even more uncomfortable.
It’s shock mixed with a little bit of what looks like guilt.
“I thought your mom would have told you,” Trey says.
“Told me what?”
But before he can drop the anvil of whatever horrible truth my mother failed in her maternal duty to tell me, a throat clears.
I turn, and Archer has left his cart and is now standing at my elbow. Though I still think it’s ridiculous he’s wearing a suit in a grocery store, he does wear it well. And I mean well .
Archer clears his throat again, his gaze never leaving mine. His face is always hard to read—a problem when your jaw seems chiseled from stone and permanently set in a frown—but I try anyway. And fail. Whatever he’s trying to silently convey, I’m not getting the message.
Wait, is he … trying to rescue me from this clearly uncomfortable situation?
Nothing in my interactions with Archer has given me the impression he likes to help people. Me, in particular.
“How long will this take?” he demands.
I suspect Archer didn’t intend for this question to come out so harshly, in a cracked whip of words. But the man is a snapping turtle in a suit.
I find myself grinning. Why is his grouchiness suddenly so amusing to me?
Oh, right—because he’s wedging it right between my ex and me like a solid wall of protective grump.
There’s a good chance Archer isn’t trying to save me at all but is actually in a hurry to get done shopping and has decided he does want my help. That seems more likely given our interactions, but either way, I’ll take it.
Now, Trey is the one clearing his throat, bringing me back to myself.
“Right. Archer, this is Trey Fletcher. Trey, Archer Gaines.”
I don’t offer up any titles or explanations. At this point, they don’t seem necessary and could only make things more awkward.
“There you are! I thought I lost you.” Another voice, almost—no, more —unwelcome than Trey’s cuts in.
The woman walking toward us is all brown doe eyes and a bubblegum smile—until she sees me. Then the smile slips right off her face as her gaze shifts to Trey. I can’t miss the ring on her finger. The thing could be used to direct planes to the right runway.
“Hey, Mel,” I say. “It’s been a while.”
Long enough for you to get engaged to my ex.
Mel and I are old friends in the sense of old news. As in, our friendship is totally a thing of the past.
And I’m glad because if it hadn’t been, it would be now.
I’m not one of those women who feels like they can keep some kind of claim on an ex. I feel no ownership over Trey. Not after four years.
I wish him happiness. Long life. Love, I guess.
But love with a woman who had been one of my closest friends for years —a woman who met Trey through me when we were dating?
She places her hand over Trey’s on the cart handle, like they’re about to walk through the store, pushing it together as a show of couple unity. It makes me want to barf.
It just feels so intentionally dramatic. Like, let’s not just stab you in the back, but do it with ten pitchforks, a couple of swords, and then run you over with a steamroller for good measure. Especially considering the way Mel disappeared at a particularly critical time for me—just after I said no to Trey’s proposal and he left for France.
Only now I’m wondering if this is the reason why my friendship with Mel ended. Did she ghost me because she was angling to be my replacement with Trey?
Not cool, Mel. Or Trey. Not cool either of you.
Archer moves slightly, leaning in so his arm rests against mine. It’s an oddly comforting gesture coming from him. I glance up, and his gray-blue eyes lock on mine.
“Sorry to cut this reunion short,” Archer says, not looking sorry and not looking at them at all, “but we need to get going.”
Does he realize how … couple-y that sounds?
“We should have dinner!” Mel definitely got the couple vibe, and her features brighten as I drag my gaze away from Archer. “Just the four of us!”
Trey looks like she’s just suggested he go skinny-dipping in a piranha tank. I’m sure my face expresses similar horror.
“Mel,” Trey says, a note of pleading in his tone. Like maybe they’ve talked about this before, and he’s already told her it’s a bad idea.
I’m trying to find a vague way of saying no, not even if this were the zombie apocalypse and they were the only ones with a fortified shelter and a stockpile of food, when Archer says, “We’re busy.”
With two words—two and a half, if we’re being technical about the contraction—Archer just declined the terrible offer while doubling down on the couple thing.
The idea has my cheeks going hot. Also, now I feel terrible for not helping him with something so simple as a mailbox combination when he’s stepping in to save me from a dreadful ex encounter.
“Oh. Okay. That’s fine.” Mel’s face falls, but I can’t bring myself to feel bad for her.
I distinctly remember texting Mel in the dark days after Trey left for Paris. She sent back things like crying face emojis. Then stopped responding at all.
Yeah … that ship has sailed. Sorry not sorry, Mel. Shrugging emoji.
Trey offers up a tight-lipped smile and starts to steer the cart away with a half-hearted goodbye.
If I were a stronger, mouthier woman who spoke comebacks out loud instead of replaying the moment with the perfect reaction hours later, I’d call after Trey and tell him to pick a different store because this one is mine .
But I just lift a hand and give a limp wave of relief to see them go.
Archer shows zero interest in goodbyes or pleasantries of any kind, and I respect that. His attention is still focused solely on me, and I wonder briefly what it would be like to have this kind of intensity directed my way in a different context.
I shiver. Archer frowns.
Then he shocks me for a second time by taking off his suit jacket and draping it over my shoulders.
“You’re cold,” he says.
I’m really not, but I am instantly warmer as I push my arms through the too-big sleeves.
“Thank you.”
Archer only nods, then glances down at his phone, where I can see a grocery list.
Right—I said I’d help him with groceries. I lost the plot there for a moment.
I mentally prepare for him to ask intrusive questions like, Who were those people and You dated that guy? but thankfully, Archer doesn’t.
He just stands there, like a big, handsome tree trunk of a grump in his button-down shirt and tie.
“Sorry about my, uh, friends,” I say.
“They didn’t seem like friends.”
He’s right—more than he can possibly know—and I admire his perceptiveness. It also kind of terrifies me.
What else does this man see?
“Well, thank you for stepping in.”
Archer’s steely eyes study me, and I tug his jacket tighter around my body. “You didn’t need saving. But someone did need to put that uncomfortable conversation out of its misery.”
I can’t help but laugh at this, and as the corner of Archer’s mouth lifts a fraction, Bellamy’s words start looping through my mind again.
Maybe my best cookie client is right about his boss. At least partially. Archer is still putting me out of business and basically evicting me due to rent increases, so he’s not all good.
So why am I thawing toward the man?
It’s more than a thaw, as I realize how close we’re still standing and how warm his jacket is and how handsome he is when his face softens a little.
Oh, who am I kidding. I am starting to melt for a man I halfway hate. What does this say about me?
The lobsters wave their antennas at me, almost like they’re offering up encouragement. If one of them pops out of the tank and starts singing “Kiss the Girl,” it won’t shock me. Not after the last ten days of coincidences and unexplained phenomena.
Also, I’d be lying if the idea of kissing Archer hasn’t tip-toed through my mind as I stand here in his jacket, cocooned in his masculine scent. Especially not after he just helped me through the kind of awkward moment people usually only experience in their nightmares.
“I have a proposition for you,” Archer says.
“Okay. Shoot.”
“You offered to help me with groceries.”
“I did.”
The long pause is almost enough to make me grab him by the tie and yank the words out of him.
“I need … more help.”
He says the word help like it’s the dirtiest of all four-letter words, and I find myself biting back a smile. I don’t want to laugh at him. But he’s making it hard just by being himself.
“I need to hire someone who can help manage things at The Serendipity.”
Well, that was unexpected.
He pauses, like he’s waiting for me to fill in the blanks. And in a strange kind of irony, it seems like he’s offering me a job, but I’m still not fully comprehending.
Archer wants to hire me to help manage The Serendipity?
“Bellamy suggested I ask you,” he adds.
Ah, Bellamy. This makes much more sense. I can’t see this being Archer’s idea. Though with the confusing cocktail of signals Archer has been serving up, you never know.
“Is this just until Bellamy gets back?”
Archer shakes his head. “Bellamy mostly handles things related to my business in New York. He won’t be helping much with the day-to-day operations here, and that’s what I need. Someone who knows the area and the building and is good with details and … people.”
It’s a job , the lobsters seem to be telling me. Stop questioning it and say yes!
Honestly, the idea of a job practically has me salivating. I won’t have to think about moving—or worse, moving home.
Working with Archer, however, I’m less sure of. For multiple reasons. His prickly personality, for one, and the fact that he is the reason I need a job.
Then there are the moments, fueled by some kind of temporary insanity, in which I feel a sharp tug of attraction to Archer. I definitely don’t want to put myself in a position to encourage any of that nonsense.
“How do you know I’m good at those things?” I ask.
“Your cookies,” he says simply.
“My cookies?”
“Baking is precise. So is your attention to detail in decorating.”
“Oh. Thanks.” My cheeks feel suddenly too warm.
“And just about anyone is better at dealing with people than me.”
I can’t help it. I snort. Then cover my mouth.
Archer looks shocked for a moment, then there’s that tiny tilt in his lips again. Not a half smile, but a quarter smile.
“Would this be full-time? Part-time? Benefits?”
“Whatever you need it to be.”
“Short-term or long-term?”
“Again, it could be either. I know you have your business to run.”
Ha! That’s where he’s wrong.
Although working for Archer would buy me some time to make Serendipitous Sweets profitable. Maybe I could even negotiate working in the commercial kitchen as part of the package.
“One of your tasks could be to find a longer-term replacement for you so you can focus on your business. Or if you’d like to stay on, we can consider this on a trial basis.”
“What would my duties be?”
To his credit, Archer answers all my questions without any hint that he’s frustrated or impatient. “At first, putting out a number of fires. I can’t seem to get anyone to call me back, and I need a service to clean the building, an exterminator for the opossums, a plumber for the backed-up sink on the third floor. As well as some things that would fall more under the role of a personal assistant. Taking messages, completing simple administrative tasks.”
“Okay,” I find myself saying. “Yes. But I have a condition.”
“Only one?”
I can’t tell if he’s teasing or not, so I just barrel on as though he’s not. “I’d like to have use of the commercial kitchen be a part of the employment package.”
His jaw flexes once. Irritation? Begrudging respect?
A toothache?
“You can have that regardless of whether you accept the job. Any other conditions?”
I desperately want to add a laundry list of them since he’s being so accommodating, but his response momentarily shocks me into silence.
“Fine. What’s your phone number?” he says.
Though I know he’s not asking for personal reasons, I still have a nervous, fluttery feeling as I recite my number. Immediately, my phone buzzes with a text.
“Now you have mine as well,” Archer says. “Also, I sent my grocery list. You can start with that. Just bring the groceries up to my apartment when you get back.”
And without giving me even a moment to respond, Archer turns on his heel, leaving me with his jacket, a grocery list, and an ogling pair of lobsters. Oh, and a new job I might really regret—namely, because of my new boss.