Chapter 9
Grey
I am not hiding from Sabrina Sullivan—and all of my complicated feelings about her—when I send Zen in to Bean & Nugget solo on Tuesday morning.
It’s a responsible business owner thing to get the ball rolling on selling the two other locations that I haven’t seen yet.
Plus, I’m taking advantage of the heated seats in the Mercedes to soothe the ache in my hip from last night’s tumble.
Today is about taking care of myself and giving myself some stress relief.
Even if I’m carrying my phone today.
Damn thing is still pinging off the hook.
Muting the conversations only goes so far when I can still see them every time I open my phone to text Zen about something.
But overall I’m being productive with starting the process of dismantling every bit of Chandler Sullivan’s footprints.
I start at Elk Knee, a town about five miles away as the crow flies but which takes me forty-five minutes to reach on the winding mountain roads that are lined with snow, sometimes slick, and apparently misleading, since I take the wrong turn at least three times.
When I finally locate the small shop, it’s not open despite the posted hours indicating it should be. I can’t reach the manager on the phone, and the neighboring business owner reports he hasn’t seen any staff here in three days.
It’s in line with Zen’s report that they haven’t had any contact with the staff here over email or phone in a few days either.
“Never made any sense that Bean & Nugget opened a shop here,” the neighbor tells me.
“We have two other coffee places that were already popular. Even more popular to argue over which one’s better.
Weren’t gonna pick an outside café to get our coffee when which one of the original two you went to defines your personality here. ”
It’s an easily confirmed story, and I leave town with the trunk of the Mercedes loaded with paper goods and non-perishable food that can be used in Snaggletooth Creek. I’ve already hired a real estate agent to get the building up on the market, so there’s not much else left to do.
My next stop is a quaint little town called Tiara Falls, where Bean & Nugget Café is open but nearly empty of customers.
Despite the dearth of paying patrons, there are five employees hanging out in the kitchen.
All five leap into action cleaning or doing inventory or prepping food for the lunch rush they insist is coming, though the books that I’ve seen indicate it won’t be enough to justify five employees running it.
I get the impression Chandler was in love with the idea of having a café empire in the mountains, but not in love with doing the work of running an empire.
Including market research.
“Is the other café in town that popular?” I ask the acting manager in Tiara Falls.
“It fits the theme,” is the answer I get.
I don’t immediately understand, but when I leave town, it starts to make sense.
Everything is fairy-tale themed. Including Beanstalk .
The very busy roastery on the next block that also serves light breakfast and lunch fare in line with what Bean & Nugget offers.
I’ve given half a thought to converting one of these locations to coworking space, but I don’t need the extra income and the thought of being an office space landlord doesn’t excite me.
Not the way changing Chandler’s hometown location and putting a massive bee on the side of the building excites me.
He killed my research bees.
Intentionally.
And—shocker—set me up to take the fall for it.
So now he’ll see a bee sitting on his family’s building for the rest of his natural life.
I take my time enjoying the snowcapped mountain views on my way back to Snaggletooth Creek, stopping to get that SCOBY on the way.
If it weren’t so damned cold and slippery here—and also where Chandler Sullivan lives, even if he hasn’t shown his face at the café yet—this would be a beautiful place to call home.
I could even see myself learning to ski. Or skate. Or snowshoe.
Which is definitely me in a warm, toasty, heated car talking, and not actual me. My fingers aren’t tingling in the car. My toes aren’t frozen. Not the way they were yesterday just being in the café.
When I pull into the Snaggletooth Creek Bean & Nugget parking lot after a quick stop home to get a batch of kombucha going, Sabrina’s SUV is here, which gives me a hiccup in the heart area.
She hasn’t quit.
Not actually a surprise, but it’s still the first thought in my head.
Am I afraid she’ll quit?
Or am I hoping she’ll quit?
I don’t know.
I just know she’s in my head and I wish she could’ve been someone who didn’t love this café so much. Because I could still be someone who likes her if she didn’t want the exact opposite of what I’m here to do.
I’m contemplating how if I were in her shoes, the last thing I’d do would be to keep working for me as I pull open the kitchen door—where the first thing I see is Jitter.
He’s sleeping in his massive house near the desk, front legs crossed and jowls twitching in his sleep.
The next thing I see is Sabrina herself.
She’s at the sink, her back to me as I make my way through the kitchen, curvy hips shaking in her tight, dark jeans, the apron strings tied around her waist swaying, her curly red hair bouncing in time with her head bopping along to the pop music coming out of the café’s speakers.
She steps onto a stepstool and reaches to put a massive silver bowl up on the wire rack above with hands enclosed in bright yellow rubber kitchen gloves.
And she reaches.
And reaches.
Still shaking her hips.
Still bopping her head.
Her black T-shirt lifts to reveal creamy white skin above her waistband, and yes, my dick instantly notices.
What I wouldn’t give to have never seen this woman naked.
Because it’s all I can think of every time I look at her round, perfect ass.
Why couldn’t she have been one of the worker bees here? Or better yet, the artist next door or a dental assistant up the street?
Someone I could ask out to dinner without worrying that she was only going with me because I own the café she always thought would stay in her family.
She’s as far up on her tiptoes as she can go, and she still can’t reach the upper rack to put the bowl away.
I head across the kitchen to help, and I’m nearly there when she jumps.
From the stepstool.
My entire world freezes while she’s airborne.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I snap before I can stop myself.
She shrieks, stumbles on the landing, and the stepstool slides out from beneath her.
She shrieks again as her feet slide too.
The dog leaps to his feet, making an aroo? like he’s confused but also ready to wake up and take on the world.
I practically fly the rest of the distance to her as her body sways and her arms flail.
She’s teetering and falling.
She’s falling because she was jumping on a stepstool .
I know how this ends, and I see it all happening in slow motion.
This ends with her banging her head on the sink, passing out, and crashing to the ground unconscious. Hurt.
Broken.
Bleeding.
Dying.
The dog charges through his doggy door with a yelp-bark.
I bump my sore hip against the prep table, almost trip over the dog, and lunge for her, grabbing her by the arm as she catches herself on the stainless steel sink with her free hand, spins so her back is to the sink, and recovers.
Without the actual need of my help.
Naturally.
Because she’s some kind of beloved freak who can somehow defy even gravity, and it’s goddamn adorable .
The next time Zen tells me I’m in a mood, I can tell you why.
It’s because Sabrina Sullivan has seeped into my every waking thought and she’s a terrible idea.
“Wow. Well.” She straightens, then seems to realize how close I am as she slowly lifts her head to peer all the way up at me.
“That wasn’t how I saw my early afternoon going, exactly, but would you look at that landing?
Apparently my mom thinking I was short enough to be a gymnast when I was little still has some benefits with dexterity and balance.
But maybe don’t startle people when they’re standing on stepstools next time, boss-man?
Yeah? Great. Good talk. Sit, Jitter. Mama’s fine. ”
Zen, Willa, and Cedar all stare at us from the doorway to the dining room.
I’m still standing too close. I’m still gripping her arm.
I’m so close, when she breathes, her chest brushes my abdomen.
I need to step back.
But I don’t want to.
I don’t want to let go. Not when my brain is still full of images of her sprawled on the floor bleeding out from a head wound and adrenaline is sending my heart into overdrive and putting me at risk of getting my blood pressure into that zone that my doctor told me to avoid.
And especially not when I’m touching her skin with my bare hand, and she’s radiating warmth and her breath is coming more rapidly and her eyes are going dark, and I know she feels this too.
I don’t want to be attracted to this woman.
I don’t want to feel sympathy toward her.
I don’t want to fantasize about the noises she makes when I’m buried up to my balls inside of her and I don’t want to remember how good it felt to make her laugh when she was so sad in Hawaii, or how many times I’ve thought of her since I left the islands.
I don’t .
But I can’t let go.
It feels too damn good to hold on to her no matter how much I logically know this is a bad, bad idea.
“Back, boss-man,” she says. “Like I told my dog, I’m fine.”
She delivers it with a smile, but there’s a bite in her narrowing gaze.
I drop her arm like it’s on fire and step back, nearly tripping over the dog again.
Zen’s amused, which I only know because I know them well enough to spot the subtle smirk barely tipping up their mouth on one side as they stand in the doorway watching me.
The two other crew members watching us look mildly horrified.
“ Sabrina ,” Willa says. “You should’ve asked for help.”