Chapter 13
Bryan pushed through the door of Harbor Brew, scanning the crowded coffee shop for Cassidy. He spotted her immediately at the corner table, surrounded by the Harbor Ladies Club like some kind of corporate diplomat who’d wandered into enemy territory and somehow survived.
He should probably rescue her. Those four women could reduce grown men to stammering apologies with nothing more than a pointed look and a well-timed sigh.
Except she wasn’t stammering. She was laughing.
“Dorothy, I absolutely agree,” Cassidy said as she leaned forward with her hands wrapped around a coffee mug.
“The traditional fish fry has to be the centerpiece. But what if we also added a recipe contest? Local families could submit their best seafood dishes, and we’d feature the winners at the festival.
It honors the cooking traditions while getting more people involved. ”
Dorothy, the most formidable of the Harbor Ladies, tilted her head with approval. “You’re saying people would compete to be part of the menu?”
“Exactly. We could call it the Starlight Shores Heritage Recipe Competition. First place gets their dish featured with their family name on the festival program. It’s not about changing tradition. It’s about celebrating it.”
“Hmm.” Dorothy exchanged glances with the other three women. “That might work.”
He blinked. Dorothy had just said something might work. To an outsider. To Cassidy Wren, who less than two weeks ago had been public enemy number one for suggesting they needed to change anything at all.
“I’ll draft the competition rules this afternoon,” Cassidy continued. She pulled out her phone and started typing notes. “We should probably cap entries at twenty to keep judging manageable. And we’ll need a panel of judges. Would the four of you be willing to serve?”
Jan appeared at his elbow with a knowing smile. “She’s been at it for an hour. Got Mildred to volunteer for the historical photo display and convinced Ruth to organize the kids’ sandcastle competition.”
“The Harbor Ladies are actually listening to her.”
“More than listening. They like her.” Jan refilled a nearby customer’s coffee, then added, “Town’s buzzing about how she saved the dock supplies during the storm. People respect someone who’ll ruin a pair of expensive shoes to protect what matters.”
He watched Cassidy gesture animatedly as she explained her vision for the recipe competition.
Her hair was pulled back with a loose clip instead of her usual sleek style, and she wore shorts and a simple cotton shirt rather than the designer blazers she’d arrived in.
She looked comfortable. She looked happy.
She looked nothing like the rigid, over-caffeinated executive who’d marched into that first committee meeting with a color-coded presentation and an attitude sharp enough to cut glass.
“I should probably interrupt before they rope her into running the entire town,” he said.
Jan laughed. “Too late. Sally already asked if she’d help with the Christmas parade.”
But then, she wouldn’t be here at Christmas, would she?
He pushed the thought away and made his way through the crowded coffee shop, catching fragments of conversation about fishing regulations and tourist season and whether the Johnsons would finally fix their dock before someone got hurt.
The familiar rhythm of small-town life that had always grounded him.
“Bryan!” Cassidy spotted him and waved. “Perfect timing. We were just talking about the food vendors.”
The Harbor Ladies turned their collective attention his way. Dorothy fixed him with a look that probably meant he was about to be volunteered for something.
“Your mother’s clam chowder recipe,” Dorothy said. It wasn’t a question. “It needs to be part of the Heritage Recipe Competition.”
“Mom would love that,” Bryan said. “But she’d probably want to enter it properly, not get special treatment.”
“Smart woman.” Dorothy nodded with approval, then gathered her things. “We’ll leave you two to discuss the menu planning. Cassidy, dear, send me those competition rules by Friday.”
The four women departed in a wave of floral perfume and satisfied murmurs. Cassidy stared after them with an expression somewhere between triumph and disbelief.
“Did Dorothy just call me ‘dear’?”
“You’ve been officially adopted.” He slid into the chair across from her, grinning. “Congratulations. There’s no escape now.”
“I’m not sure I want to escape.” She glanced down at her phone, where her notes app was filled with lists and ideas. “They know so much about this town. The stories they told about past festivals and about why certain traditions matter. It’s incredible.”
Something shifted inside him as he watched her scroll through her notes with genuine enthusiasm. This wasn’t the polished professional executing a marketing strategy. This was someone who actually cared.
“I wanted to ask you something,” he said. “We’re doing a taste test tonight at the Sandpiper. Menu planning for the festival food. I thought you might want to be there. You know, since you’re co-chair and all.”
She looked up. “A taste test?”
“My family’s been making the same dishes for three generations.
We need to figure out what works for a festival setting versus the restaurant.
Smaller portions, easier to eat while walking, that kind of thing.
” He rubbed the back of his neck. Why was this suddenly awkward?
“Mom’s going to be there. And my sister, Lucy. It’s casual. Just family and food.”
“You want me to meet your mother?”
The way she said it made it sound like he’d proposed something far more significant than a menu tasting. Heat crept up his neck.
“She’s going to be at the festival anyway,” he said quickly. “And she keeps asking about the woman who rescued the supply tent in a thunderstorm. Might as well get the interrogation over with.”
Cassidy smiled, and it transformed her whole face. Not the polished professional smile she’d worn at that first meeting, but something genuine and a little uncertain.
“I’d like that,” she said. “What time?”
“Seven. Come hungry.”
Bryan spent the afternoon second-guessing every decision he’d made in the last four hours. Why had he invited Cassidy to a family dinner? This was supposed to be a working relationship. Professional. Focused on saving the festival and protecting the waterfront from developers like George Morton.
Except it hadn’t felt professional when they’d worked together on her cottage porch last week, trading stories about their lives while planning vendor layouts.
And it definitely hadn’t felt professional when she’d texted him a photo of a terrible motivational poster she’d seen at the general store with the note: Found your leadership style.
He’d laughed so hard he’d nearly dropped his phone in the harbor.
“You’re pacing.” His mother appeared in the doorway of the Sandpiper’s kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“You only pace when something’s bothering you.” She studied him with the x-ray vision that all mothers seemed to possess. “Is this about the festival?”
“The festival’s fine. Great, actually. Cassidy’s got sponsors lined up, the Harbor Ladies are helping with volunteers, and we’ve already got twice as many vendor applications as last year.”
“Cassidy.” His mother’s expression shifted into something that made Bryan immediately suspicious. “The woman you invited to dinner tonight.”
“It’s not dinner. It’s a menu tasting. For work.”
“Mmhmm.” She turned back to the stove, but he could hear the smile in her voice. “I made the clam chowder. And the grouper. And the key lime pie.”
“Mom.”
“What? You said taste test. I’m testing.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Does this Cassidy have any food allergies I should know about?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so, or you don’t know?”
Bryan pulled out his phone and texted Cassidy. Any food allergies?
Her response came immediately. No. Why?
My mother’s asking.
Tell her I eat everything. And that I’m looking forward to meeting her.
He showed his mother the message. She read it, then patted his cheek like he was twelve years old.
“I like her already,” she said.
He glanced at the back room one more time.
The Sandpiper’s back room had exposed brick walls, vintage fishing photographs, and a long wooden table that had hosted everything from family dinners to town council meetings.
Bryan had set six places, then removed three, then put them back.
Finally, he’d settled on four: himself, Mom, his sister Lucy, and Cassidy.
Casual. Professional. Definitely not a date.
He walked out to the main restaurant when the door opened. Cassidy stood in the entrance, backlit by the sunset over the Gulf. She’d changed into a soft blue dress that made her eyes look even brighter, and she held a bottle of wine like a peace offering.
“I wasn’t sure if I should bring something,” she said. “But I figured wine was safe.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.” She stepped inside and looked around the restaurant with obvious appreciation. The dinner rush was in full swing, so the main room was filled with chatter. She stepped closer. “Bryan, this place is beautiful.”
He tried to see it through her eyes. The weathered wooden tables, the nautical decor that was probably twenty years out of style, and the slightly crooked floorboards that no one had bothered to fix because they’d been that way since the building was constructed.
“It’s old,” he said.
“It’s authentic.” She walked to the wall of photographs, studying the black-and-white images of fishing boats and harbor scenes. “Is this your grandfather?”
Bryan joined her at the photo she’d indicated. His grandfather stood on the deck of a shrimp boat, sun-weathered and grinning, holding up the day’s catch.
“That’s him. Took that boat out every morning for forty years.”
“You look like him.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”