Chapter Twelve
Although he was forced to get up with the roosters to exercise during the week, Hank had never been a morning person on the weekends. Until now.
Somehow, he managed to show up at Grandma Lou’s, freshly showered and dressed, by nine the next day, which he considered a minor miracle.
Bethany wasn’t present to notice and be impressed by his early arrival.
Travis was behind the counter. The pleasant young man from the day before had morphed into an unhappy proprietor.
“Why are you here?” He greeted Hank with a grunt, wiping his hands on a towel as if he were a boxer anticipating a fight.
“For a donut. I’ll take one of those chocolate ones with the sprinkles.” Hank pointed at a display of pastries. “And a cup of coffee, black.”
Travis glared at him, and Hank thought he might refuse, but he turned and grabbed a coffee cup. He must have decided to keep silent in favor of a sale. Smart kid.
Travis pulled a donut off the paper, put it into a brown paper bag, and shoved it at Hank, along with the cup of coffee. “One donut and coffee to go. That’ll be four-fifty.” He curled his lip. “What’s with the shiny new toolbox?”
Hank gave him an easy smile. “You like it? Bought it across the street just now.”
Travis’s expression did not change. Hank continued. “I had some downtime, so I thought I’d check the place out this morning. Make a few repairs.”
Travis narrowed his eyes, his displeasure filling his entire face, all the way to his hairline.
Hank kept his tone casual. “I’m the landlord and the building needs attention. Where’s your sister?”
“Not here.”
Obviously. Hank smothered a sigh. “When do you expect her?”
Travis stiffened, jutting his chin. “Not sure. She didn’t say.” He thrust a hand out to Hank with his change.
Hank didn’t move. “You keep it.”
Travis did the staring act again before pulling his hand back with the generous tip. The kid showed promise . . . reminded him of Connor.
Hank’s phone buzzed in his pants pocket.
He turned and found a booth to unload his stuff before checking the number.
Elizabeth. He had forgotten. She’d arranged some publicity stunt for the day.
He breathed deeply and tried to dispel the feeling of doom that hung over him like a dark cloud.
He had promised her he would pump iron at the local gym to attract a crowd, so she could plug some pics of him on Instagram .
. . or maybe it was TikTok. He had trouble keeping track.
Hank sent Elizabeth a text to reschedule and set the phone down to devour the donut.
Pastries two days in a row and no workout.
He would need to redouble his efforts on Monday.
Not today, though. Today he’d reserved for himself and Bethany Parker.
If she ever showed. Last night, he’d ordered New York City cheesecake to be delivered after Rosie told him it was Bethany’s favorite.
Now he only needed to convince her to have dinner with him.
He watched the door like a hawk in between checking his texts.
Then he remembered the wobbly chair and that he was supposed to be fixing things.
So he crawled under the table to give it a look and that’s how he overheard the women.
“No dogs allowed in the place, Daphne. Remember, the owner doesn’t like them.”
From his vantage point under the table, Hank noticed two pairs of women’s feet some distance away. One of them wore stilettos. His gaze rose a little higher to take in a pair of long and shapely legs.
“How could I forget after the scene she made the last time. Not to worry. I left poor Gulliver in the car and cracked the windows. What’s she got against dogs, anyway? She lets that old man in here with his awful cat all the time. It’s not fair.”
The door jangled, but before Hank could crawl out from under the table to see who’d entered, the other woman’s next words stopped him.
“I knew her in high school. Straight-A student. She’s one of those business sorts, you know. Never married, no kids . . . a cat lady . . .”
This last was said as if liking cats was the worst thing in the world, which was not far off from Hank’s general feeling about cats, but still . . .
“. . . surprised her restaurant is failing.”
“I heard from a friend she did have a fiancé, but the guy stole money from her and took off. That’s why the business is doing so badly. They can barely keep the lights on. A shame ’cause the food is good.”
“Yeah, she dated the guy on that cooking show . . . what’s the name . . . Chef Master or something.”
The woman who knew Bethany in high school let out a high-pitched cackle, which made all the hairs on the back of Hank’s neck stand on end.
“No, silly, the Chef King. He lives in New York and has his own cooking show. But he’s back in town. I ran into him at the grocery store yesterday. Said he was working on an idea for the next episode.”
“That’s cool. Well, I heard she’s entering some baking contest to try and save the place. The winning restaurant gets a pretty hefty sum of money.”
“Hey, we’d better grab a table. This place is filling up fast. Imagine Apollo turning up in our little neck of the woods. If you see him, holler. I wanna get his autograph.”
The voices faded as the women crossed to the opposite corner of the café, and Hank let out his breath.
Not surprising some of his die-hard fans would show up on the chance he would be here.
He should have thought of that. But now he had something more to think about.
Bethany and the Chef King. A dark feeling settled in his stomach like a bad dream.
Hank wedged a folded napkin beneath the chair leg to keep it from wobbling and dragged himself out from under it to sit at the table, doing his best to remain hidden. If he were going to make Grandma Lou’s a hangout, he’d need to come up with some sort of disguise.
He whipped out his cell phone and did a quick search for Chef King.
An image popped up of a clean-shaven man, thirtyish, with spiked brown hair.
Hank scanned the caption—Man Candy: Desmond Mitchell talks about life as the Chef King.
He was dressed in a blazer and a collared shirt, open at the neckline.
The crossed arms and expression on his face smacked of confidence and ego and a certain weakness—like he would throw a temper tantrum if he didn’t get his way.
The doorbell chimed and Hank glanced toward the entrance. A dozen people, give or take, came through the doorway. No Bethany. He stifled his disappointment.
Someone tapped his arm. Hank turned to see a teenager with purple hair and a spike through her lip. She held out a black Sharpie. “Oh, wow, Apollo. My friends are never gonna believe this. Can I get your autograph?”
Jingle-jingle. The door was on a continuous ringer. Still no sign of Bethany in the crowd.
“Uh, sure.” Hank took the pen and stood. “You have something to write on?”
“Yeah.” She drew her pants partway down, exposing white skin beneath a deep tan line, and pointed at her bottom.
Hank chuckled. This wasn’t the first time he’d been asked to sign a body part. He’d signed hands, arms, backs, knees, legs, and even foreheads. He drew the line at teenage asses, though. “I don’t think so.”
“Worth a shot.” The girl grinned.
Hank couldn’t help but laugh. “How ’bout I sign your arm. What’s your name?”
The girl held out her arm. “Name’s Angie but everyone around here calls me Angel.”
“You come here often, Angel?” Hank signed his name with a flourish and handed her the marker.
“Yeah, my parents own the antique bazaar next door. I wait tables on weekends when this place is busy. Like today. The whole city’s here to see you.”
Hank glanced up and groaned. A line had formed behind Angel, winding around chairs and tables toward the front.
The woman with the long legs stood near the exit.
He should have given more thought to his role .
. . dressed the part. He was supposed to be a maintenance man, not a TV star. “Angel, have you seen Bethany?”
“She’s not in early on Saturdays. Hey, is it true you now own this building? My dad says you’re going to make us all leave.”
Hank frowned. “No one’s leaving.” He pointed at his toolbox. “I’m here to help. Tell your folks I’ll be stopping by to make repairs.”
Angel eyed her arm, tracing her finger over his signature. “Really? That’s so cool. Hey, will you take a selfie with me?”
“Sure.” Hank put his arm around her shoulders and flashed a smile as Angel held up her phone.
He might as well spend the morning signing autographs. As long as he was in the building, the crowd wasn’t going away, and it would make Elizabeth happy. He would go back to being the dang maintenance guy when Bethany showed up.
Bethany breezed through Grandma Lou’s creaky back door and hung her purse and jacket in the small locker where she kept her things. Although she’d come in the back, it seemed more cars than usual had been parked on the side streets.
She dug the copy of her grandmother’s prized chocolate cake recipe from the cookbook and smoothed the worn paper on the worktable.
For what must have been the hundredth time, she studied the ingredients with her penciled-in notes.
She had memorized the recipe long ago, but looking at her grandmother’s familiar scrawl and the cluster of food stains on the paper bolstered her confidence.
Time was running out to tweak the recipe. Her entry was due online in six days.
Loud chatter came from the dining room, indicating an influx of customers.
Bethany left the recipe on the worktable, washed her hands, and put on her apron.
The cupcakes would have to wait. The menu was simple on Saturdays—soup, quiche, and various salads and sandwiches—but Travis and Angel wouldn’t be able to handle a large crowd alone.
She collided with her brother as she headed out of the kitchen. “Is everything okay?”
“Bethany, you’re here. I just sent you a text. Apollo’s back.”