Chapter Three
Cora cut the engine of her rental car and let out a long breath, the sudden silence almost deafening after hours of highway noise on the drive from Raleigh to the coast. Her hands stayed on the steering wheel as she took in The Salty Spoon, affectionately known as The Spoon by Sunrise locals.
The old house, with the café on the first floor and Lolly’s apartment above, seemed to stare back at Cora.
If buildings could judge, this one definitely was.
She’d known this moment was coming. The closer she got to Sunrise, the more it had started to feel as if her GPS was rewinding time.
Mile marker seven on the outside of town came with a rusted-out tractor someone had decorated with a feather boa and plastic flamingos.
Just past the inlet bridge, a flashing neon sign urged her to pull over for boiled peanuts from Larry’s trunk.
She had no idea who Larry was, but sure enough, a bright yellow Cadillac was parked by the curb with the trunk popped open.
This was probably how Southerners got kidnapped.
They’d decide they wanted a snack, spot the Caddy, and the next thing they knew they were chained up in someone’s basement.
As she stared at the place where she’d grown up, memories flooded back. The faded red rockers on the porch where Lolly and she used to shell peas and gossip. The coastal blue shutters framing windows she’d washed more times than she’d had bad first dates, which was saying something.
Guilt pinched at her as she noticed the hazy glass and peeling paint.
The Spoon had been sitting empty since Lolly’s funeral, the bills quietly covered by the estate.
But apparently, upkeep hadn’t been part of the deal.
Between the salty air, the relentless summer sun, and last year’s hurricane season, the place had gone downhill faster than Cora’s career at Morsel Magazine.
She forced herself out of the car and immediately regretted her choice of skinny jeans. Welcome to North Carolina in June, where the air feels like wet cement. Sweat instantly clung to her, and the weight of the sea air settled in her lungs. Home sweet home felt more like home sweet sweat lodge.
She made her way along the shell-lined path. Lolly’s prized azaleas were locked in a death match with waist-high weeds, and the porch railing was missing a few spindles that had rotted clean through.
Lolly had loved this porch. Her voice played in Cora’s head: Think of her like an old friend.
Treat her right, make sure she always has her lipstick on, and even her wrinkles will be beautiful.
They’d shared that line over sweet tea after an afternoon spent sanding and painting that very railing.
And now, there it was, a perfect metaphor for her life.
After nearly tripping over a terra-cotta pot, Cora fished out the spare key from the same old hiding spot.
It was Lolly’s version of rolling out the welcome mat for the entire town.
Most days when Cora had lived here, she’d find the café door unlocked anyway, no matter how many times she’d warned her grandmother about burglars.
And even if it was locked, everyone in town knew where to find the key.
“Welcome to Sunrise,” she muttered to the drooping ferns by her feet. “Feel free to let yourself in.”
She pushed the door open, and a rush of cool, coffee-scented air—the building’s signature perfume—washed over her like a familiar hug.
Her visits had dwindled over the years, life in New York always pulling her away, but stepping inside was like flipping back to a page she’d dog-eared long ago.
The silence inside was heavy but warm, the walls still holding the echoes of all the laughter and celebrations that had taken place there.
Dragging her fingers along the hostess stand, she came away with enough dust to write “fire your cleaning lady” on it.
A few lonely tables still sat in the dining room, while the rest huddled against the walls, their mismatched chairs flipped upside down on top.
Her gaze landed on the ancient cash register behind the counter.
Lolly wasn’t ever able to make the switch to a digital system.
Cora had always suspected she’d loved the ka-ching sound too much to trade it for one of those “newfangled computer thingamajigs.”
The weathered pine floorboards creaked as she ventured farther in.
She traced the wainscoting, her fingers running over dents and scratches from years of chairs scraping and servers rushing by.
The specials board still had faint traces of Lolly’s looping handwriting.
How many mornings had Cora watched her carefully chalk up the day’s menu, tongue peeking out in concentration?
A muffled thump pulled her from her thoughts, freezing her in place. It came again. Metal clanging on metal. Someone was in the kitchen.
Her heart shot to her throat as her brain replayed every true crime podcast she’d ever listened to. Grabbing the closest thing she could find, a jar of Lolly’s pickled okra, she crept toward the swinging door like one of those bad actresses that people screamed at in horror movies.
Who was the idiot about to get ax-murdered on her first day back in Sunrise? It was her. She was the idiot.
She took a deep breath, which did nothing to calm her nerves, pushed through the door .
. . and found herself face to face with a stranger.
A tall, broad-shouldered stranger with tousled dark hair and enough stubble to sandpaper a small boat.
His tattooed forearms flexed as he stirred a pot of something that looked like Lolly’s famous strawberry preserves.
The sweet, tangy smell filled the air, mingling with the earthy smell of something unmistakably masculine.
The man turned, eyeing her and her jar of okra. “You planning to pickle me to death?”
Cora jumped back, yelped, and crashed into the counter, sending a bunch of measuring spoons clattering to the floor.
“Who are you?” she tried to sound tough, but it came out as a weird combination of squeak and demand. She set down the jar with a thud, trying to ignore the way the man’s brown eyes followed her every move.
But Mr. Tall, Dark, and Breaking-and-Baking didn’t flinch. Wiping his hands on the apron slung low around his hips, he turned down the burner and raised an eyebrow in a silent challenge. “You must be Cora.”
The scent of cinnamon and strawberries hung in the air, bringing back memories of all the early mornings Cora had spent in this kitchen. But the guy in front of her? He looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him.
“You seem to know who I am, but . . .”
“Jack.” He swiped a dish towel across his hands, drawing her eyes to his rough, callused fingers. “Jack Harlow. I’m—”
“Breaking and entering?” Her heart still raced, but the initial shock was quickly giving way to a slow-burning anger. The audacity of this man, strolling into Lolly’s kitchen as if he owned it, filling the room with an ease that set her nerves on edge.
Jack’s mouth curved into a smirk. “Cooking. Well, baking, if you want to be specific.”
“Wait. Did you say Jack Harlow?”
He raised an eyebrow. “That a problem?”
Lolly had mentioned someone named Jack hanging around in the kitchen. She’d said he was handy in a pinch, good with a spatula, and quiet, reliable company. Cora had pictured a gap-toothed teenager home from college, maybe a neighborhood kid helping out for a little cash. Not this. Not him.
“I mean . . .” She took a step back. Sunrise was a small town, and the Harlows were infamous. Not criminal, exactly, but messy enough that everyone had a story about them. She didn’t know Jack personally because he’d graduated a few years before her, but she definitely knew of him. Everybody did.
Cora let out a sharp breath. “You were urban legend material when I was in high school. I heard you gave yourself a tattoo in the tenth grade.” She narrowed her gaze as she glanced at his forearms, then did a quick sweep of his biceps, neck, even the bit of collarbone visible above his shirt.
Jack caught it immediately. “Looking for evidence?”
“Just seeing if the legend holds up.”
“Want me to take my shirt off so you can see for sure?”
“Of course not,” Cora said, a little too quickly. “That would be unsanitary.”
He smirked.
Her face was on fire. She wasn’t sure how she’d gone from afraid he was a burglar to afraid he wasn’t one in under sixty seconds.
“How do you know who I am?” Cora asked. They hadn’t run in the same circles. He was the guy girls whispered about like a myth. She was the girl organizing blood drives and color-coding her science notes.
Jack shrugged. “Lolly talked about you. A lot. Figured it was only a matter of time until you showed up back here.”
Cora studied him, this broad-shouldered stranger in a T-shirt covered with flour who somehow looked both exactly like and nothing like the stories she’d heard in school.
She crossed her arms, her pulse ticking faster than she liked.
“I’m here because I own the building,” she said.
“But why, exactly, did you break into my grandmother’s kitchen?
To bake? Or just to case the joint for old time’s sake? ”
His jaw tightened. “I didn’t break in. I have a key.”
“Why?”
“Lolly gave it to me. She said her kitchen would always be available to me.”
Cora’s gaze shifted to the marble slab where Lolly used to roll out her legendary biscuits.
It was dusted with flour, like she might walk in any second and start baking.
Cast-iron skillets hung from hooks above the stove, their surfaces seasoned with stories.
Every inch of this kitchen held a memory, from math homework spread across the island to sneaking midnight cookies with her friends and setting her first kitchen fire.
Unfortunately, it hadn’t been her last.
“But it’s not Lolly’s kitchen anymore,” Cora said, her voice steady despite the storm churning inside her. “It’s mine.”
“This will always be Lolly’s kitchen.” Jack pushed away from the counter and stepped closer. “And it’s about time you came home to make things right again.”
She fought the urge to step back when he moved.
The way he acted so at home in a place that wasn’t his set her teeth on edge.
He moved through the kitchen as if he’d been born in it.
And maybe that was what irritated her the most—how easily someone else had slid into her grandmother’s sacred space. She needed him out of it.
She glanced around for the rolling pin Lolly usually kept nearby. Maybe a good whack would wipe that self-assured look off his face and push him toward the back door.
The smarter move would be to call the police. But what would she even say? “Hello, 911? There’s a trespasser in my kitchen with a cocky grin, forearms that could probably bench press my rental car, and a pot of strawberry jam that’s making my mouth water?” Not exactly an emergency.
Jack seemed to read her mind. “Planning on calling the cops?” he asked. “I heard firemen were more your thing.”
She blinked, thrown off by the dig. “How did you—”
“Small town.” He shrugged, smirk still in place. “Word gets around.”
“Look,” Cora said, squaring her shoulders. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but—”
“Honoring a promise,” Jack interrupted. “Lolly and I had big plans for this place.”
She swallowed, ignoring how his presence seemed to make the room smaller. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but whatever plans you had? They’re not happening.”
A flicker of frustration flashed in Jack’s eyes. “Is that so? What are you going to do, then? Sweep in from the big city and tear it all down?”
“I’m here to sell it.”
Jack gave a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Figures.”
Her chin lifted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” he said, already turning back to the stove. “It just isn’t the future Lolly hoped for, and I didn’t figure you’d be the type of person to take the easy way out.”
It struck a nerve, but she kept her expression neutral. “You don’t get to judge. You’re not the one holding the deed.”
Jack stirred the pot, his forearms slowly flexing with the movement. “No. But it looks like I’m the only one around here who knows how to keep a promise.”