Chapter Sixteen #2
Nathaniel’s face darkened. “Yes, they were. They would have been married if Lincoln Harlow hadn’t killed him.”
The room went cold.
Jack didn’t move, but the tension rolled off him. “That was a long time ago,” he said evenly.
Nathaniel’s gaze hardened. “Some things aren’t easily forgotten.”
Cora swallowed hard, fighting the knot in her stomach. “So this is about an old family feud?”
Nathaniel’s voice was icy. “Call it what you will, but this town is changing, and The Salty Spoon doesn’t fit. You think I’m the bad guy here,” he continued, “but as far as I can tell, I’m the only one with a plan. You’re clinging to a legacy that was never going to last.”
“What are you saying?” she asked, her heart pounding.
Nathaniel stood, signaling the end of the conversation. “I’m saying The Salty Spoon’s time is over. The plans are already in motion.”
Jack’s voice was tight with anger. “What plans?”
Nathaniel’s lips curled into a smile as he delivered the final blow. “I’m going to tear it down.”
A knock interrupted the silence.
The receptionist opened the door just enough to lean in. “Mr. Worthington, your next appointment is here.”
Nathaniel adjusted his cufflinks and glanced at Cora with cool detachment. “If you’ll excuse me, I have an important meeting.” He pointed toward the door and then opened a folder on his desk.
He didn’t look up again.
Cora paced the café’s kitchen, her sandals kicked off hours ago in favor of sneakers that squeaked on the worn-out linoleum. The conversation with Nathaniel Worthington played on repeat in her head.
The calendar on the wall still read June, but each day she marked off brought her closer to losing the café to him. Their fundraising efforts still hadn’t made a dent in the amount she’d need to save it.
Her laptop sat open on the counter, displaying her trusty spreadsheet.
She’d been staring at those numbers for most of the afternoon, but no matter how she twisted them, they refused to cooperate.
Income: nonexistent. Expenses: horrifying.
Savings: laughable. She even considered cashing in a retirement fund until she remembered, Oh, right, I don’t have one.
“Way to go, Cora,” she mumbled, jabbing at the keyboard. She picked up her phone, thumb hovering over her old contacts. In New York, there had always been someone to meet for drinks or a quick bite. But now she couldn’t think of a single person she’d call just to talk to. Not really.
The only person who’d reached out at all was Brad-slash-Alex-the-Jerk, who’d sent three increasingly all-caps texts demanding she “CALL ME IMMEDIATELY.”
She didn’t call him immediately.
She didn’t call him at all.
Instead, she’d stared at the screen, rolled her eyes so hard it gave her a headache, and then tossed the phone onto the table.
Her stomach growled loud enough to rival the ticking clock.
She yanked open the bottom drawer next to the fridge and pulled out a stack of takeout menus.
They were pristine, clearly never touched, unlike her dog-eared, coffee-stained stash back in New York.
Lolly would have been mortified. Why order in when you’ve got a perfectly good kitchen?
She sighed, eyeing the pots and pans hanging over the counter.
A greasy burger might not solve her problems, but it couldn’t hurt.
A sharp knock at the back door interrupted her spiral of self-pity.
She spun around to find Jack standing there, arms loaded with brown paper grocery bags, looking like some kind of lumberjack food fairy—the kind she definitely shouldn’t have inappropriate thoughts about when her life is falling apart.
“Seems I’m right on time,” he said.
“Jack?” She blinked. “What are you doing here?”
He nudged the door wider with his foot and stepped inside, his gaze flicking past the open laptop and the stack of menus before landing on her.
“Saving you from whatever sad takeout you were about to order,” he said, setting the bags on the counter.
“And from the looks of that spreadsheet, you need all the help you can get. Lolly always said you can’t think on an empty stomach, so I brought brain food. ”
Cora watched, stunned, as he unpacked fresh produce and herbs. There was enough in those bags to cook for an army. Her heart did a little flip at his thoughtfulness. But there was no line item on her spreadsheet for getting attached to Jack Harlow, no matter how considerate he was.
“Brain food?” she echoed, peering into the remaining bags. “Unless you’ve got a winning lottery ticket stashed in there, I’m not sure food is going to solve my problem.”
Jack’s expression softened, and he rolled up his sleeves. “We eat first. Then we figure out a plan.” He shot her a grin. “Ever made chicken and dumplings?”
She snorted. “Does opening a can count?”
He gasped, clutching the chicken he’d pulled from the grocery bag to his chest like she’d personally insulted its ancestors. “Sacrilege.”
“But it’s what Lolly used to make me whenever I needed a pick-me-up. It’s my favorite comfort food.”
“Mine too,” he said, giving her a knowing smile. “So let’s get to it.” He handed her an apron, his fingers brushing against hers. “Fair warning, though. If you burn down the kitchen, I’m out the door before the fire department gets here. I’ve got a reputation to protect.”
Before she knew it, Cora was elbow-deep in flour, awkwardly rolling out dough under Jack’s watchful eye.
“Is this right?” she asked, smearing the rolling pin across the dough in what she hoped was the right direction.
“Not quite.” Jack chuckled and stepped behind her. “Here, let me show you.”
His hands covered hers on the rolling pin, guiding her movements with a steadiness she clearly lacked. The warmth of his chest brushed against her back, and she could feel every shift of his muscles as he moved, each one setting off tiny fireworks in her brain.
“You’re pretty good at this,” she managed, her voice embarrassingly breathy. “The cooking thing, I mean.”
“Well, I did go to culinary school,” he replied, his breath teasing the edge of her ear, making it impossible to focus on anything but the feel of him so close.
As they settled into a rhythm, she realized that cooking wasn’t all that different from analyzing trends.
The ingredients were like data, and her job was to measure, mix, and tweak them until she got the right balance.
The only difference was, back in her world, she didn’t have a handsome man’s arms around her, guiding her through each step.
Maybe that was something she’d need to add to her job contracts from now on. Handsome sous chef required for optimal performance.
Jack stepped back, giving her some space, and bent over to glance at the laptop, which contained a spreadsheet of everyone she’d ever met who might have money.
She’d called her high school gym teacher, her dry cleaner, and even that one influencer who’d tagged her once in a butternut squash meme.
So far, none of them had handed over enough cash to save The Spoon, but she wasn’t giving up.
Jack angled the screen toward him.
“If you touch my spreadsheet, I will stab you with a paring knife.”
“Hot. But noted.” He chuckled. “What’s the deal with your spreadsheets, anyway?”
She stiffened. “What do you mean? They’re how I make sense of everything.” She crossed her arms, unsure why she felt the need to justify herself.
Jack straightened up and turned to face her, his expression soft but serious. “No judgment. I’m only curious. You talk about them like they’re more than numbers on a screen.”
She hesitated, feeling exposed. But there was something about the way he was looking at her that made her want to explain. “They’re not just numbers, Jack. They’re control. Clarity. When everything starts spiraling, I can look at a spreadsheet and see order. A path forward.”
Jack tilted his head. “Is that how you forecast food trends? With spreadsheets?”
“That’s how I do everything.” She grinned. “I track market patterns, social behavior, even weather. Anything that might influence what people eat and why. Then I use that data to help brands spot trends before their competitors do.”
“So, what would trend-spotting Cora do to make The Spoon go viral?”
She glanced around the kitchen, taking in the cracked mugs, the faded linoleum, the kitschy blue-and-white gingham curtains. “People don’t just want food. They want a story. A reason to care.”
Jack grunted. “That’s a lot to ask from a biscuit.”
“No,” she said, eyes narrowing with purpose. “It’s exactly what a biscuit gives them. Comfort. Nostalgia. A little Southern magic. I’d lean into that. Hard.”
“You get all that with a spreadsheet?”
Cora laughed softly. “Spreadsheets are predictable and safe. They don’t throw you curveballs. They don’t lie to you, or steal the last piece of pizza, or get you fired from your job.”
Jack’s eyes went wide and, for a second, he looked like a man who’d just wandered into a conversation with more emotional landmines than he’d prepped for. He rubbed his hand along his jawline and took a breath, as if he was choosing his next words carefully.
“Want to know a secret?” He took a step closer. “Sometimes, curveballs aren’t so bad.”
His words hung between them, charged with more meaning than she wanted to acknowledge.
There was something in his eyes, almost a dare, to let go of the rigid lines and columns she’d been clinging to.
Her breath hitched as he closed the gap between them, his nearness stirring something inside her.
For a second, she considered what it would be like to let go, to see where winging it would take her.
But just as quickly, reality set in. She wasn’t a person who took dares.
Jack reached past her and closed the laptop lid with a soft click. “I get that you think you need the spreadsheet, Cora. But sometimes you’ve got to put the data aside and feel your way through things. Not everything can be calculated.”
She swallowed, the weight of his words sinking in. “So, what am I supposed to do instead?”
His eyes held hers, steady and searching. “What do you want to do?”
That was the problem. She didn’t know. She had a multi-step, color-coded plan to sell this place and hightail it back to the predictability of her life in New York as quickly as possible.
But there was another part of her—the part Jack seemed to unravel every time he got close—that wanted to fight for something messier.
He must’ve sensed the battle going on inside her because his expression shifted, growing serious.
“Look, I get that you’re set on cashing out.
But this place, it means a lot to the town.
And to me. So how about this: I’ll help you save the restaurant so you can sell it,” he said, his gaze never wavering, “if you help me figure out Lolly’s story and let me use her recipes, even after you’re gone. ”
She blinked, taken aback. That wasn’t what she’d been expecting. “You’d do that? Help me sell, even though you don’t want me to?”
He nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. “This place deserves to live on, even if it’s not exactly the same. If I can recreate what Lolly had here, I might be able to get some investors and open my own place again.”
She hesitated. His offer to help was generous, but it also meant spending more time with him, which would distract her from her carefully constructed plans. “Wouldn’t helping me sell the café be . . . I don’t know, betraying your principles?”
He shrugged, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Haven’t you heard? My principles are pretty flexible.”
She raised an eyebrow, sensing a catch. “What’s the catch?”
Jack tapped his finger on the laptop lid, his expression serious. “You can’t touch your spreadsheet until we’re done.”