Chapter Seventeen
Cora jolted awake, her heart pounding. For a disoriented moment, she thought she was back in her New York apartment, where random noises usually meant her upstairs neighbor was rearranging furniture at three in the morning. Again.
But as she blinked away the fog of sleep, reality set in. She wasn’t in New York. She was in Sunrise, in Lolly’s old room above The Salty Spoon. And that banging . . .
She glanced at the clock. Who in their right mind was making that much noise before breakfast?
Grumbling, she dragged herself out of bed, still in her oversized T-shirt and shorts.
Whoever woke her up was about to get an earful, and she didn’t care if she looked like she’d been electrocuted on her way there.
The banging got louder as she stomped down the stairs, accompanied by the thud of something heavy shifting on the porch. She yanked open the front door, fully prepared to let loose, and froze.
There, sprawled on the porch like it belonged to him, was Governor Sam. He blinked up at her with lazy, droopy eyes, completely unfazed by the racket.
“Sam,” she sighed, rubbing her eyes. “Come on, big guy. Let’s go inside.” She tried to coax him up, but he just yawned, flopped onto his other side, and settled in for a nap.
Before she could try again, she caught sight of the actual culprit behind the noise.
A very shirtless, very sweaty Jack, in the middle of replacing one of the old porch boards.
The morning sun caught the sheen of sweat on his shoulders, highlighting every muscle as he worked.
Suddenly, she was acutely aware that she wasn’t wearing a bra.
“Good morning.” He grinned, clearly amused by her slack-jawed stare. “Rest well?”
“Well, I was,” she muttered, crossing her arms over her chest, trying to regain some composure. “What . . . how long have you been here?”
“Since about five-thirty,” he said casually, as if waking up at dawn to do manual labor was a perfectly reasonable thing.
“Five-thirty?” she squeaked. “Are you insane?”
He shrugged, grabbing his water bottle. “Maybe. But I figure the sooner we get this place fixed up, the sooner you can get Worthington off your back and live happily ever after.”
The reminder of why he was really there hit like a splash of cold water.
She needed to sell the café, which she could either do by raising enough money to pay off the loan herself or by finding a buyer who would help pay it off on her behalf before it ended up in Worthington’s hands.
That was the plan. No matter how distractingly attractive the help might be.
“Right,” she said, forcing some enthusiasm into her voice. “Well, um, thanks. I should . . .” She gestured vaguely at herself, now aware of her bedhead and lack of pants too.
“You might want to put on shoes before you start helping,” he said with a grin. “Splinters are no joke.”
She blinked. “Helping?”
“Unless you’d rather supervise,” he teased. “Though I’ve got to warn you, the view might be distracting.”
Her cheeks flushed. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, turning to head back inside. “Give me ten minutes.”
“Take your time,” he called after her. “I’ll just be out here, sweating manfully and doing macho things.”
She laughed as she closed the door. It was way too early for this level of Jack.
Fifteen minutes later, she emerged feeling slightly more human. She’d swapped her sleep shorts for sweats and managed to wrangle her hair into a somewhat presentable ponytail. Jack, annoyingly, still hadn’t put his shirt on.
“So,” she said, clapping her hands and very deliberately not looking at his abs, “what’s the game plan?”
Jack straightened up, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Well, the porch is mostly under control. Thought you might want to tackle painting the rails. Unless you’d prefer to handle the heavy lifting.”
She snorted. “Please. I’ve painted this porch more times than I can count. Where’s the paint?”
He pointed to a stack of supplies near the steps. “Just delivered. Knock yourself out. But try not to get more paint on yourself than on the porch.”
“Ha ha,” she said dryly, heading for the paint cans. “I’m an excellent painter. I once painted my entire apartment without getting a drop on the carpet.”
“Impressive,” Jack said, picking up his hammer. “But can you do it while I offer unhelpful commentary and flex unnecessarily?”
She rolled her eyes, fighting a smile. “I’m sure I’ll manage. Just don’t hurt yourself. I wouldn’t want to have to call an ambulance.”
He chuckled, his grin as infuriating as it was charming. “Don’t worry about me. Just focus on keeping the paint off Sam.”
She glanced at the Saint Bernard, who was sprawled even more dramatically on the porch than before, his eyes shuttered. His tail thumped lazily every so often, wagging in slow motion.
They settled into a rhythm after that. The steady thud of Jack’s hammer mingled with the swish of her paintbrush. Despite the early hour, she found herself almost enjoying it. The fresh air and the repetitive motion were oddly soothing.
Not to mention the view. Which she wasn’t looking at. Much.
“You missed a spot,” Jack called out, breaking her concentration.
She turned. “What? Where?”
He tapped his own nose. “Right there.”
She reached up, only to feel wet paint on her nose. “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she grumbled, trying to wipe it off but only making it worse.
Jack laughed and stepped closer. “Here, let me.”
Before she could protest, he reached out and gently brushed the paint away with his thumb. For a second, they were inches apart, his touch lingering a little longer than necessary. His skin smelled of sawdust and sweat, and her heart did an embarrassing little flip.
“There,” he said softly, his hand dropping away. “All better.”
“Thanks,” she managed to say, suddenly breathless.
He stepped back, clearing his throat. “Can’t have you walking around looking like a deranged Picasso, can we?”
She let out a shaky laugh, turning back to the rails. “Right. That’d be the real tragedy here. Not the fact that I’m up at the crack of dawn doing manual labor.”
“Hey, some of us have been up for hours,” Jack said, picking up his hammer again. “City folks are just soft.”
“Soft?” she shot back, glancing over her shoulder. “I’ll have you know I once stayed up seventy-two hours straight during a food festival, running on nothing but snacks and sheer willpower.”
“Impressive,” he said. “But can you grind your own wheat into flour?”
“Can you navigate the subway during rush hour?”
“Touché.” He laughed. “Though I’m pretty sure dodging Aggie on a gossip bender is about the same.”
They bantered as they worked, the morning slipping by. By the time they were finished, the porch looked better than it had in years, and her arms were as wiggly as Jell-O.
“Well,” Jack said, stepping back to admire their work. “Not bad for a morning’s effort. What do you think?”
Governor Sam gave a mighty yawn and lumbered to his feet, right through the freshly painted section of the porch. He left a trail of paw prints as he sauntered to a new sunny spot.
Jack burst out laughing. “Looks like we’ll have to fix that.”
“No,” she said, surprising herself. “It’s perfect.”
He looked at her, then at the paw prints, a slow smile spreading across his face. “You’re right. It adds character.”
“It looks amazing,” she said softly. “Lolly would’ve loved it.”
His expression softened. “Yeah, she would have. Maybe we should celebrate with some of her famous peach iced tea? I’ve got a batch in the cooler.”
The offer was tempting. But as she looked at him, shirtless, sweaty, and altogether too appealing, she knew she was in dangerous territory.
“I should get cleaned up,” she said, taking a step back. “I’ve got calls to make, potential buyers to contact.”
A flicker of something crossed his face, but he nodded. “Right. Don’t let me keep you.”
After washing the paint out of her hair and trying desperately to scrub away the lingering thoughts of Jack’s muscles flexing as he fixed the porch boards, Cora curled up on an armchair in the café with one of Lolly’s old photo albums. She told herself she needed a distraction, something to ground her after the whirlwind of the morning.
But as she flipped through the pages, she got lost in the memories.
Lolly’s life had been vibrant, full of laughter and love, and each photo told a story.
Her standing in front of The Salty Spoon as a young woman with her parents on opening day, beaming with pride; a candid shot of her mid-laugh, covered in flour; and countless pictures with the people who made this small town feel like home.
Cora could almost hear her voice, warm and comforting, as she traced the edges of a particularly faded photo.
She was so wrapped up in the past, she didn’t hear the door open until Aggie and Winston bustled in, arguing over a word game on their phones.
“I swear, you’re making up words at this point,” Winston muttered, frowning at his screen.
Aggie shot back, “I’m not the one who tried to use ‘zoot’ as a word!”
“Don’t you two ever knock?” Cora grumbled.
“Knocking is for people who don’t have spare keys,” Aggie said breezily, settling herself in the chair next to Cora’s. “Besides, we brought reinforcements.”
On cue, Bea swept in, her arms loaded with baked goods. “I hope you’re hungry, honey,” she said, plopping the bounty onto the coffee table. “I stress-bake when I’m worried, and let me tell you, this whole situation has me whipping up a storm.”
Cora eyed the mountain of cinnamon rolls and cookies warily. “I can see that. Are you planning to solve our problems by putting the Worthingtons into a sugar coma?”
Winston chuckled, helping himself to a cookie. “Not a bad plan. It would be sweet revenge.”
Aggie, her eyes twinkling with mischief, turned to Cora. “Speaking of sweet, how are things going with our resident chef? You two seemed awfully cozy out there on the porch earlier.”
Her stomach did a flip. “How did you know we were out there?”