Chapter 6
Penny
By the time the last customer leaves Central Café, I’m exhausted. My feet ache, my back protests, and there’s a smear of chocolate pie filling on my forearm I didn’t notice until now. I scrub it off with a wet rag.
Still, despite the aches and the fact my tummy feels like it’s filled with butterflies, I can’t stop smiling. It was another successful day at the diner, and now I’m going on a date.
Well, no… not a date. An outing. A friendship adventure.
It’s something, but it’s with Sam Rochelle, and I have to admit, he’s been plaguing my thoughts all day.
He’s so intriguing, and he’s obviously as handsome as ever.
Back when we were in high school, and him being two years younger than me, I never looked at him as more than a cute guy.
The age difference back then pretty much ensured we ran in different circles.
But in only a few short days, has he become a joyful reason to be back in Whynot? He’s definitely a break from the pressure of the restaurant, and he takes my mind off whether I’ll have a job back in DC when this is all said and done.
I double-check that the coffee pots are rinsed and the neon Open sign is dark before heading to the restroom with my tote bag.
From inside, I dig out the little arsenal I packed this morning—mascara, lip gloss, deodorant, dry shampoo, and an extra set of clothes folded with the precision of a woman who overthought every decision today.
I change out of my café clothes and into something that feels more me—a sleeveless floral blouse with a flirty tie at the shoulder and cropped jeans that hit just above my favorite wedge sandals.
I dab a touch of perfume behind each ear, fluff my hair, and swipe gloss over my lips.
It’s ridiculous how much effort I’m putting into what Sam called “just showing me something,” but the flutter under my ribs hasn’t let up all afternoon.
By the time I’ve locked the front door and stepped out under the streetlamp, my nerves are on overdrive. The sound of a truck engine draws my attention just as Sam pulls up along the curb and rolls down the window.
“Hey, pretty lady,” he calls out. “Want a ride?”
I pretend skepticism. “I don’t know… you look like you could be dangerous.”
His warm eyes twinkle and his dimples pop. “I am indeed dangerous, but you don’t look like you scare easy.”
True enough, so I open the passenger door and hop in.
I take him in quickly… dark jeans and a gray Henley that clings to his chest.
Sam’s smile starts slow and spreads easy. “You clean up nice, Ms. Pritchard.”
“I had a hot date with a mop and a stack of dirty pie plates,” I say, feigning casual while tugging at the tie on my blouse. “Thought I’d look presentable for the encore.”
He glances down, taking in the outfit, and there’s a hint of something playful in his eyes that makes the whole effort feel worth it. “Encore looks good on you.”
I can’t hide my grin. “Where are we going, exactly?”
“You’ll see.”
“If this ends in a shallow grave, I’m haunting you.”
“That’s fair,” he says, putting the truck in drive. The soft rumble of the engine vibrates through the seat. We pull out onto Main Street, passing darkened storefronts and porch lights glowing behind lace curtains.
We drive by Mainer House, the three-story home looking straight out of a picture book.
“I love that house,” I murmur as I crane my head to look at it. “When I was little, I used to think it was what Whynot was supposed to feel like. Big porch, oak trees, fireflies—like it was holding the town together.”
“Having a place you love matters,” he says, his tone softening.
“It does,” I agree quietly. “It’s like it anchors you.”
Sam looks at it as we pass by. “It’s finally looking nice again after Lowe painted it neon pink,” Sam says.
I laugh. “Muriel told me about that. Sounds like I missed a lot of fun.”
“I don’t know that Lowe thought it was fun.” Sam chuckles. I notice that he’s a confident driver, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on a very well-muscled thigh.
It’s a legend of a story that will be told to future generations.
Mely, who is now Lowe’s wife, had blown into town from the big city of New York, having just bought the Mainer House.
It had been in the Mainer family forever and a day, but they’d decided to sell it as their life was out on their big farm.
Lowe was attached to the house, and in order to thwart that damn Yankee’s idea to refurbish it into something monstrous, he painted it neon pink.
Judge Bowen didn’t take kindly to that and ordered him to not only fix it but to make other repairs as Mely saw fit.
Of course, after some fighting back and forth, they ultimately fell in love, got married, and now live there.
As we head out into the country on darkened roads, conversation comes easy.
Sam tells me he’s already restocked Chesty’s for the weekend crowd.
I mention Muriel’s endless Post-it Notes and her insistence on a nightly report of how many biscuits we sold so she can ensure people like them under my watch.
The headlights sweep across the dark road, catching the edges of split-rail fences and sleepy pastures.
The world outside the truck turns darker, the town giving way to open country where the only light comes from the moon and stars.
No porch lights, no headlights. The road narrows, swallowed by trees arching like the frame of a cathedral.
After several turns, I squint at him. “You’re not taking me deep into the woods to murder me, are you?”
He smirks, then looks over at me. “Not tonight.”
“Good to know,” I say lightly, though my pulse does a funny little skip when we turn onto a long gravel drive flanked by oak trees.
The headlights sweep across branches that meet overhead, swallowing light in trembling patches.
The truck rolls forward until the trees open to a wide clearing—and I gasp.
Ahead of us, a house glows in the dark like a fairy tale come to life.
The front is a mix of pale brick and stone, all steep gables and dormer windows, with black-framed glass.
A massive Japanese maple shades the front lawn, and the long wraparound drive curves toward a line of wooden garage doors, four of them in all.
Soft uplighting washes the facade in gold, outlining the graceful roofline and copper gutters that gleam like new pennies.
“Whoa …” I breathe, turning to him. “What is this place?”
He shifts the truck into park and gives a small, cryptic smile. “You’ll see.”
I turn to stare again, because holy hell. This isn’t a fixer-upper—it’s a magazine spread.
“Are you doing construction or something on the side?” I ask as he gets out.
“Or something,” he says, rounding the front of the truck to open my door.
I step out into air that smells of night-blooming jasmine, trying to keep my jaw from dropping. The front steps are lit by lanterns and every window glows from within.
He leads the way up the path, gravel crunching beneath our feet. “You ready?”
“For what?” I whisper.
He grins, fitting a key into the door. “The surprise.”
The lock clicks and as he pushes it open, the soft beep of a security system cuts off with a few taps.
“Sam,” I hiss, glancing over my shoulder. “We’re trespassing.”
He steps aside, gesturing me in with a sweep of his arm. “We’re not.”
“What do you mean we’re not?”
“I mean…” His eyes are steady and bright. “It’s mine.”
I blink at him, sure I’ve misheard. “Yours?”
He nods, the faintest twitch of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Did you win the lottery?”
“Sometimes it feels that way.”
I step past him into the foyer, and my jaw slackens.
The air smells of new wood and expensive soap.
Warm light pools across honey-toned floors, spilling from recessed fixtures set into coffered ceilings.
The entry opens to a massive great room, all clean lines and soft edges—a stone fireplace on one end, a wall of glass doors overlooking a deep porch on the other.
The space is anchored by a curved ivory sofa and a marble coffee table that probably costs more than my car.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “Sam, this is… insane.”
He smiles, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Come on. I’ll give you the tour.”
I follow him speechlessly as we move through the house.
Every room looks like it stepped out of an architectural dream.
The kitchen gleams—a cathedral of white cabinets and marble, pendant lights hanging over a massive island veined with gray stone.
Brass fixtures, double ovens, a range hood that looks like a sculpture.
It’s not sterile but rather warm, intentional.
Like someone built this to be lived in, but still made it look like it came straight out of a dream.
I trail my fingers along the countertop. “You seriously own this?”
“Yup.”
“Did you rob a bank?”
“Not recently,” he deadpans, and I laugh despite my disbelief.
We wander into a study painted in rich navy, a color deep with gravitas that makes you lower your voice automatically.
There’s a sleek silver desk, and big picture windows overlook the back lawn.
Beyond them, a screened porch glows with the reflection of a stone fireplace and the hint of wicker chairs.
“Still some furniture on the way,” he says. “But it’s livable.”
“Livable?” I echo. “Sam, this looks like a movie set. I expected you to show me some secret man cave or, I don’t know, your bourbon collection—not this.”
He shrugs, but there’s that flicker again, something quiet and self-conscious.
“This is where I’ll work,” he says.
“Uh-huh.” I glance around the empty space. “Okay, so you’re not a male escort—you’re running an escort agency. Makes sense now.”
He laughs, head tipping back. “Not quite.”