“You want me to run front?” he asks, low.
“I’ve got it,” I say, a little confused.
He starts wiping the already-clean bar and Charlotte walks out with a bin full of silverware to roll. She’s humming a little song, which makes me a bit suspicious.
She takes a seat at the bar and starts in on it before lifting her chin at me. “So, rumor mill is awake,” she says.
“Shocking.” My voice comes out flat. “I have an idea, but what’s the topic today?”
She purses her lips and tilts her head, sympathetic. Yup, I definitely know what it’s about.
“The economy of your love life, apparently,” she says. “Somebody saw you two through the bakery window last night.”
I feel the words in my gut. I knew they were coming. Obviously, people were going to find out, but I was really hoping it wouldn’t happen.
I picture us in that spill of warm pendant light, a cinnamon roll between us, heads bent over notepads.
Then the part where we weren’t bent over notepads.
“We were planning the film festival booth,” I say, because it’s also true.
“Interesting brainstorming technique,” she says dryly, but there’s no judgment in it. “Maybe I should try that next time I’m having writer’s block.”
“It’s no one’s business,” I say tightly.
“Come on, Ben. You know that doesn’t fly here.” She sets the silverware down with a jangle. “Look, I’m happy for you two. I’m also a bartender with ears. Just letting you know that people are going to be in here with their whispers and looks all day. Maybe all week. Until the next thing comes along. Decide ahead of time how much you can tolerate.”
I blow out a breath. “Thanks for the heads up.”
The lunch rush comes early, nosing in before noon like a tide. The room settles into its usual choreography—menus and water, orders and chatter, a little dance between kitchen and bar.
Twice, I catch a look that is both curious and pleased—locals who like a story with their sandwich. More than once, I catch one that’s hungry for something messier. An older woman with a bob leans across to her friend and says something with a look toward the bakery. I don’t catch the words, but I don’t have to.
The soundtrack writes itself: Jason’s sister. Ben Hoffman. Did you know? I heard…
Mark’s lips flatten. He pulls two Hoffman Heritages and sets them on the pass with that satisfying thunk of glass on wood. “Heads up, boss,” he says without moving his mouth. “Table Twelve is trying to bait me.”
“What’d they say?”
“That they ‘heard the Heritage is sweeter this week.’” He rolls it off his tongue with just enough tilt that I hear what the guy meant. “I said the keg was fresh this morning. They said they’ll ‘see for themselves.’ And then Mr. Ballcap added, ‘wonder what else is fresh.’”
“Kick ‘em out,” I say.
“Just needed the okay from the boss,” he says.
“I don’t care about a little gossip,” I say. “But they say anything about Paige, they’re out. Got it?”
“My pleasure,” he says.
I want to laugh. I don’t. My hands are occupied with glassware because if I stop moving, I might start thinking, and if I start thinking, I’m going to crawl out of my own skin.
By noon, half my staff has found a reason to touch my shoulder in passing—here, present, we’ve got you. Which I’m grateful for. I just wish it didn’t have to be this way.
We make it through the hump, the big wave of sandwiches and sampler platters, the coffee refills, and the extra napkins. I start to believe the chaos in my head might tire itself out before I do. Then the group of three walks in, and something in me goes on alert before they even say a word.
They’re not tourists. Tourists wear the town like a souvenir—branded hats, the particular slow step of people with nowhere to be. These guys walk in like they own the place, which already puts my back up.
In their seventies, all of them, none of them regulars. One wears a seed cap pulled low. One has a belt buckle that could be seen from space. The third has a crisp, short-sleeve button-down tucked tightly into his jeans and the posture of someone looking for trouble. I don’t clock any other signs of trouble—no slur to their walk, no volume too loud. It’s a quieter kind of trouble, the kind people who want you to prove yourself bring in with them.
