I run a cloth over the bar until it shines. I stack coasters like soldiers. I calibrate the register because I know today is going tobe a busy one. I brew coffee and pour the first mug for myself just to have something hot to hold.
A car door thunks out front—quick, eager—and I look up automatically.
Paige.
It’s a glimpse—just her crossing the frame of my window in the half-second before she disappears into her doorway—but it hits me in the sternum.
Hair up, apron strings flashing, a bakery shirt I haven’t seen yet with the name in tidy script at her shoulder.
I don’t realize I’m smiling until I feel it crack my face. I knock it back down before someone walks in, and I have to explain it.
I put the chalkboard in front of The Wandering Pint, a little off to the side so I’m not blocking any of the space in front of Paige’s shop. People always slow down in front of a chalkboard. They can’t help it; it’s the law.
“Boss?”
Lilly’s at the back, hair smashed under a beanie, apron thrown over her shoulder, eyes showing the early hour.
“Big day,” I say.
She glances toward the bakery and back at me. No commentary. Good woman. “You want me on the floor or in the kitchen?”
“Kitchen,” I say. “I’ll run interference. Charlotte will be in at 10:00, but you know how the Farmer’s Market floats the schedule. If it gets bad, text me and I’ll come flip pancakes.”
By 8:00 there’s a line at her door. Not full-on iPhone launch, but enough to form a little crowd on the sidewalk. Gwen, in a soft sweater, is standing to the side where she can see without being in the way, talking to someone I don’t know. I look for Don and don’t find him.
Jason is there too, trying to look he’s happy to be. Jason has never been an early riser, but for his sister, he’ll do it.
Guilt stabs me.
I haven’t seen him since the night before Paige sat across from me at the bar and told me she was pregnant.
It wasn’t intentional at first. Then it was. I made up every excuse in the book. Busy, man. Double inventories. Health inspection prep. Headache. Forgot I had a thing. All true. But all bullshit.
He’s here now. So am I.
And there’s no avoiding him.
The way the line lurches forward tells me that Paige’s door just unlocked.
I’m halfway to the door before I stop myself.
Focus, Hoff.
I pivot, go back behind my own bar, and pull the first Heritage of the day to give it a taste test. The tap gives me that half-second of resistance new kegs always give, and then it lets go and the beer arcs clean into the glass, amber sliding up, head forming slow and tight. I sip for quality then set it on the back bar like it’s a shot in a magazine.
“Mark,” I say, “when the first blue box comes in, you comp it yourself. Make a big deal out of it. Loud, but not obnoxious.”
“Loud but not obnoxious,” he repeats. “My autobiography title.”
“Shut up and go polish something.”
It takes nine minutes. A couple I’ve never seen slips in with a blue box banded by a white ribbon I know Paige probably agonized over.
I point at the box like it’s a trophy. “You two are either my first robbery victims or my favorite people,” I say. “Promo’s for Hoffman Heritage. If you don’t drink beer, I can convert you.”
They share a look that says they’re people who will try anything once. “He will,” she says, nudging him. “I’ll do a ginger ale.”
I pour, I comp, I chat like a professional, and when they leave with their receipt and a plan to come back later, I let myself glance through the glass again.
