“No bother at all.” Brig winks. I feel the leap in my pulse from the small gesture. “Just have to go over a few things with Rogan, and then we can leave.”
“That would be great,” Rylee says while moving around the counter to start cleaning up. Having helped me far too many nights to count, she gets straight to work without having to ask me what to do.
“Awesome. We’ll be over by the fireplace. Let me know when you’re ready.”
The Knightly boys both walk away and my eyes drift to Brig’s backside for a second before I turn away, embarrassment consuming me.
When they’re far enough away, I whisper-yell at Rylee, “What the hell was that?”
Pleased with herself, she answers, “That was me digging you out of the rut you’ve been in.”
“Rylee, I’m not ready—”
“Yes, you are, you’re just scared,” she whispers back. “You’re scared of putting your heart on the line and you’re scared of putting your idea out there too. What are you going to do? Just stand behind this counter for the rest of your life, never going after anything you want? It’s time you take hold of those fears and conquer them.”
“That’s not your decision to make.”
“It is when I see that you’re never going to take it.” Closing the space between us, she says, “You’re lonely, Ruth, and you’re living in a safe bubble. It’s time you burst out of it and experience what this life you’ve been granted is really about. You have an opportunity, seize it. And if you’re really that scared, you don’t have to make any commitments about the space. No one’s saying you need to make an offer. Just take a look.”
“I have to be alone . . . with him.”
A sinister smile curves Rylee’s lips. “Couldn’t think of a better situation to get him to notice you more. Now go in the back and freshen up. You look like a tornado hit you.”
“Really?” My eyes widen in horror.
Rylee laughs and shakes her head. “No, but you should fix your hair, it’s a little . . . crazy.”
I pat at my hair and look to the side where Rogan is listening intently to whatever Brig is saying as he shows him something on his phone. “I don’t know. This is way too much for me to process.”
Taking me into her arms, Rylee gives me a hug while speaking softly. “Ruth, I love you so much, but it feels like you stopped living when your parents died. And I understand how devastating it was. Losing them together was horrendous, and then taking on their business as well. Extremely difficult. But it’s time you start experiencing life again and stop sitting on the sidelines. You have so much more to offer Port Snow than coffee. Make a change and who knows, if love starts to blossom while you’re taking that next step in life, so be it. Maybe you have to step away from the counter to finally be seen.”
Tears well in my eyes but I quickly tamp them down, because there’s no way I want to be caught crying in front of Brig and Rogan.
Sensing my bubbling emotions, Rylee speaks softly. “Deep breaths, Ruth. This is going to be amazing. I just know it is.”
Glad she’s so confident, because right about now, all I can think about it how utterly terrifying this is.
Chapter Three
BRIG
“Is your hair always that long?” I ask Ruth, taking in her long blonde locks.
“I mean . . . yeah?” Ruth answers as a question. “I don’t have extensions in or anything if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“Nah, I can tell that’s real hair,” I say, feeling really fucking awkward. The girl hasn’t spoken a word since we left the coffee house, and Rylee had to shove her out the door.
Witnessing her resistance didn’t bode well for my confidence.
Now that we’re walking down Main Street together, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more uncomfortable in my life. I’m a pretty easygoing guy, and I can strike up a conversation with anyone about anything. But right now, I feel . . . tongue-tied.
I have no idea what to talk to her about and with every second that passes in silence, my body tenses further into a tangled-up ball of knots.
“Yeah, my hair is real,” she mumbles quietly, and from the corner of my eye, I catch her pulling on the tips, as if checking to make sure it’s still there.
This is going to be brutal.
I don’t know much about Ruth outside of the coffee house.
I don’t think I know anything about her, which is sad because we went to school together and I order coffee from her almost every morning. I know a lot about the people in this town . . . except for Ruth.
That’s sad. I must know something. Think, Brig, think.
Huh . . . she makes one hell of a cup of coffee and coffee cake.
She, uh . . . she says hi with a smile.
She knows how to put on an apron . . .
Jesus, that’s pathetic.
Oh wait, I know that her hair is real. I have that going for me.
“So . . . Piccadilly Parlor, huh? Has a nice ring to it. Where did you come up with the idea?”
She keeps her head tilted down as she speaks, and I can barely hear her because she’s maintaining a solid two feet between us as we walk down the sidewalk. “My mom.”
And . . . that’s all she says.
Okay. Not much of a talker.
Oh wait. I think her parents passed away.
They did, I mentally cheer for myself, remembering something about her.
Well, I’m not mentally cheering that her parents passed, but relieved that I know something other than her hair is real and she smiles when she says hi.
“Was it a dream of hers?” I ask, trying to keep my voice soft. Ruth appears to be very skittish and I’m not quite sure why, so I take it easy with her, holding back my normally outlandish self.
“It was.”
Nothing else.
That’s it.
Wow, okay.
I remember a time when Rogan used to talk to me using one-word answers, during his dark time. Is that what Ruth is facing? A dark time?
“Did you uh, used to—”
“You don’t have to try to make conversation with me,” she says. “I know this is weird for you. Rylee put this on you and I’m sorry, she never should have—”
“Hey.” I stop her, pulling on her arm. The deep brown depths of her gaze shoot to where my hand rests on her heated skin. She practically shivers under the strength of my palm. Maybe touching her wasn’t a good idea. I release her arm and shove my hands in my pockets, keeping to myself. “I offered to show you around. Rylee didn’t force anything on me. But if you don’t want to see the space, I can walk you back to Snow Roast.”
Not even coming close to making eye contact with me, she glances toward Main Street where there’s a small gathering in front of the deli. Franklin is putting his famous homemade mustard on sale. Lucky for me, I had insider information and scored a few bottles before the actual sale. Staring at the line, her teeth pull on the corner of her mouth. Indecision weighs heavily in her mind, and I wonder if her evasiveness has to do with me or if she’s like this with everyone.
Why is she so skittish?
Is it me?
Do I come on too strong?
Is she nervous about this entire venture?
Starting a business in a small town is nerve wracking. I have experience in that department. Maybe that’s it.
Going out on a limb, I say, “I remember when I opened up the garage. I was nervous as hell. I knew the town needed the service badly, but I was only twenty when I opened it. I had help from my parents thankfully, but it was still scary. Are you scared, Ruthie?”
She’s silent at first, studying the ground as if it has the key to her success carved into it. When she finally answers, she says, “I don’t want to keep you much longer than I already have. Let’s keep moving forward.”
Without waiting for me, she veers to the right where my garage is. Being located a street from Main Street has never negatively affected my business. But I think for Rut
hie’s tea house, which needs more foot traffic, the location should still be close enough to make for a good storefront.
Silently—not from my lack of trying—we make it to the sewing shop. From my pocket, I pull out my keys and search for the one Mrs. Burberry left with me. Since my apartment is above the garage, she thought it would be helpful if I had a key to keep an eye on things.
When remodeling the storefronts, I made sure the garage didn’t look like an automobile shop from the front, but rather a welcoming tourist attraction.
White board and batten line both buildings that connect in the middle. Where my lettering is written in red and displayed in metal above the door, The Sewing Room has a teal awning hanging over the door with a large storefront window in which Mrs. Burberry has always kept mannequins decorated for every season.
After a few tries of wiggling the key around, I unlock the door, flip on a light, and let Ruth in. Mrs. Burberry has already started packing things up and moving them out. Her grandsons came down to help her after she found a store a few towns north that wanted to buy out her inventory.
“I’m surprised Mrs. Burberry’s departure hasn’t been in the newspaper,” I say. “Although, she’s been pretty quiet about it.”
I watch Ruth look around. She’s petite, has slender shoulders, and her hands are clutched together in front of her. She almost seems meek and unsure of herself, which is weird, because when she’s making coffee, bustling around her shop, she’s vibrant. I’ve heard her witty comebacks. But right now, she almost looks like she’s being held hostage by yours truly. And that’s just weird. I’ve known Ruth . . . well, who Ruth is, for many years. We grew up in the same town together. We’re not strangers. Yet here, an outsider looking in would probably think we are. Was she always this quiet? Introverted?
But observing the way she’s looking at the space, her mind focused on absorbing every last inch, is fascinating. It’s almost as if I can see the wheels spinning in her head.
“You can talk it out, you know,” I say. “Tell me what you see.”
I lean against the wall, my hands behind me, waiting for her to share. Share anything.
But she stays silent, running her hands over the packed boxes, taking in the outdated brass light fixtures and the dusty blue-and-mauve flowered wallpaper.
“It’s different in here without all the shelves.”
I nearly fall to the floor from the sound of her voice carrying through the emptying space. “It’s more open, airy. The wallpaper is an easy fix, and I could change out the flooring, which could take a weekend but be well worth it. There is a fully functioning kitchen in the back. Before Mrs. Burberry turned the space into a sewing shop, it was actually a soup restaurant. Mrs. Burberry never did anything with the kitchen, so it might need some updating, but at least all the bones are there. And the walls are soundproof. One of the worries Mrs. Burberry had when I moved in next door was hearing heavy machinery vibrating the walls, so when I renovated the garage space, I made sure to double down on the soundproofing. With light music on in the background, you won’t even know we’re next door. And I keep things clean, really clean. You’ll never have to worry about junk cars sitting out front. That’s not the kind of shop I run.”
“I know,” she says quietly, peeking up at me for a second, the joy in her deep brown eyes easing some of the awkward tension between us. “When will she be packed up?”
“End of the week I believe, if not sooner. Her grandsons have been helping her. She’s moving to be closer to them.”
She nods and walks toward the back of the space, and I follow behind. Pausing at the kitchen door, I hear her suck in a sharp breath and then step in closer. “This isn’t just a regular kitchen; this is a professional kitchen.”
I peek in. “Yeah, I guess so. I know the stove needs to be replaced. Mrs. Burberry mentioned that. But yeah, I guess it’s a pretty nice space.”
“This is better than what I have at Snow Roast.” Her voice fills with more excitement, and I’m starting to feel less tense. “We could move some of the baking over to here; there’s so much more space.”
“That’s a pretty good idea. Give The Lobster Landing some competition.”
Her eyes widen and she says, “I would never, I didn’t mean—”
I hold up my hand. “I’m only kidding, Ruthie. But I will say this, your coffee cake is fucking amazing.”
Fidgeting, she says, “It was my dad’s recipe. He got it from his mom and he perfected it by adding apples into the mix. I started adding other fruits as well.”
“I noticed.” I pat my flat stomach. “Any more of that pear and raspberry coffee cake and I’m going to lose all definition in my abs.”
Her eyes fall to my stomach, where she stares for a few beats before she blushes. She looks away, pushing her hair behind her ear. She glides through the room, runs her hand over the walls, examines the ceilings, does everything possible to not look at me again.
“So,” I clear my throat. “What do you think?”
“I think I need a second opinion.” She glances at me and I raise my hand.
“I can be that second opinion. I think it’s a great space. Mrs. Burberry would never screw you over, and I know some people who could help renovate.” I take a step forward. “Is this what you envisioned?”
On a deep breath, she takes in the space one more time. “It isn’t . . . I think it might be better.” She steps out of the kitchen and goes back to the main room where she leans against the wall and stares out toward the storefront.
“I can see it,” she whispers. “The white shiplap on the walls with the white oak shelving stacked with specialties from England. Teas, baking mixes, and tea ware. Cadbury candies and biscuits. Fancy hats and pristine serving ware. White oak floors, beautiful white dining sets with light teal glasses on the table. Delicate fabric napkins that you’re almost too afraid to use. A tea bar. A biscuit bar. A menu full of tea sandwiches and authentic English scones with clotted cream and jelly . . .”
She sighs and fuck, I’m transfixed. Her voice is sweet, smooth . . . surprising. Dreamy and starry-eyed, she carries hope in her being, a promise for her next adventure. I know that feeling. I’ve seen the same look when I’ve woken up and gotten ready in the morning, my face reflecting the same enthusiasm.
From the excitement brimming on the curve of her smile, the happiness in her eyes—glistening, ready to cry from joy—it’s impossible to look away, to give her this moment alone.
“It’s everything my mom would have loved all wrapped up in a darling little store next to an automobile shop.” She chuckles to herself and then as if she remembers I’m here, she clears her throat and says, “Sorry. I got a little carried away.”
“Don’t apologize,” I say, my eyes fixed on hers. Long black lashes, dark irises that almost blend with her pupils. “Don’t ever apologize about a dream.” Joining her against the wall, our shoulders inches apart, I say, “I see it too. And I also see my sweet-loving ass parked at your table during lunchtime enjoying tiny sandwiches with a cup of tea.”
“Peppermint tea,” she says quietly.
“My favorite.” I turn my head and she does too at the exact same time, and something happens in that moment.
As if someone taps me on the shoulder and points an arrow directly over Ruth’s head, lights beaming, horns blaring, sparks flying.
What . . . the . . .
“I should get going,” she says quickly, pushing off the wall. “I should make sure Rylee’s okay.” She’s moving so fast that I stumble over a box to catch up to her.
“Wait,” I call out, but she continues to walk out of the shop while calling over her shoulder.
“Thanks for showing me the space. Have a good night.”
And before I can even make it to the front door, she’s turning back onto Main Street and headed straight to Snow Roast.
What the hell just happened?
* * *
Three Men and a Witch Group Text
Brig: Just got my Summer of Love pen pal assigned to me. I’m too nervous to look.
Griffin: You’re doing that?
Reid: Of course he’s doing it. Didn’t you know? He’s trying to break the curse. *Insert eye roll*
Brig: Hey, the curse is real and all you buffoons know it.
Reid: That’s why we’re all spending our nights alone . . .
Griffin: Ouch, low blow, Reid. You know he’s going to start crying.
Rogan: Harper and I walked in on him using his stomach as a dipping dish for mustard. #RockBottom
Brig: Uhh . . . I was looking for support, not bashing. Where’s the love?
Reid: Cursed in New Orleans
Griffin: LOL. I snorted.
Rogan: Fucking guffawed.
Reid: I love a good guffaw.
Griffin: Not sure I know what classifies as a guffaw.
Rogan: According to Google, a loud and boisterous laugh.
Griffin: Oh, then I’ve guffawed.
Reid: Total guffawer.
Rogan: Guffawing for the win.
Brig: Are you done?
Jen: *Guffaws* Love cursed in New Orleans. Classic.
Brig: You are no help, JEN.
Jen: Am I ever?
Griffin: Nope.
Rogan: No.
Reid: Never.
Jen: I rest my case.
Chapter Four
RUTH
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
The door whips open and Rylee stands in front of me, robe barely draped over her body, her hair an absolute mess, and her cheeks flushed.
“What the hell—”
“What is this?” I ask, holding up an envelope that was delivered to Snow Roast today.
She shifts on her feet and folds her arms over her chest. “I don’t know, genius. I don’t have X-ray vision.”
Pushing past her and straight into her house, where every walkable surface is covered in toys, I spin around and say, “It’s a match for the Summer of Love program.”
That Swoony Feeling Page 3