They shudder like they get it, freeze, and then their expression goes blank as the page I imagine Decker’s staring at right now if he’s up yet.
Note to self: Zen has family issues too.
According to a random note from the rest of Decker’s research, Grey’s maybe two or three years older than I am, so no more than thirty-two.
Zen’s somewhere in their early to mid-twenties.
We’re speculating that Grey’s siblings are probably much older, or else Uncle Grey is a found family term.
Zen shoves away from the prep table. “When you’re done with the grill, the fridge could use a serious toothbrush scrub too.”
“On it, mini-boss.”
“I’m a foot taller than you.”
“Eight inches, max, but you’re still shorter than the mega-boss.”
They suck one cheek into their mouth and head up front with their lips wobbling.
I silently high-five myself.
Zen doesn’t trust me.
Yet.
But I amuse them. And I gave them gossip and asked for nothing in return.
People think gossip is all about being a blabbermouth.
To me, it’s about listening. Observing. Reading between the lines. Digging deeper.
And waiting.
You don’t get the best story in the first round.
You get it when you have all of the pieces. Zen’s starting to give me pieces.
Whether they know it or not.
9
Grey
I am not hiding from Sabrina Sullivan—and all of my complicated feelings about her—when I send Zen in to Bean & Nugget solo on Tuesday morning.
It’s a responsible business owner thing to get the ball rolling on selling the two other locations that I haven’t seen yet. Plus, I’m taking advantage of the heated seats in the Mercedes to soothe the ache in my hip from last night’s tumble. Today is about taking care of myself and giving myself some stress relief.
Even if I’m carrying my phone today.
Damn thing is still pinging off the hook.
Muting the conversations only goes so far when I can still see them every time I open my phone to text Zen about something.
But overall I’m being productive with starting the process of dismantling every bit of Chandler Sullivan’s footprints. I start at Elk Knee, a town about five miles away as the crow flies but which takes me forty-five minutes to reach on the winding mountain roads that are lined with snow, sometimes slick, and apparently misleading, since I take the wrong turn at least three times.
When I finally locate the small shop, it’s not open despite the posted hours indicating it should be. I can’t reach the manager on the phone, and the neighboring business owner reports he hasn’t seen any staff here in three days.
It’s in line with Zen’s report that they haven’t had any contact with the staff here over email or phone in a few days either.
“Never made any sense that Bean & Nugget opened a shop here,” the neighbor tells me. “We have two other coffee places that were already popular. Even more popular to argue over which one’s better. Weren’t gonna pick an outside café to get our coffee when which one of the original two you went to defines your personality here.”
It’s an easily confirmed story, and I leave town with the trunk of the Mercedes loaded with paper goods and non-perishable food that can be used in Snaggletooth Creek. I’ve already hired a real estate agent to get the building up on the market, so there’s not much else left to do.
My next stop is a quaint little town called Tiara Falls, where Bean & Nugget Café is open but nearly empty of customers.
Despite the dearth of paying patrons, there are five employees hanging out in the kitchen. All five leap into action cleaning or doing inventory or prepping food for the lunch rush they insist is coming, though the books that I’ve seen indicate it won’t be enough to justify five employees running it.
I get the impression Chandler was in love with the idea of having a café empire in the mountains, but not in love with doing the work of running an empire.
Including market research.
“Is the other café in town that popular?” I ask the acting manager in Tiara Falls.
“It fits the theme,” is the answer I get.
I don’t immediately understand, but when I leave town, it starts to make sense.
Everything is fairy-tale themed. Including Beanstalk.
The very busy roastery on the next block that also serves light breakfast and lunch fare in line with what Bean & Nugget offers.
I’ve given half a thought to converting one of these locations to coworking space, but I don’t need the extra income and the thought of being an office space landlord doesn’t excite me.
Not the way changing Chandler’s hometown location and putting a massive bee on the side of the building excites me.
He killed my research bees.
Intentionally.
And—shocker—set me up to take the fall for it.
So now he’ll see a bee sitting on his family’s building for the rest of his natural life.
I take my time enjoying the snowcapped mountain views on my way back to Snaggletooth Creek, stopping to get that SCOBY on the way. If it weren’t so damned cold and slippery here—and also where Chandler Sullivan lives, even if he hasn’t shown his face at the café yet—this would be a beautiful place to call home.
I could even see myself learning to ski. Or skate. Or snowshoe.
Which is definitely me in a warm, toasty, heated car talking, and not actual me. My fingers aren’t tingling in the car. My toes aren’t frozen. Not the way they were yesterday just being in the café.
When I pull into the Snaggletooth Creek Bean & Nugget parking lot after a quick stop home to get a batch of kombucha going, Sabrina’s SUV is here, which gives me a hiccup in the heart area.
She hasn’t quit.
Not actually a surprise, but it’s still the first thought in my head.
Am I afraid she’ll quit?
Or am I hoping she’ll quit?
I don’t know.
I just know she’s in my head and I wish she could’ve been someone who didn’t love this café so much. Because I could still be someone who likes her if she didn’t want the exact opposite of what I’m here to do.
I’m contemplating how if I were in her shoes, the last thing I’d do would be to keep working for me as I pull open the kitchen door—where the first thing I see is Jitter.
He’s sleeping in his massive house near the desk, front legs crossed and jowls twitching in his sleep.
The next thing I see is Sabrina herself.
She’s at the sink, her back to me as I make my way through the kitchen, curvy hips shaking in her tight, dark jeans, the apron strings tied around her waist swaying, her curly red hair bouncing in time with her head bopping along to the pop music coming out of the café’s speakers. She steps onto a stepstool and reaches to put a massive silver bowl up on the wire rack above with hands enclosed in bright yellow rubber kitchen gloves.
And she reaches.
And reaches.
Still shaking her hips.
Still bopping her head.
Her black T-shirt lifts to reveal creamy white skin above her waistband, and yes, my dick instantly notices.
What I wouldn’t give to have never seen this woman naked.
Because it’s all I can think of every time I look at her round, perfect ass.
Why couldn’t she have been one of the worker bees here? Or better yet, the artist next door or a dental assistant up the street?
Someone I could ask out to dinner without worrying that she was only going with me because I own the café she always thought would stay in her family.
She’s as far up on her tiptoes as she can go, and she still can’t reach the upper rack to put the bowl away.
I head across the kitchen to help, and I’m nearly there when she jumps.
From the stepstool.
My entire world freezes while she’s airborne.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I snap before I can stop myself.
She shrieks, stumbles on the landing, and the stepstool slides out from beneath her.
She shrieks again as her feet slide too.
The dog leaps to his feet, making an aroo? like he’s confused but also ready to wake up and take on the world.
I practically fly the rest of the distance to her as her body sways and her arms flail.
She’s teetering and falling.