Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 80035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
And they might as well have renamed the diner Denny’s Diner. The menu was revised so that every item began with “Denny’s.” Denny’s pancakes, Denny’s waffles, Denny’s burger, Denny’s fries, Denny’s pot pie, Denny’s…everything.
But Elmwood Rink might have outdone them all with their supersized poster, a photo of Denny in action that covered the entire side of the building. I was told there was another one at the high school rink, but I hadn’t seen it yet.
I walked through town with my mouth open in awe of the outpouring of love and support. I’d never seen anything like it. This wasn’t corporate-sponsored rah-rah bullshit. This was a community effort, funded privately by proud citizens who’d rooted tirelessly for Denny all season and wanted to thank him for representing Elmwood. It was unbelievably cool.
Yet all I could think was…
“He’s going to fucking hate this,” Annie grumbled.
Yeah, what she said.
I stared up at the welcome sign and rocked on my heels. “It’s nice.”
She sighed. “They’ll do the same thing for Jake. We don’t play favorites here. Well, I do, but he’s my grandkid, so who cares?”
“Understandable.”
“Mmhmm. He’s loved and appreciated. That’s not the worst thing in the world, is it?”
Sounded amazing to me. But hey, I was the outsider, dodging suspicious glances on the regular, so you know…perspective.
Okay, things had improved slightly for me over the past month or so.
I’d hired a couple of employees at the mill. I had another ninety places to fill, but it was better than nothing. The personnel issues had calmed just as a slew of newly constructed homes were slated to break ground. That was a relief, for sure, but at the rate the orders were coming in, we’d be forced to transfer employees from Denver to handle the overflow.
“Trust me, you don’t want to do that,” our new manager, Cooper, warned. “We need locals. I’ll help you as best I can.”
Good. I needed help.
Hiring Cooper McMurry was possibly my greatest contribution as CEO of the Wood Hollow Mill, or whatever the fuck my temporary title was. Cooper was a single dad in his late thirties originally from Fallbrook who’d worked for the Larsons since he was a teenager before taking a job in Upstate New York.
But he was back, and thank fuck he was also extremely qualified to lead hardcore lumberjacks. His expertise was forestry and trust me, everything about him screamed legit. Cooper was gritty and fierce-looking with a bushy dark beard, sharp eyes, a barrel chest, and biceps that tested the integrity of his T-shirts on the daily.
I felt like a plaid-shirt and faded-jeans-wearing wannabe in comparison. I’d overheard a tall guy with shaggy hair and tats named Niall refer to me as a GQ model posing as a blue-collar worker to his shorter, heavier-set friend, Micah. Yep, those fucking billboard ads had been unearthed by an intrepid Internet sleuth and let’s just say, Wood Hollow wasn’t impressed. No one mocked me outright, but I felt like I had a target on my head.
These idiots obviously had no idea that it took a lot more than a few suspicious looks and whispered character assassinations to rattle me. But I wondered what Denny would think if he knew his high school buddies were some of my biggest haters.
Not important. It was static noise. I ignored it and tried to concentrate on the little wins. For instance, Emily still fucked up my calls on the regular, but she didn’t try to leave before five and to her credit, she’d actually stayed late to finish a work order the other day. So…better.
Elmwood was kinder to me. Bill poured a beer for me the second I walked into the bar, Ivan greeted me warmly every morning at the coffee shop, Penny sneaked an extra maple cookie into my orders, and JC found a new topic for us to debate whenever I stopped by the diner.
Like today.
“Why do you order zee scramble with no mushrooms?” JC demanded in his melodic Quebecois accent, hovering at the counter with his arms crossed. “Mushrooms add zee flavor and interest. You take them away, what do you have?”
Jean-Claude was a big dude with reddish hair and a quirky sense of humor. Some days I couldn’t tell if I was on the cusp of starting a war or if he simply enjoyed making me squirm.
“A better omelet,” I snarked. “I hate mushrooms.”
He narrowed his eyes as if sizing up the enemy, then shrugged. “C’est la vie. I will give you leeks instead.”
“That’s okay. I don’t—”
And he was gone.
The man filling saltshakers at the end of the counter chuckled softly as he glanced over. “Unless you’re allergic, I’d go with the flow if I were you. JC speaks in food. It’s his way of welcoming you. And possibly a reminder that as part owner of the diner, I should formally do the same.”