Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
They were all picture-postcard pretty places, and while they were a bit out of the way to be featured regularly in “things to see” segments of Vermont travelogues, each town had undeniable New England charm—breathtaking fall foliage, antique lamplights on cobblestone alleyways, pristine lakes, and pretty church spires. Pinecrest, however, had a regal air the other three lacked.
Its Main Street was longer, the buildings were more ornate, and the people were wealthier and a bit…how can I say this nicely? Snootier. Sorry, but it was true. They drove Land Rovers, vacationed in Turks and Caicos, and owned a variety of Canada Goose jackets for cold, medium-cold, and super-cold weather. Oh, and they loved fine dining establishments.
Unfortunately for them…they didn’t have one. Yes, those snobby Pinecrestacians had to drive fifteen minutes along curvy, swervy roads for haute cuisine at the not-so-humble Elmwood Diner. I didn’t have to do any major research to know that a new restaurant would be heartily welcomed here.
No one would raise an eyebrow at the wine list or question the pricing. And they certainly wouldn’t ask what was in boeuf bourguignon. Don’t get me started.
I parked my SUV at the curb in front of Pete’s Pizza Palace on Barnaby Street and met Riley on the sidewalk. We stared at the peeling stickers on the wide bay window advertising two slices for five dollars, complete with a decal of two dancing pizzas. The homespun endorsement looked startlingly out of place next to the pristine black awning and understated storefront of the neighboring bakery…and every other shop on the street. It was a safe guess that the owner was the final holdout in the gentrification of Snobville and had either passed away or decided to retire.
Interesting.
“Ever been here?” Riley asked, pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head.
“No. I bet it was delicious.”
“I was thinking the same thing. So…who are we meeting again?”
“Boring Bryson. He’s a banker who sells commercial and residential properties. Like I said…boring.”
Riley chuckled. “Do you know him well? You must if Ivan knew you were thinking of opening another restaurant and suggested contacting this guy. You seem like a private person, so the fact that they know anything about you means Ivan and the real estate agent are both probably good friends of yours.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s a stretch. They’re nice guys who both happen to be gay—like me. And they know how to be discreet. Bigots aren’t welcome in these parts, but you have to pick and choose your partners wisely because not everyone is…”
“Out,” he finished.
“Correct. In this case, it’s not discretion about clandestine romances. It’s about property. Ivan mentioned that Pinecrest needed a real restaurant to Nolan and me, and said we should consider expanding. Nolan said it wasn’t a priority, but I asked Ivan to keep me posted…quietly. I’m loyal to Nolan, but it’s smart to have options and maybe Nolan will change his mind. Who knows?”
“Right. Just curious.”
“Looking at this dump is like looking at an open house when you realize you might need to make a move. Not tomorrow necessarily, but someday.”
He inclined his chin slightly. “Got it. And what’s the story with this agent?”
I shrugged. “No story. Bryson is a good guy.”
“You said he’s boring.”
“He is. You’ll see what I mean when—”
“JC! Hey there, how’s it going? It’s great to see you, man. It’s been a while,” Bryson Milligan enthused, striding toward me with his right hand outstretched.
A word about Bryson. He was a sinfully handsome forty-one-year-old single dad with silver strands in his dark hair, crystal blue eyes, and the physique of a runner—long and lean. He’d moved from Philadelphia to the area a month after I did to better co-parent his now sixteen-year-old son with his ex-wife, who’d remarried and relocated to the country in the hopes of raising their kid in a friendly, safe environment.
Bryson was an exceptional parent, an all-around good person who did nice things like…volunteer to referee youth hockey games and clear snow from the old lady next door’s driveway without being asked. Oh, yeah, and he was great in bed.
Too perfect, if you know what I mean. Yawn.
I shook his hand. “Hello, Bryson. I would like you to meet my friend, Riley. Riley, this is Boring Bryson.”
Bryson slugged my biceps, smile still locked in place as he turned to greet Riley. “What are you doing with this guy? He’s an asshole and he talks funny.”
Riley furrowed his brow. “So…you guys are actually friends?”
“I put up with him,” Bryson replied with a wink, tapping a code into the lockbox on the pizzeria’s door. “Come see this place. It’s a relic, but it has good bones.”
Well, he was right about that. I ignored the ugly bits like the stained ceilings, worn red carpet, and faded faux-wood paneling, and noted that the dining area was large and the huge bay windows provided the perfect amount of natural light. The kitchen itself would have to be gutted. It was cramped, had an inefficient layout, and the fixtures were archaic.