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)
“Am I going to get mercury poisoning?” he asked, pulling his glasses off.
I scoffed. “From my kitchen? Never. You would have to eat three cans of tuna every day for months on end, and that isn’t going to happen. But you could die from the boredom of eating the same thing every day and if I am responsible for that, I will be very angry. So…choose something else.”
“I like tuna.”
“No one likes tuna that much.” I crossed my arms and glowered. “Allez, what else do you like?”
Riley’s lips twisted in amusement. “I like a lot of things. Turkey, ham, BLTs…”
“Okay. I’ll bring you my version of a club sandwich. You will love it.”
“Thanks, but I really just want the tuna,” he replied, grabbing my wrist as I turned.
I sighed theatrically. “Have it your way. One boring tuna on rye coming up.”
His eyes lit with humor. “It’s the least boring tuna I’ve ever had. It’s freaking amazing. Kudos to the chef.”
“Thank you,” I deadpanned. “I will be back. French fries and a salad, yes?”
“Just the fries, please.”
“Hmm. One more thing. How is the light in here?”
“Uh…what?”
I gestured to the Ray-Bans he was currently tapping against the table. “Are your eyes still sensitive?”
“Yeah.” He set the sunglasses onto his nose. “It’s getting better, but the headaches can be brutal and they’re worse in the morning for some reason. I’m slowly turning into a vampire.”
“Welcome to the club. I’ve been a vampire for years. I think I’m allergic to mornings now.”
“Me too.” He smiled kindly, adding, “Um…hey, can I get a Diet Coke too, please?”
Oh.
Right.
Why was I still standing here? Was I accidentally flirting again?
I salvaged my potentially awkward episode with a curt nod and a promise to have his lunch delivered ASAP.
I stayed in the kitchen after that. I didn’t trust myself not to turn into a fawning, ridiculous fan with a super-crush around the hockey player. I know, I know. It was an illogical diagnosis, but I exhibited telling signs—butterflies in my stomach, irrational irritation, and ultra-awareness. It was…disturbing.
The only remedy was to steer clear and hope he’d heal quickly.
Should have been simple, oui?
No, Riley Thoreau was everywhere—the diner, the coffee shop, the bakery.
I spotted him on Sunday, signing autographs in front of the rink; on Monday morning, jogging down Magnolia Street; on my way to work that afternoon, chatting with Vin and Nolan in the parking lot of the newly constructed sport facility he’d built adjacent to St. Finbarr’s; and on Tuesday morning, through the window outside the dry cleaner.
And yes, I heard the buzz in the kitchen. According to Dierdre, a sweet waitress in her twenties and a self-professed hockey fiend, Riley looked depressed. Jonathan, a sous chef who fixed Harley Davidsons on the side and also loved hockey, said Riley’s eyes were the problem. Why else would he still be wearing sunglasses inside after two weeks, and why would he still be here?
“I think he lost partial vision in his right eye,” Ivan the terrible know-it-all barista and co-owner of Rise and Grind suggested as he whisked foam into art on my latte. “The press thinks he’ll announce his retirement any day now.”
“Who?”
“Riley Thoreau,” he replied with his head bent, a pink headband holding his mop of curls in place. “Have you been listening at all, or am I talking to myself again?”
I huffed fondly ’cause I had to admit, Ivan the terrible know-it-all was a good friend and sparring partner. He was a thirty-two-year-old Elmwood native with blue eyes, brown hair always in need of a trim. His endless wardrobe of black T-shirts were usually paired with skinny jeans and decorated with rainbow pins as if to remind everyone that he was both out and proud and mildly committed to the emo reputation he’d fostered in his youth.
He and his friend Stacy had gone to college in New York and returned to Elmwood with business degrees and a plan to take over the donut shop some genius had opened next to Henderson’s Bakery in the eighties. No one could compete with a place that smelled of pastries, freshly baked bread, and served passable decaf and regular java. But Ivan and Stacy were willing to give it a try.
Three years ago, they took over the lease, renamed and revamped the shop into a specialty coffee emporium that sold lattes, espressos, cappuccinos, and every blended caffeinated concoction under the sun. In a town like Elmwood where a generation of old-timers still drank Folgers they made in the Mr. Coffee machines they’d owned for decades, it hadn’t seemed like a winning idea.
Wrong. Rise and Grind was a huge success.
Elmwood was a surprising place. Six years ago, I’d agreed to help Nolan revitalize the diner his family had owned for almost a century. The town had been leery of me and my French-Canadian-infused menu improvements in the early days. A burger was a burger in their minds. They weren’t sure they could trust an outsider with an accent not to ruin beloved staples. They gave me a chance for Nolan’s sake, and now…they accepted me as one of their own.