"They’re leaving?" she whined.
"I don’t think so. I think they’ll stay, but if that’s the case then they’ll be settling in at their own place and into a new routine. It’s hard with a new baby. We need to give them some time and some space," was his pointed remark.
Though she pouted, mostly I was just glad to hear the news. I really liked MC and hanging out with her was a pleasure. If they stayed, we’d get closer, and there was no denying that Maddox was a cutie-pie.
After we finished up, an old guy came out from behind the counter. He had a dish towel in his hands, and he was drying gnarled fingers on it as he tipped his head to the side while he walked toward us.
Because I was facing away from the door, I took note of his approach first, and shot him a wary smile as he neared the table.
"Spoke with Jaime today. He says you want to buy the place?"
Storm tipped his head back to look up at the owner of the diner—the MC wanted to buy it?
Considering Storm had been integral to Rex’s plan over in West Orange to diversify the Sinners’ portfolio, which had included the construction of the new mini-mall in the center of town, complete with strip club, diner, garage, and bar—guess which was the odd one out—I wasn’t surprised at him looking to mimic the success of that venture here. What surprised me was that he wanted to take over what was, clearly, a mom-and-pop joint.
"I’m guessing you’re Fred?" Storm rumbled, getting to his feet, his hand outstretched.
Fred nodded. "That’s me." He took his hand, shook it, then asked, "Did you enjoy the pie?"
Storm smiled at the many dishes on the table. "I think you can see we did."
"Jaime said to watch out for you." Fred’s gaze dropped to Storm’s cut. "No missing a Sinner. All the waitresses get all excited." He shot me an apologetic look, but I just wafted a dismissive hand.
Funny how, when we’d been together, I’d have gotten jealous about that comment. Now I just accepted it as fact.
Storm, however, winced, and his face darkened with annoyance. "I was curious about the pies you want me to pay you royalties on."
Royalties? Huh?
Fred blinked, then he smiled. "That’s a good way of phrasing it." He wagged a finger. "I might put that in the real estate ad."
"I don’t think you’ll need to worry about viewers, Fred. My kid wants to come next week, so I think that’s all the approval I need." He dipped his chin. "I’ll get in touch with the realtor in the AM."
"As easy as that?"
"As easy as that."
"I always thought the MC was poor."
My eyes widened, especially when Storm didn’t rush to defend it. "There’s a new boss in charge."
"Heard that Butch did a runner." Fred clucked his tongue. "Bad boy that. Always was, and always will be a bad egg." He squinted at Storm. "You like him?"
"I’m not a good egg, but I won’t screw your business up."
Fred shot me a look, as if he were using me as a point of reference who’d back him up. But I wasn’t playing.
"If you’ve got a problem with doing business with the MC, Fred, you’d better tell me now before I waste anymore of both our time," Storm cautioned, a harder edge to his tone as he stared the older man down.
Surprised he hadn’t lost his temper at the slights Fred kept making, I had to admit that Storm’s volatile nature rarely revealed itself in arguments. Of his many flaws, of the many chinks in his control, his temper wasn’t one of them. At least, not with us.
How likely was it that a guy whose road name was Storm, a word that was tempestuous and volatile in nature, didn’t have a temper?
And yet, in arguments, I was the one whose voice was raised. Never him. I was the one who got angry, who yelled in his face, who tried to tear at his walls. Me. Not him.
It was a strange time to make that revelation. Stranger still when I watched Fred shake his head and say, "Your money’s as good as anyone’s."
"My money’s the only one buying," Storm retorted coolly. "I’ve seen that this place has been on the market for a couple years."
"You pay for quality," Fred said with a sniff.
"There’s quality and there’s pricing yourself out of the market."
I shot Cyan a look, wondering if she understood what was happening here, if she was interested, and I found her spooning up cherry pie as she watched her dad in negotiations.
If this could be considered negotiations, that is.
Storm wasn’t arguing about the price, but Fred wasn’t exactly being chipper about it.
"We’re worth every penny. If you think you can try to get me to lower the price—"
Storm shook his head. "I’m not quibbling."
Fred frowned. "You’re not?"
"No."
Fred eyed him suspiciously. "So I can expect a call from Sally Anne tomorrow?"
"You can."
"You think this is a way out of paying for your pie?"
My eyes bugged at that, and finally, I had to speak. "Excuse me, Fred, that’s completely out of order. We never suggested that we were trying to get a free meal! We pay our way just fine, thank you very much."
He wriggled his shoulders. "Lots of freeloaders around here," was all he said.
"Well, we’re not like that," I said with a huff. The nerve of him.
Turning away from the conversation, I eyed Cyan, saw her watching me with surprise, and flickered back to the conversation between Storm and Fred.
"Can we have the bill, please?" I requested.
Fred pursed his lips. "You can. I’ll look forward to doing business with you."
With that, he held out his hand to be shaken again, which Storm did, then retreated to the kitchen.
"What a miserable old coot," I grumbled under my breath as he took his seat opposite me.
"I don’t think he’s ready to let go," Storm mused, tackling Cyan for the last piece of cherry pie which, of course, had her giggling, especially when he let her win.
She surprised me by cutting the piece in half, and saying, "Halfsies, Daddy."
"Thanks, ladybug," he replied, taking it and humming as he chomped away.
"What do you mean?" I asked, trying not to watch him eat the pie. It really shouldn’t have been sexy. "Why’s he selling if he isn’t ready to let go?"
Storm shrugged. "See his hands?"
I blinked. "I guess. I watched him dry them on a towel."
"Did you notice how bad his arthritis is?"
"No."
"The knuckles were fused. No man likes to admit he’s incapable of doing what he loves."
"How do you know he loves it?"
He snorted. "He’s got two line order cooks and several waitresses, plus it’s nearly nine o’clock, honey. No man his age would be here with that many staff on board if he didn’t love what he did." His insight had me pausing, but he mistook my curiosity because he said, "I know you worked at the diner in West Orange, so you might not get it. Giulia hates cooking even though she’s damn good at it—"