Not surprised. The man works himself ragged.
He’s the one and only Ford Chance, the reason the Chance family is even on the national map, and the reason my sister has a job.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FORD
“Good morning,” Larkin says with a smile as she sits across from me.
The Marina Island Bed and Breakfast has a large dining space with accompanying fireplace, multiple wooden bistro sets with differing floral linens draped over them, and striped green and white wallpaper on the walls, met halfway down the wall by white board and batten. The aesthetic is busy, but also oddly calming, with the soothing natural colors and potted plants scattered throughout the space.
But it does nothing for my mood this morning.
“Good morning,” I say, pouring myself a cup of coffee from the carafe that Louise, the owner, brought over to me when she mentioned how tired I looked. Pleasant woman.
Larkin studies me. “You look . . .”
“Tired,” I finish for her. “So I’ve heard.” I drag my hand over my face and lean back in my chair. A muffin rests on my plate, along with some fruit, but I have no desire to eat them at the moment, especially since the muffins look dry and incredibly unappetizing. Hate to admit it, but my mom was right about the continental breakfast.
“Does this have anything to do with Palmer and a wine bottle?”
“Talk to your brother, the famous Dr. Beau, this morning?”
“He mentioned a late-night visit. He obviously didn’t go into details, but he did want me to check up on you and make sure you were okay. He said you seemed stressed.” Larkin props her chin on her hand. “Anything you want to talk about, boss?”
“Not really.”
“Does that ever work with me?”
“No.” I pick up my fork and stab a piece of pineapple that’s seen better days. I examine it and set my fork back down.
“How about this—instead of pretending like we’re going to eat these dry bran muffins and semicanned fruit, why don’t we head over to Watchful Wanderers? They have food trucks parked out front in the morning. We can grab breakfast and walk through the store, maybe get those creative juices flowing and then go over the schedule for today.”
“Yeah, that sounds like a great plan.” I tilt my head to the side, taking her in. “Why do you know me so well?”
“Four years of spending way too much time together.” She stands and adjusts the rolled-up sleeves of her black-and-blue buffalo plaid shirt. Before we left, I told her to pack casual for the trip. It’s just us—no reason to dress up. I’m glad she took me seriously, because she looks comfortable in her leggings, boots, and flannel. “Let’s go—I’m not going to take no for an answer.”
“When have you ever taken no for an answer from me?”
“It’s rare.” She smirks as I stand.
I leave a tip on the table, not sure if that’s what we’re supposed to do, and I follow Larkin out of the bed-and-breakfast. Together we turn right on Marina Ave. “Do you ever miss living here?” Larkin asks as our feet fall in step together.
“Sometimes,” I answer. “I don’t miss the constant ferry rides and the fear of missing the last boat off the island. But I do miss living near the water. Nothing like a landlocked state to make you realize how much you enjoyed living on the coast.”
“I miss the water too,” Larkin says with a wistful tone. “A lot. I miss going fishing on Sundays with my dad and Beau. Taking the dinghy out on the channel and sharing a box of doughnuts while we sucked down hot chocolate and whispered so we didn’t scare the fish away.”
“Every Sunday?” I ask.
“Every Sunday.” Her shoulder brushes up against mine. “Beau would skip out on occasion, which led to it being more of a thing I did with my dad when we got older.”
“No wonder you were always in Watchful Wanderers,” I say, thinking back to the stories she told me of coming to the store with her dad. Even though we grew up on a small island, I don’t recall seeing Larkin all too much in the store . . . or at school, for that matter. Maybe because I’m older than her, or maybe because I was always in the back of the store with Dad, learning the ropes on the admin side.
“It was our absolute favorite place ever. I remember when I was twelve, going to the store with Dad and checking out the live snake tank you guys had in the front window for Snake Week.”
“Snake Week?” I ask, confused. “I don’t remember . . . wait, was it when Dad was trying to bring snake awareness to hikers?” I scratch the side of my jaw as the store comes into view just over the crest of the road. The triangular log cabin–style roof peaks up, followed by the pitched wooden porch and classic carved bear that rests just out front—a pretty famous bear who’s been featured in hundreds of thousands of pictures.
“I can’t believe you don’t remember Snake Week—it was all the town talked about. Your dad brought in a snake specialist, and every day that week, at seven at night, she’d give advice about each dangerous snake we should stay away from while hiking, and then of course countered that with info on the friendly ones. It was enthralling.”
“Huh,” I say as the food trucks also come into view. “Kind of wish I remembered that.”
“I always wondered why you guys never brought it back. It’s a great promotion and wonderful for the stores to help sell more product. Free lessons, free food, and products for sale. With social media being so big, you could really make a thing. And you could set up displays in each of the stores. Displays that show off the snakes instead of hiding them.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, years ago, Dad, Beau, and I were visiting Colorado Springs to hike the famous Incline, but we also went to the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo. Their reptile exhibit was like an art piece. Each tank was designed to highlight the creatures’ colors with beautiful marble rocks and inspiring sculptures. I’ve never seen anything like it. You could do the same here, maybe use products for the snakes to slither over—carabiners and lanterns and the like—really make an exhibit out of it.”
Jesus . . . she’s so smart.
“That’s actually a really good idea.”
She smirks at me and nudges my shoulder. “Been sitting on that idea for a while.” She points to a red truck. “Gah, the Waffle Machine. Don’t mind if I do.”
She takes off toward the food truck, and I can’t help smiling as she skips right up to the window and waves. I always forget that Larkin grew up here too. She knows the town, she knows the people, she knows the store. She has history here.
“Ford,” she calls out. “They have waffles benedict.” She waves me over.
Chuckling, I join her, and we both put in our orders. “They have coffee in Watchful Wanderers; want me to grab us some?”
“That would be amazing,” she says. “I’ll wait for the food and find a spot to sit. You know how I take my coffee, right?” She grins at me.
“With a dash of creamer. And when you’re feeling feisty, with a teaspoon of sugar.” I raise a brow. “Are you feeling feisty today?”
“Very.” She winks.