But observing the way she’s looking at the space, her mind focused on absorbing every last inch, is fascinating. It’s almost as if I can see the wheels spinning in her head.
“You can talk it out, you know,” I say. “Tell me what you see.”
I lean against the wall, my hands behind me, waiting for her to share. Share anything.
But she stays silent, running her hands over the packed boxes, taking in the outdated brass light fixtures and the dusty blue-and-mauve flowered wallpaper.
“It’s different in here without all the shelves.”
I nearly fall to the floor from the sound of her voice carrying through the emptying space. “It’s more open, airy. The wallpaper is an easy fix, and I could change out the flooring, which could take a weekend but be well worth it. There is a fully functioning kitchen in the back. Before Mrs. Burberry turned the space into a sewing shop, it was actually a soup restaurant. Mrs. Burberry never did anything with the kitchen, so it might need some updating, but at least all the bones are there. And the walls are soundproof. One of the worries Mrs. Burberry had when I moved in next door was hearing heavy machinery vibrating the walls, so when I renovated the garage space, I made sure to double down on the soundproofing. With light music on in the background, you won’t even know we’re next door. And I keep things clean, really clean. You’ll never have to worry about junk cars sitting out front. That’s not the kind of shop I run.”
“I know,” she says quietly, peeking up at me for a second, the joy in her deep brown eyes easing some of the awkward tension between us. “When will she be packed up?”
“End of the week I believe, if not sooner. Her grandsons have been helping her. She’s moving to be closer to them.”
She nods and walks toward the back of the space, and I follow behind. Pausing at the kitchen door, I hear her suck in a sharp breath and then step in closer. “This isn’t just a regular kitchen; this is a professional kitchen.”
I peek in. “Yeah, I guess so. I know the stove needs to be replaced. Mrs. Burberry mentioned that. But yeah, I guess it’s a pretty nice space.”
“This is better than what I have at Snow Roast.” Her voice fills with more excitement, and I’m starting to feel less tense. “We could move some of the baking over to here; there’s so much more space.”
“That’s a pretty good idea. Give The Lobster Landing some competition.”
Her eyes widen and she says, “I would never, I didn’t mean—”
I hold up my hand. “I’m only kidding, Ruthie. But I will say this, your coffee cake is fucking amazing.”
Fidgeting, she says, “It was my dad’s recipe. He got it from his mom and he perfected it by adding apples into the mix. I started adding other fruits as well.”
“I noticed.” I pat my flat stomach. “Any more of that pear and raspberry coffee cake and I’m going to lose all definition in my abs.”
Her eyes fall to my stomach, where she stares for a few beats before she blushes. She looks away, pushing her hair behind her ear. She glides through the room, runs her hand over the walls, examines the ceilings, does everything possible to not look at me again.
“So,” I clear my throat. “What do you think?”
“I think I need a second opinion.” She glances at me and I raise my hand.
“I can be that second opinion. I think it’s a great space. Mrs. Burberry would never screw you over, and I know some people who could help renovate.” I take a step forward. “Is this what you envisioned?”
On a deep breath, she takes in the space one more time. “It isn’t . . . I think it might be better.” She steps out of the kitchen and goes back to the main room where she leans against the wall and stares out toward the storefront.
“I can see it,” she whispers. “The white shiplap on the walls with the white oak shelving stacked with specialties from England. Teas, baking mixes, and tea ware. Cadbury candies and biscuits. Fancy hats and pristine serving ware. White oak floors, beautiful white dining sets with light teal glasses on the table. Delicate fabric napkins that you’re almost too afraid to use. A tea bar. A biscuit bar. A menu full of tea sandwiches and authentic English scones with clotted cream and jelly . . .”
She sighs and fuck, I’m transfixed. Her voice is sweet, smooth . . . surprising. Dreamy and starry-eyed, she carries hope in her being, a promise for her next adventure. I know that feeling. I’ve seen the same look when I’ve woken up and gotten ready in the morning, my face reflecting the same enthusiasm.
From the excitement brimming on the curve of her smile, the happiness in her eyes—glistening, ready to cry from joy—it’s impossible to look away, to give her this moment alone.
“It’s everything my mom would have loved all wrapped up in a darling little store next to an automobile shop.” She chuckles to herself and then as if she remembers I’m here, she clears her throat and says, “Sorry. I got a little carried away.”
“Don’t apologize,” I say, my eyes fixed on hers. Long black lashes, dark irises that almost blend with her pupils. “Don’t ever apologize about a dream.” Joining her against the wall, our shoulders inches apart, I say, “I see it too. And I also see my sweet-loving ass parked at your table during lunchtime enjoying tiny sandwiches with a cup of tea.”
“Peppermint tea,” she says quietly.
“My favorite.” I turn my head and she does too at the exact same time, and something happens in that moment.
As if someone taps me on the shoulder and points an arrow directly over Ruth’s head, lights beaming, horns blaring, sparks flying.
What . . . the . . .
“I should get going,” she says quickly, pushing off the wall. “I should make sure Rylee’s okay.” She’s moving so fast that I stumble over a box to catch up to her.
“Wait,” I call out, but she continues to walk out of the shop while calling over her shoulder.
“Thanks for showing me the space. Have a good night.”
And before I can even make it to the front door, she’s turning back onto Main Street and headed straight to Snow Roast.
What the hell just happened?
Three Men and a Witch Group Text
Brig: Just got my Summer of Love pen pal assigned to me. I’m too nervous to look.
Griffin: You’re doing that?
Reid: Of course he’s doing it. Didn’t you know? He’s trying to break the curse. *Insert eye roll*
Brig: Hey, the curse is real and all you buffoons know it.
Reid: That’s why we’re all spending our nights alone . . .
Griffin: Ouch, low blow, Reid. You know he’s going to start crying.
Rogan: Harper and I walked in on him using his stomach as a dipping dish for mustard. #RockBottom
Brig: Uhh . . . I was looking for support, not bashing. Where’s the love?
Reid: Cursed in New Orleans
Griffin: LOL. I snorted.
Rogan: Fucking guffawed.
Reid: I love a good guffaw.
Griffin: Not sure I know what classifies as a guffaw.
Rogan: According to Google, a loud and boisterous laugh.
Griffin: Oh, then I’ve guffawed.
Reid: Total guffawer.