“Oh-my-gawd, you’re gonna ask me if I’ve read it, aren’t you?”
Her frantic tone gives her away, and I pull her into another hug. My secrets continue to stay safe. “Don’t even worry about it! I was just wondering.”
CeeCee pulls away, blushing. “Sorry, we aren’t much of the reading type around here, but I’m so proud of you. I should never have ever doubted you. When Hailey Elwood wants something, she goes and gets it, Miss Fancy Author.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “It’s just a stupid story.”
“Whatever, we know you’re a superstar. Thanks for coming to remember the little people.”
“Oh, stop it!”
Brandon butts in. “Let’s convince her to stay.”
“Looks like I have a new project,” she agrees.
My shoulders tense. “Jeez, one thing at a time. Let’s not plan an all-out kidnapping.”
Brandon puts his arm around me. “C’mon, Baby Bird. We ain’t so bad.”
He’s right. This town—my friends—they’re wonderful. But to stay? That seems terrifying. I’ve been home less than twenty-four hours. I have more to navigate, and too much to figure out.
“All right, let’s not terrify her or she’ll jump ship. Are you here to just say hi or to look around?”
Brandon answers for me. “She’s treating me to coffee and pie.”
“Is that so?” CeeCee looks at me with a crooked smile. “I know you probably want to catch up with this oaf, so I’ll leave you to it, but I demand girl time.”
I nod with a level of enthusiasm that feels like I’m overdoing it, but I’m so desperate for her friendship right now.
This town swallows you like an all-encompassing bear hug, complete with fuzzy feelings and all. For most, there isn’t much reason to leave.
I was never really like everyone else, though. I had wants and needs that no one here could understand. Now that I’m back, it’s funny to see people proud and in awe of my success. At the time, everyone openly told me my dreams were too wild to chase when I already had what most people called bliss:
Love.
It was never a choice I thought I’d have to make, but then again, I didn’t willingly make that choice.
“Take a seat in a booth and relax.” CeeCee’s voice pulls me out of my reveries. “I have some stuff in the back to take care of—work and all. I know Elwood’s is yours now, but let’s save that for after you’ve settled in.”
I welcome her words. I’m not ready to take the reins just yet, and I’m thankful she senses that. In a way, it’s strange and comforting to have the people I grew up with able to pinpoint exactly what I need, especially during such a sensitive time. Time may have passed, but they seem to still know me better than my friends in LA.
They don’t call it home sweet home for nothing.
She leads me to a booth. “Take a seat.” She lifts her eyes to Brandon. “Not you. You know where the coffee and pie are.” CeeCee winks, but it’s most definitely an order.
She skips off in the direction of the kitchen, and I watch Brandon’s eyes on her swaying hips as she disappears. “Well, glad to see who wears the pants in your relationship.”
He grunts. “She only pretends to hate my guts.”
“How curious…” I gleefully file another mental note, wishing I had a notebook with me.
“Pie?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I’m not ready for mom’s pie yet.”
He shifts his bluish-brown stare to mine. “Understandable. Still take lots of sugar in your coffee?”
“You know it.” I exhale.
He walks toward the breakfast bar and helps himself to pie and coffee.
It gives me a moment to catch my breath, but as I scan the space, I notice that the half-filled diner seems to be focused on one thing: me.
The patrons try to hide their expressions behind forkfuls of food or mugs of coffee, but I feel them—little numbing pinpricks that send tingles down my spine.
I recognize some of them, and I’m tempted to wave. Instead, I try for a tight smile, too nervous to embrace the attention.
I attempt to focus on the vintage décor. The green vinyl booths and barstools. A neon Corvette clock on the wall above the bar. And the classic movie posters adorning the walls. Elvis hums in the background.
The waitresses still wear the same mint-green aprons.
Nope. Things haven’t changed a bit—and they won’t, as far as I’m concerned. I want Elwood’s to stay just the way my parents always wanted it. A clean, classy 50s home-style diner and local hangout to the population of 4,000. One of PineCrest’s landmarks, I’d say.
Brandon reappears, placing two mugs of coffee on the table, and then retrieves his pie. He slips his roguish build into the seat opposite me.
“What’s wrong?” he asks as he peeks up from his plate. “I mean besides…”
“Everyone is staring.”
“Of course they are. You’re fresh meat. I’d give it a day before the whole town is gossiping about you.”
I perch my elbows on the table and place my head in my hands. “Brandon, you’re not helping.”
“Face the music, Baby Bird. You knew this was how it was going to be.”
“I hate that you know me.”
“Shouldn’t you be thanking me?” he replies with a shit-eating grin.
“I wish I had something to throw at you.”
He laughs. “It’s so good to have you back. I can only imagine CeeCee just got her partner in crime back.”
My heart swells as a smile spreads across my lips. “I guess we always gave you shit, huh?”
“More than my dear old dad.”
“How is Mr. Watkins?”
“Still an angry old coot. He’s retired now and just tends to the horses. Keeps him busy. He sold the hardware store last year and couldn’t be happier.”
“Who’d he sell it to?”
Brandon, who was in the process of lifting his forkful of pie to his mouth, flinches at the question. “Um.” He chews. “This Palmer guy. He’s bought up the hardware store and Martha’s Market from the Cavanaughs. He’s a small-town developer. He’s been around for a few years.”
You rarely hear of newcomers to this town. It’s been nothing but generations of the same families for as long as I can remember. “I guess that’s a good thing. This town needs some variety.”
His eyebrows shoot up as he chews through the thought. “You say that now.”
His response is odd, but the peeking ink revealed as he scratches his arm distracts me, and I can’t cage my intrigue any longer.
“Let’s see those arms. I need to see what’s hiding under there. Last time I saw you, you were a scrawny firecracker with scars and bruises. Definitely no ink.”
He smiles as he folds the gray sleeves up the length of each arm, revealing intricate art, extends both of his arms out to me and lets me drag my fingers over his tattoos as I examine them. A nautical theme marks his right arm, with ships, oceans, and a compass, complete with a scantily-dressed woman, while the other arm is more traditional with a rockabilly theme of skulls, roses, and hearts.