Both sets of eyes come to rest on me.
“I’m here for work,” I reply.
Sheila narrows her gaze at me, her smile dropping a fraction. “Most of the work around here is at the mill, and you don’t look like you’re the lumber kind to me. No disrespect.”
I glance quickly down at my tailored suit before I glance back at her. She means I’m not some brawny guy, covered in sweat, dirt, and sawdust, sporting a mountain man beard, I suppose. Which, between you and me, I’m quite happy about. “None taken.”
“So? Since you’re so obviously not the lumber kind, what are you doing here?”
I can tell she won’t be satisfied until I give her a response.
“I’m going to be working with the management team at the mill.” I gesture at the smaller man. “I’m a lawyer, like Alfred here.”
I don’t mention that I work in mergers and acquisitions. That would only inflame their already suspicious minds.
They both size me up, with Sheila’s smile disappearing almost completely from her face. I bet alarm bells are clanging loudly in her head right about now.
“What’s Calvin Cantor up to that he needs a lawyer from New York City?” Alfred asks.
I know from my research that Calvin Cantor is the owner of Cantor Mill and the very person I am due to meet later today to start the process of determining whether Anderson and Smith should purchase it.
Neither Sheila nor Alfred need to know any of that, not unless it’s common knowledge that Cantor is looking to sell. Looking between the facial expressions of these two, my guess is it’s not.
So, instead of answering her question, I reply, “I guess you’ll have to ask Mr. Cantor that.”
Sharing his plans with the townsfolk is entirely up to the owner of the mill. Not me.
“All right if I choose whichever seat I want?” I ask.
“Go right ahead,” she replies somewhat stiffly. “I’ll bring your coffee and off-menu omelet over when it’s ready.”
“Thanks.” I don’t comment on the off-menu part.
With all four sets of eyes in the place on me, I make my way to a table at the back by the bookcase and take a seat.
I guess I’m the hot new topic in town, at least for today.
But I’m not interested in being gossip for anyone. Hunter’s Creek is a get in, get the job done, get out fast situation for me.
I undo the top button of my suit jacket and settle into my seat, pull my phone from the inside pocket of my jacket and scroll through my work emails. I ignore a message from Wyatt with photographic evidence of how amazing his time in Chicago is already proving to be. Who needs that kind of jerk to rub my face in it? I will not be sending him a picture of the rain-drenched Second Chance Café, Main Street, Hunter’s Creek. Not today or any day.
“One extra strong black coffee. No cream, no sugar.” Sheila places an empty cup and saucer in front of me and pours some coffee into it, coming to a stop when the cup is only about a quarter full.
I look up at her in questioning.
“Call it a Hunter’s Creek espresso,” she says. It feels like a joke at my expense, but then again, I could be reading too much into it.
“Since I find myself in Hunter’s Creek, I’ll take your regular black coffee, please. All the way to the top.”
She pauses for a moment, clearly wondering how to proceed, before she fills the cup almost to the rim.
“Thank you so much.”
“Uh huh,” is her unimpressed response.
I’m clearly not winning any new fans.
She stands watching me, holding the coffee pot in her hands.
“Can I help you with something?” I ask in as polite a way as I can.
“It’s just…the only people who wear suits in this town are undertakers, and they’re the last people you want to see on a beautiful Wednesday at lunchtime.”
I look out at the rain.
At least I can reassure her about one thing. “I’m not an undertaker. I’m a lawyer”
She cocks a brow. “Are you from the IRS?”
I shake my head.
“FBI?”
How many acronyms can she throw at me?
“No.”
“CIA?”
And there’s my answer.
“Look, I can’t be the one to tell you why I’m here. It’s confidential between my company and Mr. Cantor. I hope you understand.”
Her lips tighten. “Oh, I understand all right. I didn’t come down in the last rain shower, you know.”
“I’m sure you didn’t.” I try out a nicety, aware the atmosphere has suddenly become Arctic in here. “And thank you so much for the coffee.”
“Your off-menu ham and cheese omelet with no ham or cheese is coming right up,” she tells me pointedly.
“Thank you very much.”
She throws her hostile gaze across me before she turns and walks away.
That’s the thing with my line of work. I go into struggling businesses to assess whether they are a viable proposition to take over, and in a small town like this, I’m instantly the bad guy. Forget the fact I’ve often been called in by the business owner themselves, looking to sell.
To the townsfolk, I represent evil corporate America. I’ve had to grow a thick skin.
I return my attention to my emails, responding to one from Mr. Cantor himself, telling him I’m looking forward to meeting with him at the agreed time of 2:00 this afternoon.
Sheila delivers my meal and I thank her as I set about eating it and finishing off my coffee while I read more about Cantor Mill. It’s the single largest employer of the town, and was the brainchild of Joseph Cantor, Calvin’s grandfather, who established it some 112 years ago.
My meal devoured, I pay the check, tipping the correct amount, and get up to leave. The young couple from earlier are still at their window table and I can feel their eyes follow me as I make my way to the exit.
With my hand on the door handle, I turn and say, “Thank you so much for the meal, Sheila.”
“I suppose we’ll be seeing you around now that you’re here working at the mill doing undisclosed things.”
She’s not someone to let things go. Clearly.
“I’ll be sure to come back,” I reply, mostly because this is the sole coffeehouse I’ve seen in the town so far.
I pull the door open and come face to face with a woman. Her hand is outstretched, as though to push the door open.
With wide eyes, a small nose, and full, pillowy lips, her bobbed auburn hair is damp from the rain, and she’s tucked it behind her ears, probably to tame it. It’s been unsuccessful. In her purple floral dress and jean jacket, she’s got an air of sophistication to her I haven’t noticed in the other townsfolk I’ve met.
In short, she’s Hallmark movie pretty, the romantic heroine I half-expected to meet when I walked in before.
She comes to a sudden stop. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there,” she says, her voice sweet and melodic. It’s almost as alluring as she is.
As I said, Hallmark movie pretty.
“My bad,” I murmur back.
She flicks her gaze to mine, and I notice her eyes, dark blue pools of liquid that appear they could drown you as soon as you look at them.