There are multiple SUVs lined up in front of the gallery. A man in yet another suit stands outside the front door. He presses a phone to his ear, not even noticing me walking toward him.
“I just don’t see your vision for this. Who would want to come here to look at art?”
He sighs at whatever is said on the other line and then scowls, creating a crease on his already wrinkled forehead. “No, I’m not questioning you, sir. It’s just that—”
The person on the other line must be upset because he pulls the phone away from his ear slightly.
My cowboy boots scuff against the pavement as I come to a stop. The sound catches the guy’s attention. His eyes travel up and down my body. He grunts, clearly displeased. “See you in a bit,” he clips before tapping something on the screen. His eyes focus on the box in my grasp.
“Are you looking at the space?” I ask, nodding toward the building.
His eyes follow mine. He scratches at his chin awkwardly. “Did you need something?”
I smile when he focuses on me again. Yes, sir. You could help me by telling me why the hell the owners will sell to you and not me.
I hold up the box of pastries, giving it a gentle shake. “I own the cafe right next door and wanted to introduce myself. I wasn’t sure if you were just looking or if you owned it. But I wanted to give you guys a warm welcome either way…”
My attempt at fishing for more information doesn’t work. He does give me the slightest of smiles. Hooking a thumb over his shoulder, he takes a step toward the Richardsons’ old gallery. Their custom sign and awnings still hang on the building, but I wonder how long it’ll last. Judging by the guy’s demeanor, my hopes of renting this space are dwindling.
It seems like it’s already been sold, but I follow him inside just to scope things out. My feet come to a halt when I see the inside of the building. I used to frequent the Richardsons’ shop. Al was one of the nicest humans I’d ever met, and he was so proud of the gallery he and his wife created. It was their pride and joy. They worked so hard to highlight the talent of local artists. My heart feels heavy as I look around the space. There used to be so many variations of different art pieces in here. There were paintings, sculptures, photographs, and pottery. It was filled with life.
Now, it feels void of life. The stark white walls contrast three men in dark suits. The men talk in a semicircle, one of them looking over at me midconversation.
“How can I help you, dear?”
I try not to scoff. I’m twenty-three years old. I’m not anyone’s dear. I smile anyway because now I’m even more curious about who purchased the space. I want to know their intentions—and maybe part of me still wants to know if they’d want to sell it again to someone else…to me.
“She runs the restaurant next door,” the guy from outside pipes up, “and brought some food to welcome us.”
“Technically, it’s a bakery and coffee shop,” I add. “And I brought pastries.”
Their eyes light up, the three men making their way toward me. I open the pink box for them, loving how distracted they are by the treats inside. The guy from outside joins them, and they all pick something to eat. A satisfied smirk crosses my lips as they take a bite, and I relish their sighs of approval.
“I was excited to hear we might have new neighbors.” I wasn’t in the slightest, but they don’t need to know that. “I wasn’t aware this space was for sale.”
One of them nods, opening his mouth to talk despite his mouthful of food. “Sure was. The deal went through last week.”
Shit. Those out-of-state assholes really did sell the space to someone else, despite my inquiries.
“Interesting,” I squeak, plastering a fake smile on my face when one of them narrows their eyes on me. “So happy to have you here,” I add for pleasantries.
“We’re only here to oversee the grand opening,” he explains.
Before I can get a word in, the guy from outside joins the conversation. “Yeah, here to tell Mr. Hunter that there’s no way this is going to work. People here don’t have good taste.” His eyes bulge, like he halfway feels sorry for the insult he just threw out. “No offense,” he adds.
“None taken,” I snap, quickly shutting the box. “Because your opinion is wrong.”
The air gets thick with tension—and not the good kind. The asshat from outside clears his throat uncomfortably. “It’s not that. I just meant—”
“Oh, I know what you meant.” I begin to back up. There’s no use for me to stay here and listen to these guys from the city who don’t know a thing about this town and the people in it. “It’s just that you’re very, very wrong, but that’s okay. We can’t always be right, can we?”
His mouth flops open. He looks like the fish in the big tanks at an aquarium I once visited as a kid. His mouth opens and closes as if he’s blowing bubbles into the water.
“Maybe this town isn’t for you,” I say, backing up toward the door—taking my pastries with me because they do not deserve even the smallest bites of my creations. “In fact, maybe this town isn’t for you and whomever this Mr. Hunter is. Maybe you could pass that info to—”
All of a sudden, I collide with something—or rather a someone than a something.
I let out a yelp, trying to keep hold of the box in my hands so I don’t spill the remaining pastries all over the ground.
Turning around, I almost drop the box again when I see who is standing in front of me. He’s tall, nearly having to duck to get through the low doorframe. He smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m really tired of us meeting like this,” he declares, his voice low but smooth. I hate the shiver that runs through my body at his cold but gravelly voice.
Now I’m the one who looks like a fish because I’m speechless that somehow, fate hates me enough to bring this guy into my life again.
And it only gets worse when he opens his mouth and says, “Pass what info to me, shortcake?”
