Page 62 of Driven Daddy

Larsen glanced through the window, then around the diner. “If I read about a diner in a book by Stephen King, this would be it.”

“Think we’re getting poisoned?”

He snickered. “No, but this is so typical small town. I love it.” He cupped his hands around the mug of coffee. “I won’t even complain about the lack of tea.”

“Pretty sure you’d only get a bag of Lipton, pal.”

“Pass.” He lifted the mug and took a tentative sip. “If I didn’t have hair on my chest, I would after this.” He took another larger sip. “Good.”

“There’s no diet plate, and the coffee is strong here, that’s for sure.” I pulled the mug in front of me and spun it idly before dumping a packet of raw sugar in it. I had enough chest hair, as well. While Macy’s coffee was superior, there was a bit of nostalgia to Mitch’s straight dark roast he probably got from the same place he purchased his pots and pans.

“I’ll work off the full breakfast on your old man’s rowing machine.” Larsen patted his flat middle before he rubbed his hands. “Give me all the bacon. It’s all I can smell in here. And something with lemons.”

“Cleanser.”

“Well, I definitely appreciate that.” He laughed.

When Polly came back, we both ordered one of the breakfast specials, and I tuned out his charm attack on the poor unsuspecting waitress.

I had bigger issues to worry about. Like building a workshop for new artists out of the blue. Teaching was not my forte. Oh, and I couldn’t forget the part about screwing up with Rita at every turn.

How I’d gone from absolute mind-bending bliss to having the same girl hate my guts in the same day was a feat even for me. Not to mention my business, which was teetering on the verge of being absolutely fucked if I couldn’t figure out this printing mess.

“Hey.”

I looked up from my cup. “Yeah?”

“We got this, man. We just have to do some reconfiguring, that’s all.”

“Maybe. I have a Hail Mary idea, but I don’t know if it’s going to pan out. I just have to make a few phone calls to get a meeting.”

“Can I help?”

“I’ll probably need your manufacturing knowhow but let me make sure I can actually get the meeting first.” I tapped my finger on the mug. Things didn’t move as fast as the city in a small town. It took a different approach on a few levels. “How long can you stick around here in the Cove?”

“I rented a place for a month with the option for more. It’s a bit out of the way on the lake, but what a view.”

“Does it have a nice big table to spread out on?”

“It does.”

I noticed Polly come out of the swinging doors of the kitchen with two large platters of food. “Then looks like we better fuel up, and I’ll tell you just what I want to do.”

At least this part of my life I could hopefully fix.

Rita would just have to wait.

ELEVEN

I satcross-legged in the middle of the floor of my living room—well, the cottage’s living room. In truth, I was coming to think of this place as mine, which was dangerous. I stroked the silky ears of my writing buddy, Bruce, whose massive head was in my lap.

The chocolate Newfoundland kept breaking away from Kelly and Judy’s place a few streets over and wandering over to my cottage so often, I just ended up keeping him with me most days.

He’d interrupted my yoga practice, as he usually did.

As far as I was concerned, the dog’s soft snores were just as calming as a full thirty minutes of the Hatha yoga my therapist had prescribed. The only nice thing about it was finding all the muscles I didn’t realize I had hiding under my perpetually-behind-the-desk body.

There was a nice breeze coming in from the open back door. Central New York was enjoying an unseasonably warm start to October. The sun was slashing across the cushy, colorful rug I’d picked up at Ladybug Treasures in town. I loved the hardwood floors of the cottage, but my yoga mat was not protecting my poor tailbone, that was for sure.

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