Page 35 of Stuck with Mr. Grump

“You want some?” I ask, trying to be hospitable.

She shakes her head. “No thanks. I’m allergic to bananas.”

“Really?” I drawl. “How did you find out?”

Her brows furrow. “What?”

“Allergies are interesting to me. How did you figure out you’re allergic to bananas?”

She pauses at that. Then her eyes get this faraway look tinged with pain. Whatever happened, I’m guessing it was traumatic.

“I almost died,” she says quietly. “Twice, if you can believe it.”

“It was that bad?” I question, surprised.

I want to ask her about what happened but it’s highly unlikely she’ll tell me. Still, I can see whatever happened must have been really scary.

She exhales a soft breath. “Yeah. Now tell me what you’re doing here?”

“To enjoy the pleasure of your company?” I suggest, trying to stall.

Her lips part and I’m momentarily distracted. My eyes flick toward them and the sight of her cherry lips has blood rushing downward. I clear my throat, shifting in my seat to hide my reaction to her. Thankfully, she seems oblivious.

“Try again, tin man,” she says in reply to my suggestion.

“Alright, fine. I came to talk to you about the sale again. This is me asking that you reconsider your stance. No more threats or bravado. I propose a truce so we can work toward mutual gain.”

She considers my words for a couple of seconds. Finally, she sighs.

“I really don’t want to let go of this café, Harrington. I know it’ll be hard for you to understand, but it means something to me. Personal issues between us aside, I’ve invested too much into this place to simply just give up on it.”

“And I understand that, I do, but?—”

I’m interrupted by a sharp ringing in the air. Emilia glances toward the counter where her phone appears to be buzzing. She offers me an apologetic smile before standing to pick up the call. I take a sip of my coffee in the meantime, the bitterness coating my tongue. Which helps to counter the sweetness of the bread.

“Hello?” Emilia says on the phone.

I listen in on her end of the conversation, curious about who could be calling her this late.

“Colleen?” she asks, her eyes growing wide. My focus narrows onto her, watching as her body tenses. “Wait, slow down. What happened to Paige?”

She listens quietly to whatever this woman, Colleen, says for a couple of seconds before she gasps, her hand flying over her mouth.

“Oh, God,” she says, her voice muffled. “What hospital are you at right now? I-I’ll be there soon.”

I rise to my feet as Emilia drops her phone. Her movements are jerky as she reaches behind the counter for her purse, panic written across her face.

“Hey,” I say, stepping in front of her. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Her eyes are glassy. “Paige,” she gasps. “Paige was in an accident.”

If I’m remembering correctly, Paige is the teenager who works as a part-timer here in the café.

“Okay, calm down,” I say, my voice steady. “I’ll take you to the hospital. Just breathe, okay.”

She looks around wildly, her breaths coming out in short gasps.

I grab her shoulders. “Emilia, look at me,” I prompt. “It’ll be fine. Just try to breathe.”

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