Page 68 of Red Hot Roaster

Kenzo nodded his thanks and headed off. We grabbed plastic bags and paper towels from our supply box and found the pile of throw up. I was about to get back to Lauren’s blatant prodding when there was a burst of barking and cheering and, yes, some howling too.

The Turkey Dog Jog was underway.

It was hard to hold my tears back, and we were only halfway through the evening.

The Chocolate Lab always stayed open late Thanksgiving Saturday, what with all the families in town for the holiday and the holdovers from the Turkey Dog Jog. Adam was seated at his keyboard taking requests, with Elvis songs still a fave. Finn, Lauren and a couple of our kids were on hand to run orders out to the tables. Mateo and I kept busy pulling coffee drinks and prepping food.

Rafe was in the back, packing coffee beans he’d roasted this afternoon.

Crowds and noise aren’t my thing,he’d reminded me, returning to the roastery after a quick sandwich for dinner. Although hehadweathered the packed dog jog just fine and even stayed behind to help dismantle the tables and tents for return to the rental place. Pete had wandered back there to help after he’d walked Liliana and Ana in.

Finally, I was taking a breather behind the counter. Big mistake…because I was losing it.

Up until then, I’d been in motioneverymoment of the holiday week. I’d planned it that way—no gaps permitted.

When I wasn’t catching up with Finn, I was drinking and scheming with Lauren. When I wasn’t buried in stuffing prep for Thanksgiving, I was assigning dinner duties left and right. When I wasn’t working at the café, I was huddling with our team for the grocery store pilot.

Overseeing the dog jog had filled any spare moments. And organizing our traditional post-turkey music night—that’d served as the last distraction. Or was it the last straw?

Even during my limited time with Rafe—because we couldn’t seem to stay away or sleep away from each other—I’d been bent on squeezing every feeling, physical or otherwise, out of each moment.

Yeah, I’d gotten through my first Thanksgiving without Mom—thanks in part because we’d celebrated her memory everywhere. Now I was a mess, facing tomorrow, the next day, the next week…alone.

Finn was going back to college, my bestie was departing to wind up her divorce, and now Rafe was leaving early on Tuesday. Why, oh, why—when I was hoping for a few more days to delay talking to him? An early snowstorm was hurtling down the Gorge midweek.

I swallowed hard and dropped my head back, blinking fast to absorb the tattletale tears.Cannot, should not, will not, do this here.

“Ah, Rose.” Lauren grasped my hands on the counter, her voice full of sympathy. That was enough for the tears to slide out when I brought my head back up.

I was losing it when I most needed to get it together to talk to Rafe on Monday. To screw up my courage, put on my big-girl cheekies and tell him how I felt.

Tell him what fears I’d kept to myself, what dreams I’d hid from him.

Ask him to come back. Come back to Portland, to Dogwood, to the Chocolate Lab.

Come back to me.

“You don’t need to be scared,” Lauren whispered, stretching closer to talk over the deafening sounds of “Burning Love” coming from the corner.

“You haven’t seen the way he looks at you on the QT.”

“And how’s that?” I whispered back, grabbing a paper napkin to blot my cheeks.

“His eyelids go to half-mast, he tilts his head back like he’s going to stare you down, but instead he staresatyou,” she shared. “Like he can’t get enough, like he can’t turn away, like he’s watching to jump between you and a speeding car.”

I laughed and shook my head. “Okay, enough. You had me going there for a minute.”

“No, I’m serious. In other guys, I’d crystalker. In Rafe, I shoutsmitten.”

“That’s you exercising your marketing-guru superpower,” I protested. “You read consumers’ minds for a living. After my false starts…”

“In the far past, girlfriend!” she interrupted me.

“Still. After myheartbreakingfalse starts,” I hissed, “I don’t trust my own judgment when it comes to guys and what they want.”

“Girl, since you’re not a mind-reader, there’s only one way to find out. Why don’t you ask the man himself?”

“Because I’m afraid of his response.”

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