Page 23 of A Novel Love Story

“What? Oh, yeah, everything’s fine. Peachy keen.”

He pursed his lips. “Right.” Because now, of course, he was suspicious,and the guilt ofnottelling him tugged at my conscience, so I took a gulp of soda and was starting to tell him—really, I was—when Ruby came back with our orders.

She slammed food down in front of us. My Honey Surprise leaked across the table, sticky and golden. She asked Anders, “Hot sauce?”

“No, I’m g—”

“Because here at the Grumpy Possum Café, we don’t just sell Gemma’s Honey-Honey honey, but give equal attention to our town’s other infamous product—Frank’s Hotties,” she went on in a voice that had done this spiel too many times, and pulled a small bottle of hot sauce from the pocket of her apron. I recognized the shape of the bottle from last night, though at least this one still had the label. “Frank’s Hotties is locally sourced and—”

Anders held up a hand. “I promise I’m g—”

“—grown right here in the great town of Eloraton, New York. When you think of hot sauce, think of Frank.” She took the hot sauce bottle and squeezed it with a vengeance atop his club sandwich, pinning me with a glare as she did. Anders watched as the mountain of liquid fire drowned his club before he, too, turned a pointed glare at me. When the bottle was empty, Ruby slammed the bill onto the table, and stalked away without another word.

When she was gone, Anders gave me a tired look.

I tried to feign innocence, unfolding my napkin. There was a spot of hot sauce on his shirt. “It’s soweirdthat she did that.”

“What did you say to her?”

I reached over and dabbed the hot sauce off his shirt, but all it managed to do was smudge the stain. “I didn’t—”

He let out a breath that sounded a little like a growl.

I snapped my mouth closed. Honestly, if he hadn’t been looking at me like he wanted to punt me off Charm Bridge,the sound would’ve been a bit sexy. As it stood, I’d just ruined one of his shirts and probably his eating experience at this café for the foreseeable future.

Retracting myself into my side of the booth, I gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I just …”

“Go on.”

I finally admitted, “I overheard her and Jake talking, so I gave her some advice, all right? I mean, you know her story, too! She didn’t wantthis—to work herself to the bone—and neither did Jake.”

He sat back in the booth and massaged the bridge of his nose tiredly. “Look,” he sighed, taking a napkin to wipe as much hot sauce off his sandwich as he could, “no one here knows they’re in a book.”

“No one?”

“No.”

“Save for you?”

“I’m an exception,” he replied, and I wondered what kind of character he was to be an exception. The narrator, perhaps? No, his personality was too dry for that. He didn’t explain it, either. “How wouldyoufeel if some annoyingly peppy stranger—”

“I’m not annoying.”

He went on, unfazed, “—came up to you and told you that you weren’t living your happily ever after right. How would that feel?”

I frowned. “A … little angry.”

“Exactly.” Then he ate a fry, and another. “At least she didn’t get the hot sauce on everything.”

The pancakes and French toast were topped with locally sourced Honey-Honey honey, made grumpy to order with powdered sugar and cinnamon, with a perfectly star-cut strawberry on top. I took out my phone to take a photo of it,when he cleared his throat and I wilted.

“One photo?”

“It won’t show up.”

“Seriously?”

“Try it and see.”

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