Page 12 of Once Upon A Small Town Secret
But the corner of his mouth just quirks, like he’s suppressing a smile, before he nods toward the counter along the far wall. “Plumbing’s intact there. Electrical, we’ll know more after tomorrow. But space-wise, you’ve got options.”
I nod slowly and walk back to the small hallway that leads to the kitchen. I find some more switches along the wall and flick them on, imagining ovens along the back, the scent of bread curling through the air, display cases lined with pastries in the front. It’s easy to get lost in the vision.
The ovens in the back are small, older models, their once-white enamel now dulled to an off-gray with faint scorch marks along the edges. The glass in the doors is clouded from years of use, and the knobs feel loose when I test one with my fingertips. They’ll work, for sure, but they’re a far cry from what I’m picturing.
In my head, I see gleaming, stainless steel ovens—big, commercial-grade beasts with digital displays and perfect, even heat. I can almost hear them coming to life, the faint tick of timers counting down batches of cupcakes or trays of croissants.
The fridge in the corner isn’t much better. It’s bulky, the kind that stutters unevenly and smells faintly metallic when you open the door. I can already imagine it replaced with something sleek and efficient, maybe a double-door with adjustable shelving.
I run my fingers over the handle and yank the fridge open. “I wonder if I can put a small walk-in somewhere,” I muse aloud.
I glance over my shoulder toward Ben, leaning casually against the arched opening like he has all the time in the world.
His eyes narrow, already assessing the space, the wiring, the logistics. Even without him answering yet, I get the feeling that if anyone could make it happen—or tell me flat-out why it can’t—it’s him.
Finally, he shrugs. “Maybe, but that’ll take a lot more work than anticipated.”
He walks over to a door off to the side and opens it to reveal a pantry. “This is probably the only spot for it, and it’ll need to be gutted completely,” he says, stepping into the small pantry space and flicking on the single overhead bulb. The yellow light spills over plain wooden shelves lined with dust and a few abandoned jars of what used to be something edible. “Walls would have to be insulated, floor sealed, ventilation added—basically a full conversion. And you’d need a dedicated unit to keep the temperature steady.”
I step in beside him, the space barely big enough for both of us. My shoulder brushes his arm, and I pretend not to notice, focusing instead on imagining these shelves replaced with gleaming metal racks, cool air swirling around them, trays of dough proofing perfectly.
“That sounds… expensive,” I say, though the word feels too small for what I know it would cost.
“It is.”
Of course he would know. I’m sure the kitchen at The Wandering Pint is fully decked out as well. It would have to be to keep up with business.
“But if you’re serious about production capacity, it might be worth it,” he says absently, reaching over my head to wiggle one of the shelves.
I suck in a breath at how close he is in the small space. A part of me, the business-minded part, is already calculating numbers. But the other part of me, the flustered one, wants to ask more just to keep him talking in that deep voice of his.
Instead, I nod once, tucking the idea away for later. “Maybe that’s a project for down the line,” I say quietly.
He nods once, the movement slow and deliberate. “That would be smart,” he says, his voice low. “See how the business does before you make a commitment that big. No point in sinking a ton of money into infrastructure until you know the space—and the market—are working for you.”
I glance at him, and there’s nothing dismissive in his tone. Just straightforward advice, the kind you give when you’ve already learned the lesson the hard way. His gaze sweeps the smallpantry again, as if he’s already imagining how it could be transformed if the time came.
“Besides,” he adds, stepping back so we’re no longer shoulder to shoulder, “you’ll learn pretty quickly what’s worth investing in and what’s just nice to have.”
I follow him out into the main kitchen, disappointed as he wanders off and the empty space wraps around me.
Ben moves toward the center of the kitchen, his boots muted on the worn linoleum. I trail after him, my gaze dragging along the walls, the counters, the ceiling—cataloging everything that will have to change before this place feels like mine.
It’s not unpleasant, but it’s far from inviting.
He rests one hand on the edge of the counter, fingers splayed over the laminate surface, and gestures vaguely toward the back wall. “You’ve got room for the ovens you’re talking about, maybe a prep station here. If you want to add another sink, plumbing’s close enough to tap into without too much trouble.”
I picture it instantly: shiny new prep tables, mixers lined up, everything in its place and humming with energy. My chest tightens, excitement tangling with nerves. This dream is about to become real.
“And out front,” he says, tipping his head toward the doorway that leads to the main space, “you’ve got enough room for a decent seating area if you want to offer dine-in. Could even fit acouple of bistro tables in the window, get that whole coffee shop vibe.”
“Oh!” I say suddenly, remembering my idea for outdoor seating. “How about outdoor seating?”
Ben’s brows lift in mild curiosity, and he pauses mid-step. “Outdoor seating?”
We move into the front room together, the late evening light spilling through the big windows and painting the scuffed wooden floors in streaks of gold. I can already see customers here, talking and laughing over coffee, sunlight warming their backs. The image is so clear it’s almost jarring.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to get him to see the picture. “Not a ton, just a couple of small tables on the sidewalk out front. Enough for people to sit with coffee or pastries when the weather’s nice. It would draw people in, give it that… inviting, open feel.”
