Page 110 of Once Upon A Small Town Secret
He walks over to it, opens the passenger door, and pulls out a plate that smells like lemon and rosemary. I take it and set it on the table between the chairs.
Jason clears his throat. “I’m going to go now,” he says.
I just nod.
He starts across the lawn toward his truck. Halfway there, he turns around and says, “Make Paige take it easy if you can,” he mutters. “Apparently, she’s been feeling sick all the time, and I don’t think working for fourteen hours like a lunatic is good for her or the baby.”
“I’m on her about breaks,” I say. “Compression socks, water, snacks. I’ve got crackers and ginger and lemon here if she drops by. I stop over there during the day to make her eat real food. I’m doing whatever I can.”
He nods like that’s the right answer and continues walking to his truck. I watch as he gets in and starts the engine. The headlights sweep the porch, blinding me for a second, then slide off as he backs into the street. He doesn’t wave.
But the fact that he came at all feels like the smallest door cracking open.
Once he’s gone, I sit down in the chair on the porch and peel away the foil on the plate.
Steam rolls up, carrying the best things I can name: roast chicken glossed with pan juices, green beans with slivered almonds, a drift of mashed potatoes smoothed flat like a pond. There’s a wax-paper parcel tucked in the corner. Lemon bar. Powdered sugar clinging to the paper.
Taped to the foil is a square of Gwen’s stationery, her tidy block letters bossing me around: If cold, heat 300° / 12 min. Eat. Drink water. Ice your eye (again). —G
I can’t help it; I smile at the instructions.
“Eat,” I mumble. “Like I need instructions for that.”
I grin like an idiot at the note before putting it down and doing what Gwen instructed.
Chapter Thirty Five
Paige
I lock the door, flip the sign, and turn the “OPEN” to “SEE YOU SOON.” The bell gives one last polite jingle like it’s saying goodnight. The street outside is soft with late light, and next door, The Pint is still alive with laughter and music. A roar of laughter cuts off as the door shuts again.
I turn away and back to the now-empty bakery. Ben is already at one of the little bistro tables near the front window, a notepad open, pen in hand. He looks like he came straight from a shower—hair damp, a clean tee that does too many things to my heartbeat, forearms bronzed from hauling kegs and fixing doorstops. Between us sits a cinnamon roll the size of a steering wheel, still warm enough to be soft and shiny with glaze.
“Negotiation fuel,” I say, sliding into the chair opposite. “If we get through three solid ideas, we get a bite.”
His mouth kicks into a grin. “Bribery. A classic management technique.”
“It’s effective.” I slide a pen toward him, tear the top sheet off my pad because the first page has turned into a graveyard of old to-do lists and dough smudges. “Okay. Film fest.” I underline it twice and draw a box around the date because that makes it official in my brain. “You have your stand like always—pretzels, brat bites, the walking tacos—”
“And beer,” he says, dry and fond. “Minor detail.”
“Right,” I say, fighting a smile. “And I begged the organizer and promised him a lifetime supply of carrot cake to get my own stand this year.”
Ben’s brows jump. “It’s not easy to charm Murray.”
“I weaponized cinnamon,” I correct. “Bribery, right? Anyway, I was thinking—what if our booths share a footprint? Or at least touch corners so it’s like a little lane: Pint and Pastry.”
“That’s dangerous,” he says, eyes going soft like he’s already building it in his head. “I like it.”
I flip to a clean page and sketch two rectangles, scrawl PINT on one and SWEET C on the other, draw a little arrow pointing both directions like the world’s cutest roundabout. “Then we planpairs. Not just ‘beer + dessert,’ but intentional things. Like… cinnamon roll with a… cinnamon beer?”
He tips his head back, thinking. “I can do a cinnamon-honey brown on a pilot keg if I start tonight. But it might be tight for conditioning.” He taps the paper with the pen, calculating. “I’ve got the spiced amber from winter—subtle cinnamon, not potpourri. That would play nice.”
“Potpourri is not the vibe,” I say, mock solemn.
“What about a beer cocktail?” he offers. “Half amber, splash of hard cider, cinnamon sugar rim. We call it a Snickerdoodle Shandy.”
My pen freezes mid-scribble. “That’s obnoxiously cute.”
