Page 13 of Once Upon A Small Town Secret
He leans one hip against the counter, arms folding across his chest. The movement pulls the fabric of his shirt snug over his biceps, and for a split second, I lose my train of thought. “You’d have to check the city ordinances for that,” he says. “Sidewalk permits, clearance for foot traffic, maybe even design guidelines depending on the district rules.”
“I figured,” I reply, waving a hand. “But if I can get approval, would you be all right with that? Being… my neighbor and all. I don’t want to do anything that would step on any toes, but it seems like the kind of thing that would draw attention here.”
He studies me for a moment, like he’s weighing the idea in real time, then gives a slow nod. “It would work here. This block gets good foot traffic. On nice days, you’d catch people coming from the park, especially if they catch the smell of bread baking. I don’t have an issue with it, regarding the pub.”
The image he paints makes my chest flutter, and for a moment, I’m almost giddy. This—this is the part I’ve been daydreaming about for months. The smell of baking bread wafting out the door, strangers becoming regulars, the shop alive with chatter and clinking cups.
Ben pushes off the counter and tips his chin toward the window, where the orange glow of sunset is spilling across the street. “You get those tables, people will sit there all afternoon. And if you do it right, you’ll have a line before you even open some mornings.”
I bite back a smile, my pulse picking up. “Guess I’ll have to make it happen, then.”
His eyes meet mine, unreadable. Is that approval in them? Or wishful thinking?
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Guess you will.”
I draw in a breath, shifting my weight as my fingers trace the edge of the counter. “Can you do me a favor and not say anything to Jason about this?”
His brows lift a fraction, and the pause before he answers is noticeable.
“No one in my family knows,” I explain, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I wanted to wait until it was official before saying anything. I just… need a little space to get things in place first.”
Ben studies me for a beat before nodding.
“All right,” he says finally. “Your news to share. I won’t say a word.”
Relief slips through me like a slow exhale. “Thanks,” I murmur.
He gives a short nod through the window to the growing line outside his pub. “I’ve got to head back now,” he says, pushing away from the counter. The subtle shift in his tone signals the end of our little walk-through, and for a second, I’m surprised at how reluctant I am to see him go.
He takes a step toward the door, then pauses and glances back at me. “You decided on the name yet?”
I can’t help it—my grin is instant, the kind that lights up my whole face. “Sweet Confessions,” I say, letting the words roll off my tongue like they’ve been waiting for their cue.
Amusement flickers in his eyes, and the corner of his mouth curves just slightly. “Fits,” he says. “Guess I’ll be seeing that in the window soon.”
I nod, still smiling as he heads for the door, the sound of the busy street spilling in briefly when he pushes it open. And then he’s gone, leaving me alone in the quiet space, my new keys in my bag and my head spinning with the possibilities.
Chapter Six
Ben
By the time I close out the register, stack the last few pint glasses, and run the final rag over the bar, my arms feel like lead and my shoulders ache. The Wandering Pint is still hopping with low music playing, a handful of regulars lingering over their last drinks. But I’ve been here since early morning, and my body’s telling me I’ve hit my limit.
I wave to Mark, who’s sliding in behind the bar for the last stretch, and head toward the back door. The cool night air hits my face, welcome after the muggy heat of the pub. It smells faintly of grilled meat from the burger joint down the block and the faint tang of rain still lingering from earlier in the afternoon.
My truck is parked where it always is, just beyond the corner, and the sight of it brings that bone-deep relief you get when you’re almost home. I walk a lot of the time, but I had some things to do before opening this morning, so I took the truck. Thank God for that.
The drive is muscle memory along empty streets lit by amber streetlamps.
I should be thinking about inventory orders, the leak in the ice machine, whether the Saturday crowd will be heavier than usual.
Instead, my mind keeps drifting back to Paige. I can see her standing in that dusty bakery space, hand on the counter, eyes bright as she told me the name she’d picked—Sweet Confessions.
I wasn’t lying when I said it fits. But what I really meant was that it fit her. Sweet Confessions describes her to a tee. There’s something oddly innocent about her excitement over the bakery, but underneath that is something sinful. Something I should stay far away from lest it draw me in.
My house is dark when I pull into the driveway, just the faint glow from the porch light spilling over the front steps. It’s nothing special— but has a covered porch, a covered balcony on the second floor, cedar siding, and a roof I had to replace last year after a storm peeled up half the shingles.
But it’s mine, and I love it. It’s the first real home I’ve ever had, and I won’t ever take it for granted.
