Page 18 of A Good Egg

A radio played something upbeat and country-tinged, and Piper twirled dramatically with each tablecloth she unfurled. The scene radiated a joy and camaraderie that stirred something long dormant within me—a longing for connection I generally ignored in favor of work.

"We should finalize the Easter brunch menu tonight," Piper continued, moving to the next table. "If we promote it right, we could be fully booked two weeks in advance."

Maisie descended the ladder, setting her brush carefully aside. "Let's be realistic. We're a brand-new café in a converted barn. Having any customers on opening day would be a victory."

"Are you kidding? The whole town is buzzing about this place!" Piper gestured expansively, nearly knocking over a paint can. "Between the Easter weekend tourists and locals curious about 'Pat O'Malley's granddaughter coming home to save the farm,' we'll be turning people away."

Her words confirmed what I'd suspected—this venture had become more than a business for the townsfolk. It was a symbol, a rallying point. The locals wanted Maisie to succeed, and in a small community like Starlight Bay, that kind of support could translate to survival.

As I shifted for a better view, my foot caught on something—a bucket, perhaps—sending it clattering against the barn wall. The conversation inside instantly ceased.

"Hello?" Maisie's voice rang out, wary and alert. "Someone there?"

I considered retreating but rejected the cowardice of that option. Straightening my shoulders, I pushed the door open and stepped into the light. "Sorry to intrude."

Maisie's expression transformed from alarm to indignation. "You? What are you doing sneaking around our barn at night?"

"I wasn't sneaking," I protested, though the evidence suggested otherwise. "I was... curious about how things were taking shape."

"So you decided to lurk outside instead of knocking like a normal person?" She crossed her arms, painting herself as the picture of righteous outrage, though a smudge of yellow on her cheekbone somewhat undermined the effect.

Piper glanced between us with poorly concealed interest. "I should go check on... something. In the storage room. Faraway. For a while." She vanished through a side door with impressive speed, leaving us in awkward silence.

"Your café is coming along nicely," I offered, gesturing to the transformed space. The tables with their cheerful checkered cloths, the freshly painted walls, the Edison bulbs strung along the ceiling beams—it all created a rustic and inviting atmosphere.

Maisie's stance softened slightly, professional pride temporarily overriding her animosity. "We've been working sixteen-hour days. Turns out the whole town wants to pitch in."

"I'm not surprised," I admitted. "Starlight Bay seems unusually invested in its community."

"Unlike Sheffield & Associates?" she challenged, though with less heat than I'd expected.

"We have different priorities," I acknowledged, moving further into the space. A newly constructed counter ran along the back wall, clearly meant for food service. "But that doesn't mean I can't appreciate what you're creating here."

She studied me suspiciously, as if searching for the trap in my words. "Why are you really here, Logan?"

The directness of her question caught me off guard. "I came because... I'm conflicted."

"Conflicted?" Her eyebrows rose. "The great corporate shark experiencing moral qualms?"

"Even sharks occasionally question their feeding patterns," I replied with a self-deprecating smile. "Especially when they encounter particularly stubborn prey."

A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. "Did you just compare me to stubborn prey? That's not exactly flattering."

"Perhaps the metaphor got away from me." I moved toward one of the tables, running my fingers over the weathered wood. "These are beautiful."

"Early twentieth century. From a farm in Vermont, originally." She approached, maintaining a careful distance. "The Little Red Hen shouldn't just look like a farm café. It should feel authentic."

"It does," I said sincerely. "You have a vision for this place. It shows in every detail."

The compliment seemed to disarm her. She tucked a stray strand of copper hair behind her ear, a gesture I was beginning to recognize as a sign of her uncertainty. "Thanks. That's... unexpectedly nice of you to say."

"I'm not evil, Maisie." I met her gaze directly. "Sometimes I'm just the guy doing his job, caught between professional obligations and personal misgivings."

Something shifted in her expression—wariness giving way to curiosity. "Misgivings? About what?"

I hesitated, then gestured toward a pair of chairs in the corner. "Mind if we sit? It's been a long day."

She nodded, and we settled into the chairs—maybe not friends, but perhaps no longer outright adversaries. The evening light filtered through the barn's windows, casting long shadows across the floor. From somewhere nearby, a bird offered a twilight serenade.

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