Page 8 of Your Place or Mine

Drew shrugged and wiped down a section of the bar that didn’t need wiping. “Maybe she’s easing into it. Or maybe she’s just giving the building the ol’ once-over first. Doesn’t mean she’s avoiding you.”

“She’s avoiding me,” I muttered, because Ifeltit in my bones. No one skipped out on greeting the guy running the only bar in town unless they did it on purpose.

Just then, the side door swung open and Curtis, our cook, trudged in carrying a brown paper sack and smelling like the back kitchen of a diner, which, to be fair, was exactly where he’d been for the last six hours.

Curtis was in his fifties, built like a retired linebacker who’d traded weights for bacon grease and never looked back. He wore the same black apron daily, complete with a grease stain resembling Elvira if you squinted hard enough.

He took one look at me and chuckled. “Well, someone’s in a mood.”

I shot him a warning glare, which only made him grin wider.

“What’s the story, Drew?” Curtis asked as he set the bag on the counter. “Bossman growl at you too, or is he saving all that tension for me?”

Drew smirked. “He’s been pacing and staring out the window like a widowed sea captain.”

“Has he now?” Curtis raised an eyebrow at me. “Storm on the horizon, Cap’n?”

“Stuff it,” I muttered.

Curtis grabbed a soda from behind the counter like he owned the place. “So what’s the deal? Girl problems? Weather-related angst? Some animal dug up your hydrangeas again?”

Drew leaned one elbow on the bar and dropped his voice like we were at the start of a ghost story. “The new building owner was supposed to show up today.”

“Ooohh,” Curtis said, dragging the word out dramatically. “The big bad landlord lady.”

“She’s not bothering me.”

“Uh-huh.” Curtis popped the fry in his mouth and chewed slowly. “And yet… your eye’s been twitching since I got here.”

“It’s not twitching.”

“It’s absolutely twitching,” Drew said helpfully.

I exhaled through my nose and rubbed my temples. “I just don’t like being blindsided. If she wants to change the whole building, that's fine. But show up. Say something. Own it.”

Curtis gave a theatrical nod. “You wanted a fight, and she didn’t even bother showing up to throw the first punch. That’s gotta sting.”

“Exactly,” I grumbled.

“Or maybe,” Drew said, pouring himself a soda, “she’s not the villain in your head. Maybe she’s just someone in over her head and trying to figure it out without getting steamrolled by a very angry mountain man.”

I gave him a withering look.

He took a long sip of cola. “Just saying.”

Curtis chuckled. “So you gonna camp out by the front door all night? Or finally accept that she might show up when she’s good and ready?”

“I’m not camping out anywhere.”

“You aredefinitelycamping out,” Curtis said. “I give it ten minutes before you pretend to wipe the windows again.”

I grunted. “She’ll show.”

“Hope so,” Curtis said, digging into the paper sack. “I made banana cream pie this morning. Maybe you’ll get lucky and get the last slice if the customers don’t all eat it.”

I raised a brow. “You made pie?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. I’m a man of many talents.”

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