Page 87 of Dream Chaser
“Oh, Griffon, I’m so sorry,” Sarah says.
“Something you never forget, that’s for sure.” I nod. “But as my Grand taught me, I was blessed to know an angel.”
“Yeah, of course.” Sarah smiles sadly.
I shake my head and breathe out. “This conversation never gets less awkward.”
Jake grips my shoulder. “Let’s move on to dog stairs then?”
“You drink coffee?” Sarah asks, wiping her hands on a towel.
“It’s off season, I drink coffee and eat whatever I want until a week before training, and then it’s strictly protein and regret.”
“You two head to the shop, I’ll bring some out.”
The bell over the door jingles like something out of a Hallmark movie, and the warmth that hits me as we step inside is welcome. It’s not unseasonably cold, but the wind is whipping around, furthering the Hallmark vibe.
It smells like wood and sawdust. There’s a huge wood stove heating the place. The floors are old pine, worn smooth fromdecades of footsteps, the kind that creak just right under your boots. The front counter is solid, reclaimed wood with visible tool marks—clearly hand-built, probably by someone in the Ross family. Jake, if I had to guess.
Further back, there’s a big table with mismatched chairs tucked around it, like it’s meant for community events or someone’s spur-of-the-moment brainstorm.
I point to the far left. “Is that a pottery wheel?”
Jake smirks and folds his arms, clearly setting up a story. “You should’ve seen it a few years back—pottery night got hijacked.”
I raise a brow. “Hijacked?”
“Yeah, all the girls and the wives were supposed to come down here and make holiday mugs or something wholesome. Maybe some bowls for popcorn or chip-and-dip situations. That was the plan.”
He points toward the corner where a long shelving unit holds a wild assortment of half-glazed, questionably shaped ceramic pieces. “But the second Ava and London got their hands on the clay, it turned into a full-blown competition.”
“Oh God.”
“Yup. Not just any competition,” he says, clearly enjoying the memory. “Aphallic sculpturecontest. London blamed Ava. Ava blamed Pinterest. Lauren blamed TikTok. And somehow, by the end of the night, we had seven—no, eight—ceramic dicks lined up like a damn Roman army in the window.”
I laugh loud and sharp, shaking my head.
“My wife, Tessa, Jade, and Phoebe made certificates. Held a whole ceremony right here. ‘Most Realistic,’ ‘Biggest Curve,’ ‘Best Glaze Work.’ Hell, one of ’em even lit up.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nope. Just another day.”
I look around the place again, seeing where a million memories were made. “Unreal.”
Jake grins. “It’s Blue Valley, son. We take arts and crafts very seriously.”
And now I’m wondering what Iz made that night.
The whole place feels … intentional. Not just functional, but lived-in. Rooted.
“And now we build stairs, hoping it gives old Wile some more time.”
An idea hits, but it takes a minute to figure out how to word it without outing us.
“What are the stairs for? Vehicle, couch, a?—”
“Dumbwaiter,” Jake answers.
