Page 101 of Single-Minded
I’d been with Flora on and off for more than four years. When she’d finally left for good, my only concern was our daughters. My heart didn’t get broken. It was more like I could finally breathe.
April? It’d been past time for our relationship to end. Had I not been a father, I probably would’ve ended it months earlier than we did.
With Presley?
Fuck. My girls didn’t know anything had changed. They were unharmed by the end of Presley and me. But me? I was fucking wrecked.
“Like I told you, I fucked up, and I don’t know what to do about it.”
“Fight for her. Try to get her to take you back.”
“I’m not sure if she’ll do that. She was pretty angry last time I saw her.”
“You ever seen a chick flick?” he asked. “This is where they do the grovel.”
I leaned forward and pressed my fingers into my temples. That last Sunday in Presley’s shop, she wouldn’t even answer a simple how-you-doing question. And dragging Magnolia along for the day? Yeah, I’d gotten the message loud and clear.
“Max’s grovel was big and public,” Levi continued.
“I was there. Public declaration in the diner at the height of the breakfast rush.” It’d taken serious balls, but it had worked. “Our situation isn’t the same though.”
Levi shrugged. “Different grovel might be called for.”
I didn’t know the first thing about the different ways to grovel. All I knew was…I needed to try something. I could no longer lie to myself and say we were better off without her, because we weren’t.
Presley was too important to me to not give this my best shot.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Presley
My official grand opening day was Saturday, five days after the soft opening.
Planned by Magnolia, the day included hourly raffles to benefit the animal shelter, free reusable travel mugs with The Bean Counter logo, good for unlimited discounted fill-ups, and a photo backdrop tied to a social media giveaway.
By eight a.m., we’d sold out of our entire selection of savory breads, bagels, and English muffins.
By noon, we’d raised over five hundred dollars for the shelter.
By two p.m., my mind was blown, and my mood was elated, enthusiastic, and excited.
It seemed this town agreed with me on the need for good coffee, and that’s what we served them.
We consisted of me and my three employees. Glenda Thomas was the fire chief’s wife. She’d been a stay-at-home-mom of their son, but now that he was out of the house, she’d needed something to do with her time and wanted an extra income source.
Hadley Ballantine, the second youngest of the Ballantine family, had recently moved back home after college and a job in her field that she’d hated. She and Glenda were hoping for full-time hours at the shop.
My part-timer was Dalton Kaye, who was a senior in high school this fall and needed money for college.
We were open seven days a week, from six a.m. to three p.m., subject to change as I figured out what the heck I was doing. For now, the only food we offered was the bread, much of which was baked by our own Glenda. We’d received numerous requests for lunch options, so I hoped to figure that out in the next month or two.
“People are loving the latte flights,” Hadley said as we scrambled to restock during a lull.
“And the bread,” I said, making sure Glenda heard me.
“I could use a loaf of that bacon and onion bread right about now,” Dalton said as he wiped one of the counters clean.
“Or the cornbread poppers,” Hadley added.
