Page 1 of Digging Up Love
CHAPTER 1
ALISHA
Alisha’s car wouldn’t start—again. She growled and hit the steering wheel with the heel of her hand. Why was she surprised? Every penny she earned went straight to her bakery fund, not upkeep on her run-down ride. But she didnothave time for this tonight, not when she needed every second to get ready to share her big news.
Before she could head back inside to ask for a jump, her phone lit up. FaceTime with her little sister could either brighten her mood or send it spiraling south—Simone did nothing by halves, and resisting her whirlwind was as futile as taking a stroll in a hurricane. But Alisha never dodged her sister’s calls, even on her busiest days.
“Hey, sis!” Simone puffed out the greeting. Her shoulders swung in a steady rhythm under a strappy sports bra as she jogged, a dark halo of kinky curls making her already-delicate features even more feline. Rows of elliptical machines were visible behind her. “Please tell me you decided to come this weekend.”
Alisha pantomimed a grimace and pulled out her go-to response. “I dunno, Sim. A whole weekend away is a lot.”
In reality, a whole lifetime in Chicago would never be enough. The tiny town of Hawksburg suffocated her like the washed-out confines ofa tintype photo. Dull and monochrome. Trips to visit her sister in the city infused her with enough oxygen to survive the in-betweens. But keeping Simone in the dark about her discontent had become second nature.
“Are you serious?” Simone dragged her forearm across her brow. “I knew you were going to try to wriggle out of your visit. And here I was about to tell you my plan to help you end your self-imposed man-drought before you hit middle age this fall.”
“In what world is thirty considered middle aged?”
“Good point. I should have said ‘old age.’”
“Humph.” Alisha wrenched her keys out of the ignition. “Can we talk about this later? I gotta get home and help Granny with dinner.”
“See this?” Simone jabbed a finger at the screen midstride. “This right here is why you need to get out of there every once in a while. Lord knows Gran’s perfectly capable of making her own dinner. I bet they’d love to have you out of their hair for a weekend.” Simone bounced her eyebrows.
“Gross, Sim.”
“Whatever, I’m messing.” Simone waved a hand, breezy even when drenched in sweat. “You know I appreciate you watching out for them. And I don’t want to pull you out of your beloved Hawksburg—”
A harrumph escaped Alisha’s lips, but she covered it with a cough.
Simone puffed on, seemingly unaware. “But will you come, please? Ask your bestie, Margaret, to check in on them. You know she loves a chance to feel useful.”
“She doesn’t need to spend her weekend running errands with Granny.” Not that her best friend wasn’t capable—she taught teenagers every day, so taking one elderly woman to the store would be a cinch—but Granny and Grandpa were Alisha’s responsibility. “Meg has a life of her own.”
“Debatable. And you’re only proving my point. You have a life, too, or at least you could if you got out of there more than a coupletimes a year. C’mon, sis. We’ll go dancing, and there’s this amazing new tapas place I found ... plenty of great photo ops for your legion of Insta-stalkers.”
“They’re followers, not stalkers.” And all that sounded amazing. Still, she waited a few seconds before answering, schooling her face into reluctance. “If I say yes, will you agree to nix the man-hunting plan?”
“Lame.” A beep signaled the treadmill’s slowing down. “But fine, if it gets you out of Hawksburg city limits, then yes. I promise not to try to set you up with a hot, eligible, wildly successful Chicago guy.” Simone’s sly half grin belied her words.
“Sim, I mean it ...”
“Ope, sorry, girl.” On screen, she came to a halt and flipped the towel over her shoulder with fingers tipped in lilac nail polish. “My boss is calling. She’s been riding me like crazy to finish this pitch, so I’d better go. Text me before you hit the road tomorrow. And don’t you dare bail on me again!”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” But Simone had clicked off the connection. Gone in a flash, as usual.
Fighting the exhaustion of a long day spent balancing the books for her grandfather’s barbecue restaurant, Alisha looped her scarf around her neck and trudged through the back door into a kitchen permeated with the scent of caramelizing onions. Grandpa hovered over a sizzling steel pot, laughing with his good friend and longtime cook, Hank Murphy.
Hank locked eyes with her over Wayne’s head and frowned. “Thought you were done for the day, Ali.”
“I did too.” Feet aching, she leaned against the metal counter, and her hip bumped into a plastic package filled with an assortment of green-colored desserts—Rice Krispies treats dusted with green crystals, mini cupcakes topped with clover sprinkles, and perfectly uniform sugar cookies. Prepackaged baked goods were as out of place in her corner of the kitchen as kale greens in Grandpa’s smoker.
“Who brought these in?” She prodded the package with a finger through the pocket of her coat. “You guys know I’m always happy to whip up extra batches for the crew.”
Grandpa wouldn’t let her change up the dessert menu for the holiday, even though there’d be a rush of customers after the Saint Patrick’s Day parade tomorrow. But she’d fulfilled several orders of green treats for her own customers, sneaking in the work in the predawn hours before her shifts at the restaurant.
“That’s what I keep tellin’ your granddaddy Wayne.” Hank grinned, round face red and shiny with sweat. “We don’t need none of those supermarket treats when we’ve got our very own master baker in residence!”
In residence, as if Honey and Hickory were a Michelin-starred bistro, not a repurposed general store kitty-corner to the lone stoplight on Main. Wide plank floors and ornate crown molding lent a weathered, rustic charm. Office break room taupe plastered the dining room walls on the other side of the pass-through door. Rolls of paper towels held court on the center of Formica tables, with bottles of barbecue sauce and sticky salt and pepper shakers flanking them like knockoff pawns and bishops. A menu scrawled in chalk hung above the beadboard counter, low enough for cashiers to erase sold-out items.
