Page 93 of Always Meant for You
I do. And like everything I’ve tasted so far in this town, it’s like biting into a little piece of heaven. The mushrooms are savory and full, the spinach carries an edge. The rich and creamy eggs hold it all together.
This is nourishment. This is comfort and history, and a kind of love you can taste.
I open my eyes, my smile already forming. “It’s incredible.”
He doesn’t say a word, but there’s something gentler in the lines around his mouth.
I keep eating, bite after bite, until my plate is nearly spotless.
“Not too bad, huh?” he asks.
I try to respond but only manage a soft hum of appreciation as I scrape up the last forkful.
The greenhouse door creaks open. Cal steps in, gives me a brief look, then shifts his focus to the nearest row of basil.
“Mr. Muldowney, I’m heading to town.”
Dad nods. “Sounds good, Cal.”
I swipe a bit of egg from the corner of my mouth. “Where are you going?”
He keeps his eyes locked on the herbs. “I’ve got something to take care of in town. But I’ll be back. We can work some more then.”
I shake my head. “No, I’m coming with you.”
His attention snaps to me, eyes blown wide. “What?”
“I know how much work it takes to build a brand from scratch, and I’m already behind. I need to start in town.”
“Now?” he barely gets out.
“Yes, now.” I turn to my father. “You don’t mind, do you, Dad? There’s so much to do before the next farmers’ market.”
Cal glances at my dad, like he’s looking for backup. But to my absolute shock, the man shrugs.
“Mabel does work for the town. And she’s right. There’s work to do.”
Oh my God. We agree.
I pin Cal with my gaze. “And you want Eat Elverna to succeed, right, Callan Horner?”
He frowns. “Eat Elverna?”
“You heard it last night. I came up with it on the fly. Remember?”
“Tobias Stewart did mention he liked the sound of it,” Dad adds.
Cal shifts his weight. “I’ll come back and get you later.”
I hand my plate to my father, adjust my scarf, and smooth the front of my dress. “Look at me. I’m in Chanel denim. I’m looking farm fabulous. Wherever you go, I go.”
“Um . . . well . . . ” Cal mumbles, his voice caught between disbelief and discomfort.
My father cuts in, dry as ever. “Chanel is a lady designer who made a bunch of fancy clothes.”
For a half second, I forget what I was saying.
My dad is familiar with Coco Chanel?
