He didn’t get the impression Abby disliked many people—not after having witnessed her interact with her grandmother and those she worked with. He must have really pushed her buttons, which fascinated him. He wanted to think his interest in her was merely a result of having more time on his hands. He didn’t have the pressure of the restaurant or contracts or budgets or...anything. He couldn’t recall encountering anyone like her before, someone with more layers than an onion and the more he peeled away, the deeper he wanted to go.
Butterfly Harbor might not have the bustling activity of his native New York, but it had its own charm. He’d wandered around a good portion of it today, noticing the intricate puzzling of homes dotting the edges of Monarch Lane, what he assumed passed as Main Street, USA. He’d explored a couple of antique shops and the hardware store, even the throwback gift stores that reminded him of the old-fashioned five-and-dimes his mother had once told him about. He found their offerings eclectic, including all types of...yep, butterflies. The post office, reminiscent of a different era, sat wedged into one corner of a neighborhood grocery that had one of the best selections of organic meat and fish he’d ever come across. Truth be told, the selection of produce and food could have put the Chelsea Market to shame given a little extra push. Butterfly Harbor impressed him, but not nearly as much as the wide offering of locally farmed fresh produce.
David would have loved it here—the selection, the tight-knit community. If Vegas hadn’t already been knocking on their restaurant door, they’d have explored the idea of opening smaller, more specialized restaurants in places like Butterfly Harbor.
Inspiration knocked featherlight against his mind. It might have caught hold if he hadn’t been reminded every five steps of that blasted food festival. A weather-resistant banner proclaiming its start had been stretched across the entrance to Monarch Lane.
He’d watched trucks and trailers roll down the street and disappear around the hill. The rumble of engines and smell of gasoline took a bit of the small-town polish off the town, but he imagined an event like this would help keep businesses open and people employed.
Had he any inclination to dip his toe back in the water that was his former career, seeing Technicolor posters pop into windows as he passed was enough to make him want to scuttle back to the hotel and hole up in his room.
Even if he didn’t plan on attending the festival, seeing the town explode into celebration over its one hundred and twenty-fifth anniversary would take the sting off.
A sting that had settled ever since he’d entered the kitchen at the Flutterby Inn. As exhausted as he was, he wasn’t anxious to call it a night. Maybe it was the aftereffects of his conversation with Gary and reliving the last six months yet again. It didn’t matter what his father was doing with the company, not when Jason couldn’t do anything about it.
He’d destroyed his credibility with one wrong decision. No one was going to take him seriously in that world anymore. David could have, though. David could have survived anything.
Except a plane crash.
But Butterfly Harbor, despite its pending participation with his former colleagues, held his interest. He might not understand small-town appeal, but he didn’t like the idea of places like this disappearing. Especially if it meant people like Abby and her grandmother, and maybe even the cutesy diner down on Monarch Lane, would vanish into the past.
The diner. Jason sighed. He supposed he owed it to Abby to try the Butterfly Diner before passing judgment. He relished saying I told you so about as much as she’d probably enjoy telling him you were right.
Jason shook his head, got to his feet and followed the sandy, rocky path to the Flutterby. Maybe he’d keep his revelations, whatever they turned out to be, to himself. Unless it did turn out he was wrong.
In which case he’d have to find a way to choke down his least favorite dish: crow.
“BUNCO!”
Abby couldn’t help but smile as celebratory cheers exploded from the dining room that overlooked the wave-heavy shoreline. The tides were rolling high tonight, crashing and cresting and echoing peacefully in her ears as she sat behind the registration counter, windows open, her fingers flicking the corner of the festival brochure.
“That’s five buncos since they started,” Lori said as she tugged on her coat. “That might be a new record.”
“Let’s hope Gran’s one of them, otherwise she’s going to be in a grumpy mood when the game’s done. Hey, Lori.” Abby had been putting this off all afternoon. “Are you good going full-time the next few weeks? Maybe even bunking in one of the smaller rooms until after the festival?”
“With my active social life?” Lori blinked wide eyes at her. “Whatever you need, I’m here. Something going on? Does it have something to do with that hot Mr. Corwin?”
“What?” Even the mention of his name was enough to set her blood to boiling. “No, of course not, and stop ogling our guests. I was thinking about entering that amateur cooking competition they’re holding here in Butterfly Harbor.”
“I’m sorry?” Lori’s arms dropped to her side as she stared. “You’re thinking about what?” That her friend was trying not to laugh should be confirmation enough Abby had gone and lost her mind, but she needed that money. She needed to do something to stop the Flutterby from failing. She needed to keep Gran in her home.
Not that entering was enough. She’d have to win.
But she’d worry about that later.
“For the advertisement?” Lori squeaked and fanned her face. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be laughing.”
“I know it sounds crazy.” Abby went along with Lori’s misconception. “The publicity could bring in a good chunk of business. And I figured Paige could give me cooking lessons.”
“Um.” The humor vanished from Lori’s face. “Then you might want to decide now if you’d like to remain friends. That’s not a great position to put someone in. It might make her an accessory when you torch the entire town.”
“I’m not that bad.” Maybe she needed that disclaimer tattooed on her forehead. “I get distracted. I can follow directions. They just get stuck somewhere between my brain and my hands.”
“You do know you set the oven to five hundred fifty degrees this morning, right?” Lori bit her lip. “I checked when I cleaned up the kitchen. I wanted to make sure everything still worked,” she added. “For when Matilda gets back.”
“I was running out of time.” But she kind of guessed that had been the cause. “I thought the scones would bake faster at a higher temperature.”
“That wouldn’t give the baking powder and soda time to activate. You took them from raw dough to rock hard almost instantly.”
“So you do know how to cook?” Hope sprung like a fountain inside her. Maybe she wasn’t crazy after all.
“I know how to watch the National Cooking Network,” Lori corrected. “They do a lot of shows about the science behind food. Those competition things are scary. Like watching people’s worst features being broadcast in front of your eyes.”
“So you wouldn’t be interested in being a contestant in the cook-off.” There went that backup plan.
“I know things are stretched pretty tight around here.” Lori frowned. “But this seems a little extreme, even for you. You sure you want to take this on with everything else that’s happening?”
Abby bit the inside of her cheek. She wasn’t ready to tell anyone other than Holly that the inn was in