Your father taught us carpentry at the same time. Anything I forgot, I can relearn on the fly.”
“I hire serious candidates only.” Stephen steepled his fingers. “Men looking to grow with the company and be in it for the long haul.”
“I don’t offer the long haul to anybody.”
A muscle twitched in his friend’s cheek as they faced off across the desk. Finally, Stephen picked up a pen and wrote something down, sliding the piece of paper across the desk toward Travis. “Here’s the address of our current flip. This is where you’d be working to start.”
Travis held up the note, giving it a cursory glance. And then he read it again, a pit yawning wide in his stomach. “This is across the street from . . .”
Regret darkened Stephen’s eyes. “I know. It’s a pretty fucked-up coincidence,” he said. “That going to be a problem?”
“Nope. Ancient history.” He shoved the paper into his pocket and stood. “See you there.”
He knew if he turned around, Stephen’s expression would call bullshit, so he kept walking, doing his best to ignore the foreboding in his gut.
Chapter Three
Georgie gave her blueberry compote a final stir and stepped back from the counter, wiping sticky hands down her apron. Bacon warmed in the oven alongside Belgian waffles. She’d stayed up late whipping cream with her new hand mixer and had taken only seven finger swipes out of it since waking up this morning—but who was counting? In an exciting twist, she’d timed everything right for her first time cooking for more than one—painfully single—person.
It was her first time entertaining in her new home, period.
Georgie still couldn’t believe it. She had a house now. Granted, the Castle family business thrived on the art of sniffing out real estate deals, so she’d bought the two-bedroom ranch for a song and it still needed a lot of work. But it was hers. Not bad for a birthday party clown. Speaking of which, she had a dozen phone calls to return as soon as this brunch ended. Port Jefferson had exactly one clown and she was in high demand. It was how she’d managed the down payment on the house. Unfortunately, half the calls were from new customers who wanted a cotton candy machine, pony rides, magicians, princesses.
And she’d have to turn those jobs down.
A familiar hint of panic crept into her throat. Her fledgling clown business, along with some help from her parents, had put her through college, but it no longer seemed as sustainable. She did her best to keep the act fresh and cater to new trends, but kids’ birthday parties were a competitive racket. Parents wanting to outdo each other were beginning to look outside of Port Jeff for their entertainment needs. What was Georgie going to do about that? With a mortgage to pay, the future of her one-woman show had begun weighing more and more heavily on her mind.
Don’t worry about it now. Not when there’s compote to be consumed, parents and siblings to impress, and mimosas to drink. And Travis.
As if she could forget about Travis and his big, beautiful, brooding self.
Would he come?
No. Of course he wouldn’t. He’d barely given her the time of day when she was a kid. What made her think this guy who’d been wined, dined, and invited to the White House would be interested in having brunch with a girl who’d chucked rotting food at his head? Still. It didn’t hurt to imagine him waltzing through the swinging door of her kitchen with that amazing animal grace, that tongue tucked into his lower lip as if he just had to utilize it at all times. Guh.
Pressing her hand to her pounding heart, Georgie checked the clock on the oven. She would find out if he’d show soon enough. There was only ten minutes to go until everyone started to arrive.
Telling her nerves to hit the road, Georgie took the pitcher of mimosas out of the fridge, arranging it at an artistic angle on the kitchen table. She couldn’t stop herself from taking her cell phone out and snapping a few pictures in portrait mode.
“Okay,” she muttered under her breath. “I’m one of these smug foodie people now.”
Before she could post the picture to Instagram, the phone dinged with an incoming text message. It was from her sister, Bethany.
B: Can’t make it. That asshole community theater director broke up with me during the appetizers last night and I self-medicated with Cuervo. Rain check next week?
Georgie slumped into a