Risking the Crown (The Crown 2)

I was hungry. Cole had to be too. I decided to walk over to Peabody’s and pick up some sandwiches. My eyes could use a break from the number crunching. I tucked my phone in my back pocket and jogged across the street.

“Look who’s here.” Hank smiled at me from the bar.

“Hi, Hank. How are you?” I pushed my bangs out of my eyes.

“Good. Can’t complain. What can I get you today?” He opened the screen on the bar’s computer.

“Two turkey clubs with fries, to go, please.” My hands started tapping to the beat of a drinking song blasting from the jukebox. I hadn’t noticed it on my first trip to Peabody’s. The cowboy singer had played the entire night.

Hank looked at me. “Did you say two?”

“Yep. One for Cole and one for me.” I tried to sound matter of fact. It wasn’t my intention to garner questions, and I especially didn’t want to answer any.

The bartender chuckled as he typed the order into the computer. “You’re picking up lunch for Cole?”

“I thought I’d get him something since he’s working so hard to get the Dunes ready for the weekend crowd.” Bartenders were good at reading people—that I knew. I hoped Hank couldn’t see that I had a Cole crush written all over this lunch order.

“That’s mighty nice of you. He’s turned down everyone else’s offer to help him.” He punched in the last button and printed out a ticket.

“Really?”

Hank nodded. “Oh yeah, we’ve all tried to put in some hours to help him get that place ready. We know how much he wants to prove it can be done, but he’s a stubborn son of a bitch sometimes.”

I giggled. That sounded exactly like him.

“So, is this lunch strictly platonic?”

Hank was probably used to getting all of the good stories on the island, but I didn’t think he would be nosey. “Hank! You can’t ask me that. I’m helping him out a little at the office. That’s it.” I had probably just turned three shades of red.

He seemed unfazed by my protest. “Cole’s a good guy. A real good guy. And he’s been through a lot this year. He had to leave his grad school program when his grandfather got sick, and now he’s trying to turn that heap into something to be proud of. If anyone can do it, he can.”

“Did you say grad school?” My forehead scrunched into a confused expression.

“Oh yeah, Cole’s in an advanced engineering program at Texas State. Well, he used to be. I hope he gets to finish it one day, but as long as he’s working over there on the motel, he’s going to have to keep it on the back burner. Smart guy, that Cole.”

Cole hadn’t mentioned that part of the story when he told me he inherited the Dune Scape. It seemed like kind of an important detail. How did he manage that and being a single father?

“Hank, do you think he’ll sell it?” I thought about the possibility of Cole giving up on the motel.

The bartender polished a glass. “That’s hard to say. There aren’t many of us local business owners left on the island, so I respect him for trying to hold out. However, no one would blame him if he sold the place and moved on with his life.”

“Orders up!” the cook yelled through the kitchen window.

“Here you go, my dear.” Hank handed me two white paper bags. “Tell Cole I said hello.”

“I will. Thanks, Hank.” I was happy to have lunch in hand, but Hank had dispensed a backstory on Cole I hadn’t expected.

I walked across the street and thought about what Hank said. Cole had given up his education to help his grandfather, and now was plowing forward with a business that might as well be built on quicksand. He’d never have enough money to make all the repairs the buildings needed. I knew what my nightly rate was and with twenty-four rooms at that price, the income numbers just weren’t what he needed to run a business.

I checked the office first to see if Cole was inside, but my piles of receipts looked untouched. I started with the first room and knocked on each door until I found Cole precariously balanced on the edge of a bathtub.

“I brought lunch. Hank says hi.” I held up the bags before placing them on the dresser by the TV. “What are you doing up there?”

He had one leg on the tub and the other on the soap dish. His tool belt was fastened around his waist and he was wearing his white T-shirt that I associated as his self-proclaimed work uniform.

“This showerhead keeps spraying the ceiling. I’m trying to adjust the pipe and the setting so I don’t have to replace it. Not many replacement parts around here.” He twisted the wrench in his hand, keeping his eyes on the nozzle.

“Right.” My eyes followed the lines of his forearm. Each time he tightened the wrench, the muscles in his arms flexed harder.