I lean against the counter and let his words sink in. It makes sense. I can see what he’s saying, even if it doesn’t matter.
“Think about it,” he says. “You can love someone, but if you don’t respect them, will you take them seriously? Will you take your union seriously? Probably not. And if you don’t respect yourself, it’s the same scenario.”
“I respect Sophie,” I say matter-of-factly.
He nods. “That’s good. Always respect her. Prioritize her. She gave you her heart. If you have children, she’s giving you a part of her body. Don’t take that for granted.”
A bang rings out from the storeroom, followed by a string of profanities from Dottie. My heart stops pounding hard enough to cause a heart attack.
There’s no way he knows what Sophie and I are up to. His words are just words of wisdom. Logic. The same stuff people tell newlyweds every day.
“That Dottie . . .” Pap laughs. “Anyway, if you decide to stick around here, I’d love to have a conversation about turning this place over to you.” He starts to head toward the back but stops. “I’d be honored to, actually.”
“Thanks, Pap.”
“One more thing before I go.” He tries to cover his smile. “What’s the best thing about Switzerland?”
I laugh at his joke, and I don’t even know the punch line. “No clue.”
“Well, the flag is a big plus.”
He cackles as he disappears into the storeroom, leaving me with the taste of a bad joke and a headache.
I glance at the clock. I could probably run to the Lemon Aid and pick up one of those mini tequila bottles and down it before anyone noticed I was gone. This is much, much more complicated than I thought it would be.
People care. They’re pulling for us. They want to see this thing between Sophie and me work, and I don’t know how to box that off from reality.
It never occurred to me that Pap would think I might want to take over his clinic. He knew I was heading to Orlando if at all possible. So . . . What the fuck? Did I somehow give him the wrong idea? Will it hurt his feelings when I leave?
I didn’t want this. I didn’t want him expecting me to stay.
And the whole town will hate me when I leave, because I didn’t love and protect one of their own. Sophie is adored here. Am I going to shatter that? Because that’s not what I want—from any of them. I don’t want to lose their respect, either, and something tells me I might.
One thing is certain, though: once I leave, that will be it. I won’t be able to come back.
I hadn’t considered that. In my haste to figure out how to get this damn job, I hadn’t thought about what it might mean . . . or that it might mean anything to me. That I might care about not being welcome in this little town.
I run a hand through my hair as my phone buzzes in my pocket.
There is no name on the screen, just a phone number with a Florida area code. The knot in my stomach tightens as I press the green button.
“Hello?” I ask.
“Is this Dr. McKenzie?”
“Yes.”
“Hello. I’m Angela from Montgomery Farms. Mr. Montgomery wanted me to give you a call this morning. He’s had a change of plans and expects to be in”—the sound of papers shuffling fills the line—“Honey Creek, Tennessee, in two days’ time to complete the final round of interviews. Will that work for you?”
My stomach sours, the acid in the coffee building a wall in my throat.
“That will be great,” I say, my voice lacking the excitement that I hoped would come naturally.
“Awesome. He will see you then.”
“Great. Thanks for calling,” I say.
“Goodbye.”
The line goes dead as I hold the phone to my ear. Pap’s and Dottie’s laughter sneaks up on me as it slips into the room.
When Pap asked me weeks ago if I could come and cover for him in Honey Creek, the timing was impeccable. He needed some rest. I needed some time to lick my wounds and prepare for my next adventure.
I expected it to be a sweet sort of a month with a slow pace and good southern food. I was finally right where I wanted to be—on the precipice of acquiring everything I ever wanted.
So why does it feel like I’m about to lose something in the process? And why does that hurt so damn much?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SOPHIE
Ooh, those are pretty,” I whisper.
I scan the website for a thread count. Things like that have never really meant anything to me—soft is soft, scratchy is scratchy. But an article I read recently about expectations in bed-and-breakfasts said that while I might not care, guests do. And guests will pay premium dollar for the little touches like homecooked meals, nice soaps, and thread counts.