A Sweet Possibility (Archer Cove Series Book 2) (7 page)

The words wrapped around his heart and squeezed. For a moment, his throat closed and the words wouldn't come. Hell yeah, it made sense. Because all he wanted was to show Jessie who he was.

He looked down at his feet, and at the stretch of asphalt between them, and he thought about her list. If he was honest, he could write one of his own. On it, he'd want to be a better friend to Jessie, a better man who could show her what she was worth. Hell, he could stand to be fearless and to take risks, too. Open his own place and make a go of it. Maybe he should throw "be less judgmental" on there, because what was wrong with wanting to show someone your best side, anyway?

"It makes sense," he said, and took a deep breath. "Look, I'll help you if I can, all right? If you want me to put together a training program for you, or a nutrition plan, I can do that." Maybe she'd make a few changes and feel better about herself. No harm there.

Her blue eyes widened, and a cautious smile spread across her lips. "Thank you. That would be great."

In the parking lot, she gave him a one-armed hug — their usual good-bye. Noncommittal. Then they took their separate cars home. He’d meant it when he’d said that he thought Jessie was great the way she was. If he could change one thing about her, it would be that she'd stop chasing after things she'd never be able to catch and start seeing what was in front of her.

W
hen Nate checked
his cell phone the next morning, there was a message from George Dinardo. His stomach sparked and his pulse kicked. "Nate. George Dinardo, returning your call. Look, I'm gonna be around this morning doing some work on the space. If you want to stop by we can talk then. I should be there early. Say by eight. If not, we'll set up another time."

Nate glanced at the clock. Eight o'clock, huh? That gave him a full three hours to get ready. Perfect.

He had a light schedule that day. He was doing some physical therapy work later in the afternoon, and before that he was offering yoga at the country club. That ought to be interesting. His buddy was running a rec program there and had asked him for a favor. He wouldn't say he was the best yoga instructor in the world, but his friend was desperate, and Nate figured he could get by well enough.

He parked his SUV in a street space by the food shelf and saw the director, Tom Hannigan, lifting a cardboard box from the trunk of his red Buick. "Hey, Tom. Let me help you with that." Nate hurried to his side.

Tom had suffered a mild stroke a few years ago, and as he unloaded the box into Nate's arms, he said, "Thank you. It's not too heavy, but it saves me a trip." He reached into the trunk and lifted a white plastic bag weighted with canned goods before closing the door. "Donations have been low."

"And I'm guessing need has been high." Nate glanced into the box he was carrying. There were a few boxes of pasta, a jar of sauce, and assorted canned foods. Condensed milk, peas, and creamed corn.

"It seems to be the way it goes." Tom sighed. "But some folks are finally getting back on their feet. It's been a long stretch."

The food shelf was a squat, square building that had once housed a laundromat. Yellow curtains hung on tension rods halfway down the front windows, giving privacy to those inside. Tom unlocked the front door and turned on the lights. The interior was an open room lined with shelves, much like a grocery store. Tom always stressed the need for people to come in and take what they needed with a sense of dignity, like they were shopping in the general store. The shelves appeared well-stocked with loaves of bread, boxes of pasta and noodles, assorted vegetables, nut butters and jellies. It was enough to keep some families going when they needed help the most.

Tom stood just under six feet tall, but he was broad-shouldered and round in the middle. His thick hair was silver on top and dark gray at the temples, and his face was kind. If he'd grown a beard, he probably could've played Santa at the town Christmas festival — appropriate, considering he spent his life giving to others.

Nate set the box down on a folding table in front and removed some of the canned goods. "I'll help you unload."

"Sandra should be here any minute," Tom said with a glance at the clock on the wall. It was shaped like a smiling cat, and a swinging black tail kept the seconds. "She's buying some perishables."

"I don't have anywhere else to be right now," Nate said easily, and checked the date on the cans before setting them on the shelf.

"I'm actually glad you're here," Tom said. "I could use some expert advice."

Nate chuckled. "You've mistaken me for someone else, sir. Though I'm faking my way through yoga this afternoon. I like to pretend to help people."

"You're too modest." Tom set his hands on his waist and stood for a moment, catching his breath. "We need a new roof. We're eligible for a grant, but it will only cover half the cost of repairs. We have to run a fundraiser."

"Uh huh." Nate continued to straighten the cans on the shelf, his body half-turned toward Tom. "And let me guess: you're auctioning off bachelors?"

"We were thinking more along the lines of a road race."

Nate paused, one hand on a can of string beans. "What distance?"

Tom shrugged. "You tell me. We'd like to get as many participants as possible. What's the best distance for that?"

"I'd say five kilometers. It's a friendly distance for organizers and runners. You won't need the resources that a longer race would require."

"Good, 'cause we're stretched pretty thin there." Tom slipped his hands into his pockets. "We were hoping to plan it for the end of June, but we don't know where to start."

"End of —?" Nate straightened and turned to face the director. "Tom. It's mid-May. Do you have a course? Permits? Have you done advertising of any kind?"

He lifted his shoulders. "No to all. We're in a bind. We thought we'd get another year out of the roof, but with all of the ice last winter...well, we just found out we need to replace it this summer. Fall at the latest."

"Which is why you need to host a race in June." Nate dragged his palm down his face. "These things can take months to plan."

"We only have weeks," Tom replied. "I was just hoping you'd point us in the right direction. You've planned a few of these things, haven't you? I don't want to take up a lot of your time. If you can share some tips, great. If not..."

The director turned with a shrug and headed toward the front of the room. Nate swept a hand across the back of his neck. He'd first volunteered at the food shelf when he was sixteen years old, and he'd always liked Tom — quiet, unassuming Tom, who never asked for anything. A 5K? Nate couldn't think of anything that Tom was likely to know less about. Between his inexperience and the timing, it was a disaster waiting to happen.

Nate stared at the shelves. Archer Cove was a town where disparity was the norm. It was populated with people who had more than enough and those who struggled to make ends meet. Lots of families needed to be able to count on something like the food shelf. And the food shelf needed a new roof.

He released a long breath. So planning a race on such short notice was a challenge. Nate was an athlete — since when did he back down from a challenge?

"Tom, stop," Nate said. "I'll do it."

Tom paused and glanced over his shoulder. "You'll give me some tips? That's great. I'd really app —"

"No. I mean I'll plan the event for you. I've planned a bunch of races in the area over the years. I'll dust off some old routes."

Tom seemed momentarily stunned. As he came out of it, he shook his head slowly. "You're one of a kind, Nate. I mean that."

"It's no trouble. Off the top of my head, I have a few ideas already."

As Nate told him his thoughts, Tom's eyes softened and his broad shoulders relaxed as if a weight were being lifted. Finally he said, "I can't tell you how much I appreciate this. Some of our board members suggested that we sponsor a race to raise some extra money. I don't know the first thing about it." He patted his stomach and laughed. "As you can see, I'm not much of a runner. If there's anything I can do —"

"If this is going to be successful, we need to involve local businesses. I'll make a few calls, but we should get sponsors lined up as quickly as possible." Weeks ago, really.

"I'll call people today." Tom paused as Sandra walked in the door carrying two large grocery bags close to her chest. "Sandy's friends with everyone in town. She can get people to open their wallets."

"What's this?" Sandra said warily as she set the bags on the table. "What are you signing me up for now, Tom?" She pushed her long braids back off her shoulders and gave a quick wink to Nate. "I haven't even had a cup of coffee yet."

"I'm planning a 5K to raise money for a new roof, and Tom said you were training to win it."

"Oh, hell no. You're funny." Sandra laughed, and the sound rippled through the space. She lifted two quarts of milk out of one of the bags. "So Tom roped you into planning our road race, is that right?"

"It was his idea," Tom said, palms raised. "I didn't ask him to do anything."

Sandra arched a brow, a knowing look crossing her face. "Yeah, right." She looked at Nate. "You think
I'm
good at fundraising? This one here is a mad genius. He can convince people it was their idea in the first place."

Tom shrugged before turning and heading toward the back room. "I do what I can."

It was almost eight o'clock. Nate thought if he could get to the Dinardo space early, that might show Mr. Dinardo how interested he was. He hoped it would be enough to convince him to knock thousands off the rent. He turned to Sandy. "I'm going to have to take off. I'll be in touch about the race."

Sandy reached over to press his hand with hers. "Thanks for the help."

Nate folded up the cardboard box he'd emptied and stacked it against the wall with the others. Outside the front door was a small metal locked box marked "Donations." He reached into his wallet, peeled off a few bills, and stuffed them through the slot before heading down the street.

H
e reached
the space with fifteen minutes to spare, but George Dinardo had beaten him. Nate saw him through the glass, removing shelving from the wall behind the counter. He gave a wave when he saw Nate and shuffled to unlock the front door. "Nate Lancaster! Good to see you."

"Mr. Dinardo." Nate accepted his firm handshake. "How's retirement treating you?"

George Dinardo had a shock of white hair, small blue eyes, and rosy cheeks. Nate smiled, remembering a time when all of that white hair had been black. "I'm not retired," Dinardo said with a dismissive wave. "I'm otherwise employed. You know I put a lot of my savings into real estate, right? I own this place outright. This place, and the place next door, and the one next to that. I also have a place over in Spencer. Commercial space on the bottom, some apartments on top. Mixed use."

"I had no idea." Nate was impressed, though. "So you're managing those properties now?"

"You could say that." He sighed. "I've owned this place for almost forty years. Bought it brand new ages ago, back when commercial space cost three dollars," he added with a grin. "The other places I've bought over the last five years, and they all need some work."

"How about this one?" Nate asked, casually stepping closer to look at that water stain on the ceiling. "How's the roof?"

"Roof's fine. I just had it replaced five years ago. Put a little paint up there and the ceiling will look good as new." He took the white shelf from the wall and set one end on the floor. "So you're going to turn the space into a gym? I never thought about it like that. I figured another restaurant would come in."

"It's hard to find large open spaces like this. The plumbing in back could be converted to showers, and those walls would come down easily."

"They would," Dinardo agreed, and patted his hand against one. "They're actually pretty flimsy. Just drywall."

"The windows are great, too," Nate continued. "Lots of natural lighting on a corner space like this." He paused. "You know, I came by on Sunday and spoke with the realtor. He didn't give me a price, though."

Without missing a beat, Dinardo said, "Price is thirty dollars a square foot."

Damn. Nate had secretly hoped the realtor had gotten his numbers wrong. He scratched at his temple. "Thirty dollars? No offense, Mr. Dinardo, but that seems awfully high to me."

He paused to study Nate, appearing to mull this remark over. "You'd be able to make that, I'd think. And then some. How much does a gym membership go for these days?"

"I'd want to keep costs reasonable. Don't forget, I'd have to invest in equipment and hire staff." He shook his head. "That kind of rent would leave me starting in a giant hole. Would you consider anything less?"

"I've given this a lot of thought, and I think that's a reasonable price. Besides, this is my retirement income, and it's only been on the market about a week."

Nate stuck his hands in his pockets and nodded. If the space had only been for rent for a week, then Dinardo wasn't going to be open to negotiating the price yet. Maybe he'd change his mind if it sat empty for a few months, or even a year. "I think it's too high, sir. This is Archer Cove, not Great Barrington."

"Try finding a space in Great Barrington this size," Dinardo replied. "I appreciate your thoughts, Nate, but I'm comfortable with that price for now. Why don't you give it some thought and come back if you change your mind."

Nate held out his hand. "I will, sir. I'd ask you to do the same."

George Dinardo smiled. "Always good to see you, Nate. Give my best to your mother."

T
he morning broke
with a heavy gray sky, but nothing like that was going to dampen Jessie's spirits. She had a list of flaws that was painful to look at, but everything could be fixed. She was a work in progress, that was all. By the time Quinn was named partner at Emerson & Parker, Jessica Mallory would be a new woman. Practically perfect.

And it started that morning.

She poured herself a bowl of cereal and resisted the urge to add a teaspoon of sugar. When she reached into the refrigerator for the milk and found that she only had a splash left, she wasn't even angry. "Look at me, saving calories," she murmured to herself. At this rate, she'd be fitting into that dress in no time flat.

She leaned against the counter, chewing her dry cereal. "From now on, I'm going to be ambitious," she announced to Prince Travis, who stared back with characteristic disinterest. "Sorry, am I boring you? If you have somewhere else you'd rather be..."

There she went, talking to herself again. Surely this was evidence of her bakery upbringing. Jessie redirected her attention back to her goals and imagined herself achieving them. Losing weight was simple. That was just a matter of food sacrifice. Like, say, eating dry cereal. Easy.

She chewed the mouthful of cereal. Chewed and chewed. Then she swallowed the lump. Jessie set her spoon back into the bowl. Dry cereal was disgusting. It was kind of like eating paste. Maybe she could add some water?

Nope. That only made things worse.

"That's fine," she mumbled to herself as she set the bowl in the sink. "I got a few good bites in, and it's fortified with essential vitamins and minerals." She should be covered.

So long as she didn't buy milk, losing weight would be simple. Starting her own business, however...well, that made her blood run cold. She was not a salesperson. Her chocolates sold through sheer luck, and she was okay with that. But see, that was the sign of a person without ambitions. Quinn was not a person who settled. He worked so hard that he even sacrificed his relationships. That was the mark of an ambitious person, and if she wanted him to see how perfectly matched they were, she couldn't afford to be "okay" with anything.

The first thing she needed to do was to work on her sales pitch.

Jessie poured herself a cup of coffee and regarded the silver fox in the corner. Surely her father must have given her some sales genes? "You look like a smart guy, Travis," she said. "So I'm gonna play it straight. I've got this computer upgrade that can process information at the speed of light and quadruple your company's productivity. Some folks get nervous about that kind of thing, because let's face it: increased productivity means increased profits, and increased profits mean growth. Lots of folks aren't ready to grow. They fear it. Do you fear growth, Travis?" She tapped her fingernail against the side of her coffee mug as she thought. "Nope. I definitely don't have Dad's genes."

Also, black coffee was gross. She poured it out into the sink.

As she showered and dressed, Jessie thought back to one of those self-help seminars that Wren had dragged her to one Saturday afternoon. The speaker — a bundle of energy in an ill-fitting black suit and a bolo tie — had shouted at them for three hours straight. "You can't make a change if you don't believe it!" He banged on the lectern after each word. "You've got to believe it first."

"Believing it," they'd learned, required the regular use of affirmations. "Make a deposit. One deposit. Two deposits. A hundred deposits a day, right into the self-esteem bank." Here, the speaker darted his hand straight out, then back again, as if he were jabbing his fingertips against self-doubt's throat.

That morning as Jessie walked to work, she made deposits in her self-esteem bank. "I am ambitious," she whispered to herself as she stepped around an abandoned yellow plastic shovel and pail set. "I have a fire burning inside of me."

Which really made her think more of indigestion. Or a sexually transmitted disease. This would take some work. She considered different affirmations. "I am a chocolate mogul," she mumbled as she waited for a school bus to pull through the intersection onto Alden Street. "I am the answer to the chocolate question." Definitely getting closer.

Jessie was still mulling this over a few hours later as she carried trays of bagels to the Archer Cove Inn. She was so lost in thought that she didn't notice the SUV pulling up beside her. "Hey, Jessie."

She didn't even need to turn her head to see the driver — she'd recognized his voice right away. "Nate! Good morning." She smiled.

He was more dressed up than usual, in a light gray sweater and jeans. Normally Nate looked like he was heading down to the track or coming back from a workout. Today he looked kind of hot, to be honest. But she didn't think that, because that was a strange thing to think about your boyfriend's best friend.

Ex-boyfriend. But that was only a temporary situation.

He pulled the SUV over to the curb and rolled down the passenger-side window. "You need help with those platters?"

"I'm taking them over to the inn," she explained, which was not really an answer. "Do you have room in the back?" The order was large that day, and her arms were already getting tired.

"Sure."

He climbed out of the vehicle and walked around the front to lift the trays easily from her arms. "You didn't want to take the van?" he said, referring to the bakery's catering van.

"Not when the weather's nice. It's a good excuse to get outside and get some exercise." She twisted her lips. "You probably think walking is boring."

"We can liven it up. I'll drive them over, and you run after the car. Better yet, you run in front and I'll chase you."

"Nathan, you are hilarious," she said with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. "And aren't you up awfully early?" It wasn't even eight thirty yet.

"Just had some errands to run," he said as he set the trays carefully into the back.

"I'm actually glad I ran into you. I could use your help."

"That doesn't sound good." But he grinned as he said it and shut the trunk door. "No offense, but I'm not going to open a baby shower saloon with you. I just don't think it's right for this town."

Jessie raked her fingers through her hair. "You don't let anything go, do you? But listen, we have a two-minute drive to the inn, and I'm going to cram a lot into that space."

"Thanks for the warning." He climbed into the driver's seat and closed the door. "What's going on?"

"I am," she said, pointing to her heart. "I ate my cereal dry this morning, and I drank my coffee black. I'm determined to be the perfect Emerson & Parker wife," she said simply, and smoothed her hands down her skirt. As if to emphasize the point, she added, "I was even practicing my sales pitch on Prince Travis this morning."

"That's not good. What are you selling these days?"

"Computer upgrades." She paused. "I don't know what those are."

"Details. You're just selling them. Should I even ask what that's all about?"

"I figure if I'm going to make a go at owning my own business, I need to know how it's done. Maybe I'll talk to my dad, find out a few tricks of the trade."

Nate fastened his seatbelt and turned the key in the ignition. "Or you could focus on what you're already doing and make a great product."

"Product will get you only so far," she said, sadly. "I just look at all the hours Quinn puts in at the office, right? He's a great lawyer and whatnot, but he's not going to get a promotion without a little gamesmanship. It's just how these things happen. Anyway, I'm working on my diet as part of my self-improvement project. I was hoping we could work on a meal plan. Or some guidelines. I could be flexible."

Nate glanced at her sidelong. "Tell you what: I'll work with you on meal and fitness plans, absolutely free. But there's one condition."

Jessie sucked in a breath. Conditions were scary. "What's that?"

"I'm planning a 5K for the food shelf. I need sponsors and runners."

She exhaled. So he was looking for a charitable donation? Simple! "That's a great cause. You can count on me." Jessie reached over to pat his hand. "Just let me know the different levels of sponsorship. You know Uncle Hank always contributes —"

"No." The car slowed as it reached the gravel drive leading to the inn. "I need sponsors and runners. Two in one."

Her stomach clenched, and she suddenly felt ill. "You want me to...oh, no."

"That's right. You want personal training with yours truly? That's what we're going to work on."

"How many miles is a 5K? Six?"

He smiled. "Close. It's three point one miles."

Good heavens. "That's n-not fair," she stammered. "I'm the client! Don't I set the goals?"

"Seems completely fair to me," he said, pulling the vehicle to a stop in front of the inn. "So what do you say? Oh, and by the way, I'm heading to the country club this afternoon. A buddy of mine runs the activities there." He made a show of checking his fingernails. "I seem to recall you saying something about — what was it? Country club manners?"

Ugh, this was so not fair of him — to turn her objectives against her like that. She groaned and set her head back against the seat so she could stare straight up at the ceiling. "Yes. I need country club manners." Those had been her exact words, in fact.

"Think about the networking opportunities. I can get you access to the country club. And I can get you in shape. But you've got to stretch your comfort zone. That's the price."

Jessie's hands were clenched into tight fists against her thighs. Running a road race? Pros: she would probably get into great shape, and it was for charity. Cons: she could very well die trying.

Damn it. Vanity and charity were going to win.

"Fine," she said through gritted teeth. "I'll train for a...road race." Just saying it made her queasy.

"All right then." He grinned. "We start tomorrow morning. Five a.m."

"I'm out the door at five," she said. "We have to run at four."

Seeing the blood drain from his face was revenge enough. Then he recovered. "Four. No problem. Morning runs are invigorating."

"Fabulous." Jessie's seatbelt was unfastened and she had one foot out the door. "Thanks for the ride! I can take it from here."

"C'mon, I might as well help you carry —"

"No, I've got it." She said it in a cheerful but firm voice and swung open the back door. "You should go back to doing whatever you were doing."

More conversation with Nate could lead to him having more great ideas, and she didn't think she could handle it. She'd heard about gyms that forced people to work out by pushing spare tires around. God help her if Nate made her attempt that. Jessie was not that kind of girl.

But he wasn't listening to her, and what else was new. When she looked up, he was standing beside the back tire, his hands stuffed in his pockets, watching her without moving. His hair was a little longer than usual, and a lock fell into his eyes. Good thing her arms were loaded with trays, or else she would've reached up and brushed it aside, and then he would've been mortified and probably would've accused her of acting like his mother. But she couldn't help but feel a surge of affection for him at that moment, him and his boyish good looks. Then he read her mind and closed the back door so she didn't have to kick it shut with her foot. She said, "I guess I'll see you tomorrow morning."

He lifted one hand into the air to wave good-bye, and she headed into the inn. She stopped when she reached the doorway and looked over her shoulder. Nate was still there in his SUV, waiting to make sure she made it inside.

A
rcher Cove Inn
was a fixture in the seaside town. Upscale and tastefully decorated with small round vases filled with fresh tulips, inviting couches upholstered in linen, and pillows in soft shades of sea blues and greens, the lobby always gave Jessie decorating inspiration. She thought the stately inn was most beautiful at night, when guests flocked to the sweeping front porch to enjoy live music and drinks across candlelit tables. She often wondered what it would feel like to be one of them: a woman in a beautiful cocktail dress, an adoring partner watching her every move. It was all terribly romantic.

The moment she stepped inside the lobby of the inn, Jessie was greeted by a vision of white and platinum blonde. Anna Tumblesby, the innkeeper, was rushing forward, arms extended. "Tell me you brought chocolate!"

Jessie gratefully unloaded a tray of bagels into Anna's arms. "Just bagels. Are you running low? I can stop by later."

"I've been putting truffles out for cocktail hour, and let me tell you: my guests love chocolate with their gin gimlets."

Jessie grinned. "I'll have an emergency delivery to you before cocktails tonight."

"Thank goodness."

Jessie followed Anna past the front desk and down a light blue hall decorated with white wainscoting and small wrought-iron wall sconces. At the end of the hall they reached a room with two walls of windows and a stone fireplace. Outside the windows were hydrangea bushes that were just starting to sprout green leaves. By the high tourist season, they would be bright green and decorated with large bulbs of blue flowers. Beyond the hydrangeas was a stretch of green lawn and an unobstructed view of the ocean. When guests left reviews of the inn, this was the room they mentioned, almost without fail.

Anna had set a series of round tables for brunch, decorating them with white linen tablecloths and vases of fresh-cut lilacs. Jessie had been making deliveries to the inn for so many years that she didn't need any instruction. Bagels went on the long table set up against the far wall, right in the middle.

"These look delicious, as always," Anna gushed as she removed the plastic wrap. "I always receive compliments, and I tell them to stop at Hedda's Bakery on the way home."

"Thanks, Anna. We appreciate that."

"After what you all did for me?" Anna shook her head, fluttering her long blonde curls. "You and your uncle are saints. This is the least I can do."

Last November, Anna had slipped on a patch of ice and broken her ankle. Jessie and Uncle Hank had fully assumed her meal preparation duties for weeks, catering full breakfasts so that Anna's guests wouldn't know the difference. They did it because it was the right thing to do, that was all. Neighbors should help each other. Jessie's cheeks grew warm and she looked away, embarrassed by the compliment. "I should head back. Uncle Hank was busy when I left."