I wilt. “Oh.” Not wanting to look at him, I put a couple of hot biscuits on a plate with a side of sausage gravy from the pot on the stove, in case he’s able to handle more than the biscuits on their own. “I just thought—”
“But you’re right, and I need help.” His dark eyes follow the plate as I set it in front of him.
“I can’t actually buy it,” I admit. It’ll be better if I’m honest about that part up front. “I made pretty good money working on Home Baked, but New York is expensive.”
“That’s unfortunate.” When I hand him a fork, he looks at it for a second and then takes it, though the jury is still out on whether he’s going to eat my offering. “You did choose New York,” he reminds me and then cuts off a piece of biscuit, dipping it in the gravy before he takes a bite. His face is suddenly a mixture of pleasure and frustration, like he’s annoyed by how good it tastes. He swallows, looks down at the food as if trying to decide if he wants to talk or eat, and then he meets my gaze again. “Uncle Bill would have wanted you to have Kingston’s. We both know that. You don’t have to buy it, as long as you promise not to change anything.”
I can’t hold back the laugh that bubbles out of me. “Are you serious? No way.”
He nods as he takes another large bite. “That’s non-negotiable.”
“Then you can kiss that bakery goodbye because it’s never going to survive with the way it is now.”
“All it needs is someone who can actually bake. I’m assuming that’s you.”
Your version of baking is different from mine, and it’s just not what the company needs. I shove Lane’s words aside, no matter how much they still sting two weeks later. “Assuming,” I repeat, gesturing to King’s quickly disappearing biscuits. “I’ll have you know I was an award-winning pastry chef up in New York.”
He rolls his eyes. “Debatable.”
“How is a literal award debatable?”
“If I recall, you took third place.” He grabs a couple more biscuits, making his way around the island to load them up with gravy. Apparently his stomach is handling the food just fine. “That’s what Uncle Bill told me, anyway.”
Folding my arms, I wait until he settles himself on a stool across from me and resumes eating. “I still got an award,” I grumble. It makes me feel like a petulant child. “Regardless, it’s going to take more than my skills in a kitchen to get Kingston’s back to profitable. The place is falling apart.”
“It has character.”
“It has wood rot and a finicky oven. It needs to be updated, King.”
“Fine. You can fix anything that needs fixing.” He scowls. “I suppose you’ll want to slap your own name on the door?”
Honestly, I hadn’t thought about it, but I have a feeling he will put up a fight if I say anything but no. “Kingston’s is already a known name. Seems silly to start from scratch.”
“There’s a positive, at least.”
“So are we doing this?” If we’re not, I’d rather not waste any more time around this grumbly man than I need to. He can drive me back to my car, and I can try to find some new plan for my life. No biggie.
King clenches his jaw, studying me for a moment before he swears under his breath.
I grimace. “Do I want to ask?”
“Vanderman is the estate attorney.”
“So?” I don’t think I’ve ever met the guy, but his wife used to be a regular at the bakery. She probably still is, and I remember her being nosier than a bloodhound. I can’t see that being a problem, though. It’s not like we’ll be keeping our marriage a secret.
King shifts in his seat, looking uncomfortable. “So… He was Uncle Bill’s best friend. He might need some…convincing.”
I don’t like the sound of that. “What kind of convincing?”
“The kind where he thinks we’re really married.”
I laugh again. “That’s what a marriage license is for, isn’t it?” A strange sensation runs through me, like I just got a shot of carbonation injected into my bloodstream. Shuddering, I turn to the sink and start washing the flour from my hands as I imagine standing in front of a judge, King standing next to me.
I imagined something similar when we were young and first started dating, though it was a priest then and we were on the beach in the glow of a gorgeous sunset. Marrying Royal Kingston had been a teenage fantasy, but that was before I realized there was a whole world out there.
Before I worried I would get stuck in Willow Cove and have nowhere to go but in circles.
King waits until I turn the water off before he speaks again. “Vanderman told me about the family stipulation about a month and a half ago, when I, uh, tried to sell the bakery to someone from Charleston.”
I gasp. “You tried to sell it?”
He shrugs, eyes on his empty plate. “I was overwhelmed. And in mourning. Uncle Bill had only been gone for a week, and I wasn’t thinking straight.”
I can’t imagine what some bigwig would have done with the place if King hadn’t been stopped, and I shudder at the idea of Kingston’s becoming a cookie cutter copy of every franchised multimillion-dollar company out there.
“Anyway,” he says, “Vanderman was clear about the will’s directive, and he also made it clear that he will uphold Uncle Bill’s wishes. He’s going to stand firm on that whole ‘family’ thing.”
I fold my arms. “Again, a marriage license will make us family. You can’t get any clearer than that.”
King’s gaze jumps up. “Not for Vanderman. He’ll need to think this thing is real.”
“How is anyone supposed to believe a spur-of-the-moment marriage to a stranger is real?”
Wincing, he shakes his head. “You’re not technically a stranger, Georgie. Even if you feel like one.”
Ouch. But at least I’m not the only one who feels like she doesn’t know the person across from her. “What are you saying, King?”
“I’m saying we’re going to have to make everyone in Willow Cove think you and I are in love if you’re actually going to get the bakery.”
