Cream of the Crop (Hudson Valley, #2)(28)

“What the hell is this?” I asked, watching to see if it bubbled.

“Your kick in the ass,” the waitress said over her shoulder, with a wink in Chad’s direction.

“It’s like a coffee-scented Blob,” I said, tipping the cup. The “coffee” didn’t slosh—it crept up the side.

With a deep breath, I lifted it to my lips. After one sip, I was done. My eyes watered, my throat burned, and I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to have to chew coffee.

“It’s really good,” I mumbled around it, setting it down. Note to self: country folk like their coffee strong.

Well, pride wasn’t going to come between me and my morning joe, I thought, coughing and calling out for an ice water. Chad laughed and sipped his beautiful, nontoxic-looking cappuccino.

When the waitress came over, Chad pushed the ooze to her and ordered me a kinder, gentler cappuccino, too. I’d have ordered it . . . but I was still chewing.

“How was yesterday? You get a better feel for what makes Bailey Falls tick?” he asked, a hopeful twinkle in his eye.

I nibbled on the biscotti. The crumbly bits of cookie mixed with chocolate nibs melted in my mouth. It was no wonder this place was regionally featured. I made a mental note to search for the article to include in my proposal.

“Yesterday was very informative. You’ve got a gem here, Chad. You know it, this town knows it, and now I know it. It’s just a matter of harnessing it into a campaign that appeals to everyone,” I said, popping another bite of biscotti into my mouth. I wondered what other flavors they had, and made another mental note to pick some up before I left today.

As I toyed with the napkin and listened to Chad, tinier pieces of the grand puzzle fell into place for how I would be able to help each of these businesses. For me, this wasn’t just a huge-scale project to sell the whole of Bailey Falls to a grand audience. I was also taking the time to understand each owner’s business model. From the menu, I learned these biscotti were homemade every morning. And they packaged the coffee and sold it at the counter and local grocery store.

“Have these owners ever thought of turning an extra profit by selling their goods en masse? Open up a little bakery/factory/coffee-roaster-thingie? People lose their minds over locally sourced treats like this,” I said, scribbling a quick note on the napkin.

“I don’t know. We could ask.”

“I will. After I finish this, I may want to circle back. Plant some seeds to help them grow the business, and not just in town. I’m thinking big market picture here. Later, though.” I told myself, One thing at a time, Nat.

“We have a gorgeous office building in town that was just renovated.”

“You think the coffee shop could expand there?”

“No. I was just thinking that the whole top floor is open, and in need of a sharp city mind with a keen eye for marketing,” he answered with a small smile.

“Uh-huh.”

“Just saying . . .” He paid the bill and we ventured out in the warm sun and into the busy intersection of pedestrians, kids on bikes, and joggers.

“Target marketing is up first,” I said, typing a quick note into my phone. I’ve drafted entire campaigns in the note section. “I want to chat with more of the business owners to create a slick sheet of quotes and blurbs about each of them. I’ll need to get a photographer up here next weekend probably. The sooner the better. Then I— What?”

I turned to see Chad smiling at me. “I’m just wondering if you’re talking to me, or just yourself.”

“Oh, myself. It’s how I take mental notes. I ramble and it all falls into place. Feel free to pay attention, though. This is all marketing gold for the taking.”



Chad and I walked back in the direction of our cars, taking the scenic route around the town square. In the center was the requisite gazebo and duck pond, but not so requisite were the thirty or so eight-and nine-year-olds dressed in football uniforms proudly bearing the name BF Lions while moms and dads praised and cheered on from the sidelines. And in the middle of all these kids, tackling each other left and right, was Oscar. Once again, like the tallest sequoia in a sea of reedy pines, he stood out from the crowd, as I imagine he would in any crowd. What caught my special attention, however, and what made me more than my usual swoony, was the clipboard he was carrying and the whistle he was wearing.

He f*cking coached kids’ football. I can’t even.

Without missing a beat, in my head I began to hear Smashing Pumpkins: “Today.”

Chad noticed that I was slowing down as we neared the football game. To be clear, when I said slowing down I meant full stop. Because seriously, I needed to stop or I’d likely wander into traffic, unable to stop staring at this guy.

“Pretty, right?” Chad asked.

“Pretty. Right,” I breathed back.

“Sometimes he runs with the kids, and oh man, is it something to watch.”

“If he runs, I run.”

“How very Titanic of you,” Chad snorted, slipping an arm through mine and tugging me in the direction of the game.

“For the record, I’d drown Jack Dawson myself if it meant that I could get in Oscar’s lifeboat.”

“For the record, I’d drown Rose and take them both. But I get what you’re saying.”