I glance around at the mock-ups, taking them in once more as a fresh wave of hurt washes over me. “Well, looks like you need at least one cook in the kitchen, because these are all trash.”
Ford blinks, stunned. “They’re not trash.”
“Really, Ford?” I motion to the fox one. “How does that represent our family, or the company Mom and Dad built from scratch? These are impersonal and totally miss the mark. You might not value my opinion, but you should consult with someone close to the company, because you’re going to spend a hell of a lot of money on something that honestly . . . is going to fail and make the family look like a bunch of fools for trying to be something we’re not.”
Anger searing through me, I spin on my heel and head out the door, leaving him in shocked silence. On the stairs, I bypass Larkin without saying a word. I hear her say something, but I completely ignore her and walk right out of the inn and onto the sidewalk. I stand there, still fuming and unsure where to go.
Everyone knew about the rebranding but me. If that doesn’t speak volumes about what happened in the past, I don’t know what does.
Tears well up in my eyes as I try to catch my breath.
God, I’ve never felt so . . . so . . . lost.
What the hell am I even doing here?
I thought this place would help save me, but all it’s done is tear me down, one day at a time.
With my good hand, I grip my forehead and take a deep breath. That did not go as planned. I thought seeing Ford was going to put me in a better mood, but all I’ve managed to accomplish is to get into another fight with one of my brothers. Am I really so unhappy that I try to make everyone around me miserable too?
That would be a depressing realization.
I contemplate going back up there and apologizing, but for what, exactly? I have the right to be upset. Ford has been cutting me out of the family business for as long as I can remember. And this is just another example.
I never fought him on it because . . . well, because of everything that happened, but then I came to him last year about the company’s social media presence, the lackluster Instagram account and how to beef it up, make it more appealing and useful to attract customers. He pushed me aside.
Today was no different.
Holding back my tears, I turn to the right and run smack into a strong, tall statue.
“Hey there, you okay?”
Oh God, I know that voice all too well now.
Slowly my eyes travel up until they meet a pair of hazel ones.
Dr. Beau. Why, oh why does he have to be here, right now, while I tear up on the sidewalk?
“Fine,” I say, tilting my head down. “I, uh, was just heading to, uh, lunch.”
He tucks his index finger under my chin and lifts my eyes so I’m looking at him. “Going to lunch with tears in your eyes. Doesn’t seem like everything is fine.” He nods toward Pickles and Cheese, the local sandwich shop that serves the best roast beef sandwich I’ve ever eaten. “Join me.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
DR. BEAU
Her eyes skirt over to the shop, and I can practically see her mind whirling, silently debating what to do. I have a feeling she’s going to say no, and I wouldn’t blame her if she did. I’m probably the last person she wants to have lunch with, given our few previous interactions, but seeing her upset on the sidewalk, looking distraught and then catching the tears in her eyes . . . yeah, I couldn’t just leave her by herself.
“I’m looking for someone to split a roast beef sandwich with me,” I say, knowing she probably needs the encouragement. “Come on, we can sit outside, and you don’t even have to talk.”
“Your expectations for a lunch partner are low,” her shaky voice jokes.
“Better than eating with the skeleton in the office I normally eat with.”
“Barely a step up if you compare the two.” With a deep breath, she nods. “Okay, I’ll join you for lunch.”
“Perfect.” Together, we walk across the street and step up to the outdoor counter. I order a large roast beef sandwich to split, extra horseradish sauce, a fruit cup, and two waters. I pay despite Palmer putting up a fight, and then we both take a seat outside under a red and white umbrella. We’re off in the corner to grant us some privacy, which seems like what Palmer needs right now.
Instead of talking, I fold my hands together, lean back in my chair, and wait for our sandwich to be delivered—despite all the questions I’d like to ask her, starting with, How long are you here for? Followed up by, Would you like to go on a date with me?