A Place with Briar. Amber Leigh Williams

that’s why I have potential investors.” She waved her hands in frustration. “Can we not talk about this right now? So, tell me what you think of the new girl.”

      Defeated, Adrian lowered to her seat, appetite forgotten. “Roxie Honeycutt. She seems nice, really excited about opening shop.”

      “Though Lord knows we don’t need another bridal boutique around here,” Olivia said before taking a big bite out of a banana.

      “She also has a license for wedding consultation,” Briar added.

      Olivia made a face. “They give out licenses for just about anything nowadays.”

      “Anyway,” Briar went on, “she has some interesting ideas—I think she’ll do well. And I bet her gowns are gorgeous.”

      Adrian brightened up. “And she plans on using me for all the floral arrangements she’ll need.”

      “I like her,” Briar concluded, placing the bacon onto a plate. She took a knife from the butcher block to slice a tomato. “Why didn’t you bring her over for lunch, guys?”

      “Said she was eating with her hotshot fiancé,” Olivia explained with a dismissing wave of her hand. “Some law professor named Richard Levy.”

      “He teaches in Mobile,” Briar blurted. “At South Alabama.”

      “You know him?” Adrian asked curiously.

      “No,” Briar said, frown returning. “Daddy was talking about him the last time I visited.”

      That left another gray cloud hanging over the room—usually any mention of Briar’s father did. Any thought of him, really, had the same effect.

      It’s unimaginable—you running the business by yourself....

      She closed her eyes because the terrible words he’d spoken to her that day not but a year before still echoed clearly through her head—on a constant loop.

      Adrian recovered the conversation. “She’s coming by the tavern tonight to try one of Olivia’s margaritas.”

      “I guess that’ll be around the time you skip off on your hot date.”

      “It’s not a date, Liv.”

      Briar looked up. “What’s this about a date, Adrian?” she asked as she began to shred a head of lettuce.

      “Oh, she’s got one hell of a date lined up,” Olivia groused. “With Cole Savitt.”

      The lettuce dropped to the floor with a crunch. Briar felt the color drain from her face as she bent to scoop up the mess. “Oh.”

      Olivia watched her cousin closely as she ran the lettuce under the sink tap. “Yep. She beat us both to the plate.”

      “That’s not true,” Adrian protested, clearly alarmed by Briar’s reaction.

      “Did you get the scoop?” Olivia asked.

      “About why he has that wounded air about him? Maybe. And it seems to be a recent development.”

      “And?”

      Taking a sip of her mineral water, Adrian watched Olivia’s expectant face with a shred of glee. “It’s personal.”

      Olivia groaned. “Can’t you just give me a hint?”

      “Nope.”

      “Spoilsport.” Olivia took a hearty bite out of her sandwich, eyeing Adrian with mock loathing before turning her attention to Briar. “Would you just sit down and eat? The man has two hands. He can fix his own lunch.”

      “You know that I provide meals when they’re requested,” she reminded Olivia. “He wanted to eat here. I’m going to accommodate him.”

      “Like a good hostess,” Olivia said with some disdain. “Personally, I don’t think women should cook for men at all anymore. We’ve progressed too far for that. Let them fend for themselves.”

      “It’s not as if we’re married,” Briar said, irritation nipping on her heels. “I’ve never done anything less for any guest.”

      “If I were in your shoes, I’d serve him right up in a negligee,” Olivia said with a knowing smile.

      Briar’s color was definitely coming back. “You just stepped on your point.”

      Olivia met Adrian’s curious gaze and said, “She’s got the hots for him.”

      “Olivia—”

      The screen door creaked open and Cole walked through. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

      “Cole,” Olivia greeted, offering him a Cheshire-cat grin. She patted the cushion of the seat next to hers. “We were just talking about you.” She winked conspiratorially at Adrian.

      “Ah, so that’s why my ears are burning.” He settled in the chair. “Something smells good,” he commented, craning his neck toward the stove.

      “Briar’s slaving away again,” Olivia informed him. “I hope you like blood, sweat and tears.”

      Cole glanced up at Briar who was neatly arranging two BLTs on a plate. “Do you need any help?” he asked.

      She turned and met his gaze. She swore she was growing pinker by the second. Lowering her eyes, she set a plate in front of him. “Of course not. What would you like to drink?”

      “I’ll get it,” he said, already on his feet. “You don’t have a fixed plate here. Go ahead and make yourself something.”

      “But I’m—”

      He smiled and effectively melted the rest of her words away. “I can fix myself a drink, Briar.”

      “Cole—” Briar began before Olivia cut her off.

      “Let the man do what he wants and fix yourself some food. You work to the bone then starve yourself. Soon you’ll be nothing but a scarecrow.”

      “Fine,” Briar resigned. “Cups are in the cupboard.” When his back was turned, she sent Olivia a seething look. Her cousin merely lifted a shoulder and finished off her sandwich.

      As if Briar didn’t have enough problems already with her guest getting under her skin and the inn potentially going under. Apparently, Olivia had decided to play the Emma Woodhouse game again.

      Since she had returned to Fairhope, Briar had managed to fly under Olivia’s matchmaking radar. Adrian, however, hadn’t faired so lucky and had a short list of dating calamities to prove it.

      By the helpless look on Adrian’s face, Briar knew there was little the people involved in Olivia’s matchmaking schemes could do but humor her and hope it didn’t all end in complete disaster.

      * * *

      TAVERN OF THE Graces was in full swing by seven o’clock. Regulars lined up at the bar, talking to each other overloud. The room was nearly filled to capacity, and the pool table was in use by after-work players. And above the table in the corner where an arm-wrestling match was taking place was a flat-screen television tuned to ESPN and a Braves game.

      When Cole walked through the thick wood-paneled doors he was overwhelmed by a blast of Sheryl Crow’s “Winding Road.”

      Jubilant shouts echoed from the men surrounding the pool table. Cole followed their attention to the television and saw that Chipper had hit a homer.

      One of the pool players stalked to the bar and leaned over it, yelling into an open doorway, “Hey, Liv! Your man just hit one out of the park!”

      Olivia walked through, carrying a heavy case of beer bottles and beaming. “That means you owe me twenty bucks, Freddie.”

      “Aw, hell, Liv. I got a family to feed.”

      “I’ll