Page 57 of Small Town Swoo
“Are you serious?” I took a bite and studied him incredulously. “Anyone would tell you loaning that kind of money to a friend to start a business is a terrible idea.”
“Anyone?” He turned around and tapped the shoulder of a woman behind him. “Excuse me.”
The woman, who might have been about my mom’s age, turned around, her expression slightly annoyed. However, when she saw Dash’s handsome face, she brightened up. “Yes?”
“I wonder if you could help me settle a little argument I’m having with my friend here.” He gestured at me. “Do you think it’s a bad idea to invest in a friend’s business?”
“What kind of business?” the woman asked.
“A food truck.”
“What kind of food truck?”
“Diner food, but a step up. What do you call it again, Ari?”
“Elevated comfort food,” I said, giving him a murderous look.
He smiled. “That’s right. Elevated comfort food.”
The woman looked thoughtful. “Like gourmet sliders or something?”
“Exactly.” Dash snapped his fingers. “And fancy grilled cheese sandwiches made with braised short ribs. Truffle fries. Craft milkshakes. Things like that.”
The woman’s eyes grew wide. “That sounds amazing. I think it would be a good investment.”
“Thank you.” Dash sent me a triumphant look before turning his charm on the woman again. “What’s your name?”
“Lisa.”
“Thank you, Lisa. You’ve been a big help.”
Lisa looked like she’d just been handed a check for a million dollars. “You’re welcome.”
Facing me again, he picked up his cheesesteak. “So it’s settled? You’ll let me invest in your food truck?”
Laughing, I shook my head. “I don’t have a food truck. But I appreciate your confidence in me.”
“It’s not just me, Ari. Look how you impressed that food influencer. Look at your parents’ faith in you. Look at your training and your experience and your feel for Cherry Tree Harbor. Youknowwhat people like.”
I ate silently for a moment, Niall’s voice creeping into my head, dripping derision and scorn. “But I also knowother things—like what it feels like to go after something and fall short of expectations.”
“Will you at least talk to your parents about it?”
“No.”
“Then I’m not telling you where the mustard is on your face.”
Embarrassed, I shielded my face with my hands. “Dash! Tell me!”
“Your chin,” he said, laughing. Then he grabbed a paper napkin, reached across the table, and swiped at my jaw. “There. It’s gone.”
“Thank you.” But I picked up another napkin and wiped my face a second time.
“You don’t trust me?”
“I trust you. Mostly.”
He grinned and sat back in his chair. “Then you should listen to me. Give this food truck idea some thought, okay? That’s all I’m asking.”
