“My wife took the lattes and the latte money in the divorce. And yes, I wanted the validation of you trying it so that when I complain to the staff I have proof that someone else realized it too and not that because I’m pushing fifty my tastebuds are going. Haven’t you heard of a mob before? Jesus, you kids don’t want be joiners these days…”

⸻ She slapped him on the shoulder jokingly when he repeated that ridiculous nickname that he always used to her. Part of her wanted to tell him that she had a crush on him, but alas, he was her ex-husband's business partner, or whatever Marcel was up to. And then she inhaled the smoke slowly, exhaling as if she was freeing all the stress she carried. ❛ You're not going to deny me this. ❜ She squinted her gaze at him when he said she couldn't know. Says the man who delivered the news that her husband, or ex, was dead.

"have at it, then," he smiles all the same, surrendering the vessel and preparing for the lecture that's coming. "the cook appears to have deserted his post. surely the pantry contains something edible. failing that, smokey’s delivers?" brows furrow. uninspiring options, admittedly, but not beyond hope. the slight tiredness behind her eyes does not go unnoticed, as he flings the main doors open for them. "love, you ever consider eating before you are starving?"

With his hands shoved into the pockets of his pants, James made his way into the Ski Lodge. A rather shit eating grin already resting on his face as he looked around for a moment, taking a few seconds before his eyes landed on Lew. The friendship had been almost unexpected but very much welcomed. Someone that even after only knowing for a short period of time, James felt like he could be his goofy side, could let loose a little bit. Like he didn't have to hold himself to this standard he felt like everyone else did. That he didn't have to be who his friends and family thought he used to be. That with Lew, he could simply be the James that he was now. The one who forgot shit but still had that small bit of smart ass side to him, that yearned to goof around and just laugh.

"Ah, there he is. The town's ray of sunshine." He laughed in greeting, shaking his head as he made his way over to Lew. "Hard at work as always I see." The corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement.

"see, that cannot offend me," lew turns with a grin, weight resting on his left elbow now, entirely too pleased to see james. even rapunzel perhaps was not as happy to be freed from her wretched solitude in that castle. he's not sure how it happened; james just appeared somewhere in town someday and it was impossible not to befriend him. such people are rare. he should know. "because there was neither intention nor promise of work to begin with. now, do you want to get coffee?"

it's the smoking thing that does snag him, and he supposes he does deserve to be read for filth for some things. but before he can do much, the cigarette's being nicked from his fingers. lew blows a bit of air to dispel the last remnants of smoke, stepping back, and at last remembers to be appalled at the invasion of personal space. "keep your hands to yourself, yes? humans are living creatures too and whatnot?"

⸻ And her mother decided to pop up at her place, out of the blue, simply because she can't resist seeing her grandson. Rémy was early with her at the Tangle Vine, helping "mama", and when she got home, her mother was there to spoil him. Annabelle, her Aussie mother, asked to let Rémy stay a night over with her, and it'd mean she could've a night free… Or at least for a few hours; knowing well her son, he'd cry and ask for her at some point. This is when she took advantage to cross the other side of the neighborhood, driving to see Lew. She re-touched her gloss on her rosy lips and fixed her silky blonde hair before getting into his place.

"yes, please show me what a bramble is," it is a safe flirting taunt as he follows her, because surely there isn't a universe in which she gives two shits about his handsome face with everything she's got going on. some days he just wants to help, truly; but mostly he's happy her bozo husband kicked rocks so they can hang out.

"You. You, come over here a second." Victor beckoned. He needed to work on his people skills, that was true, but he also needed a second opinion. "No, just, leave that, sit here, and try that. Go on. Seriously. It's stale, right?" He scoffed as he slide the small white plate of biscotti towards the stranger. "And it's not the kind of stale where it's been sitting in a display for a few hours, that's gotta be days old, right? I mean it taste like they went to a supermarket and bought it in bulk and now they just leave it there. Is this really what we've come to? I might as well gone to Starbucks."

"did you seriously—" a biscotti is crumbly and sorrowfully unimpressive as he takes it into his hand, giving it a tentative sniff. best he can do. "you wanted me to try a stale pastry? that's a latte you owe me for that."

"don't i just, love," he stretches out a hand for it, an unlit cigarette between two fingers, but rest assured he'll light it as soon as the pine trees stop spinning. a glance, as he takes in the sight of his company. "why are you here?" just why possibly.

"Our sister requested I return, so I obliged." There was no timeline on purpose. She took a contract and could stay for the duration, then leave if nothing changed, or had the option of extending if things played out in her favor. Life was short, as this memorial was amplifying to everyone in this godforsaken town. No one was free from the reality of death. Kit didn't want to be bitter or resent her brother if something happened to him. Honestly, she couldn't live with herself if it did, and they never had any form of reconciliation. This was her olive branch. Her presence here and now. "Look, I'm not trying to cause any disruption to your world, I'm just here to figure a few things out. I didn't think it warranted your permission."

He is vaguely aware that the more her words press against the old hurt of missing her, the less pleasant he is becoming. What things? He had once wasted considerable time wanting to ask her questions and receive something other than a brick wall in return. Seven years had made the exercise seem increasingly pointless.

Richard draws in the mountain air, the smallest gesture of his right hand meaning: fine. This has no point. He will be civil until she leaves again.

"Did not mention you needing my permission. Do what you must, let me know if you need help," his voice is entirely procedural. He gives the faintest possible shrug and looks at her, careful not to linger over the changes seven years have made, or wonder too closely about the life that put them there.

⸻ ❛ I never thought of it. ❜She refers to him as a feminist. Anne followed where Richard was guiding her. Her steps were unhurried, her heels clacking against the pavement with every stride. Either way, she decided to put an end to her complaint about her roommate. He does not need to be a topic for the next few hours when she is at home. The small glow illuminated the dark Maine evening for a split second before she inhaled deeply. Within minutes, the heavy, sweet smoke began to do its work. The sharp edge of her irritation began to blur, melting into a slow, hazy numbness that made the biting winter air feel suddenly distant, as if the cold could no longer quite reach her.

❛ Good. ❜ She retorted. The Dutchwoman was colorblind, but this is a detail he doesn't need to know. Due to the type of her colorblindness, driving at night was better than driving during the day. ❛ What are you doing?! ❜ Anne commented, and she movement of her index finger to the tip of her nose. ❛ Are you good, bro?! ❜ She inquired with curiosity, now looking into his eyes, with her mesmerizing gaze, sparkling grey-bluish hues met his blue eyes. And then she halts briefly, and removes her high heels, and carries it with a hand, walking barefoot, since these heels were killing her.

Her finger reaches her nose cleanly enough, in his highly inebriated estimation, though it is not quite as forensic a coordination test as the situation requires ideally. It will still do.

"I'm good," Richard’s brows draw together at her confusion, eyes narrowing as he assesses her, and he gives a pointed but equally curious look. "Are you?" It all seems, somehow, vaguely hilarious. Inevitably, his mind circles back to food still. A plate of something hot sounds offensively good right now. He can't quite put a finger on the craving, but it is there.. Richard's fingers find the pleasant weight of the leather-bound key fob in the inside pocket of his coat. Obviously, it was always going to end like this.

⸻ A perfect and manicured brow rose when he retorted to her words… The "but"s, and she was thankful he didn't want her services. Either way, Anne did not come here to do a freelancing thing. As a newcomer to town, she came from networking. The blonde was rather relieved that this was a familiar face in a foreign city. The only thing she brought with her was her clothing, and somehow, her roommate was Vikrom. ❛ Ouch! I'm hurt! You don't find me pretty! ❜ She says sardonically.

The Dutchwoman feels rather comfortable around him and safe. All she did in her entire life was trust in her instincts. And then back on the issue… ❛ Yes, detergent. He was upset that he bought a family-sized edition, and I used it to clean that dirty floor. The entire floor. ❜ In her point of view, Vik should be content to arrive at his place smelling like roses. And she had a lot of work to do, moving furniture, to clean every single space of it.

"Perhaps I value substance over appearance." It's about as reassuring as a brick wall, but Richard walks in step with her towards the hills, the cadence of his speech entirely, indecently unserious. "Perhaps I'm a feminist, Anne. Has that occurred to you?"

He's unconcerned with accidentally offending her looks the same way everyone around him should really not be concerned with offending his finances; no insult could ever be great enough to move reality by an inch. The sun is a glowing red dot over the water so far away, and Richard breathes in chilly mountain air, the unusually intense feel of it, Anne's words about her roommate and floors somewhere in the periphery as he takes several deep, consecutive drags... It's not that he's not paying attention. Anne is, as a matter of fact, much more entertaining and peculiar a conversationalist than most people he'd encountered at this event. He is suddenly just... able to not. His whole body feels heavier, luxuriously so, and his thoughts arrive so politely, merely one by one...

"Good," he does not care whether Vikrant’s floors survive, but the ease with which Anne accepts his recommendation produces a small, private satisfaction. A grandpa joke that then follows is not that amusing. Richard feels the corner of his mouth climbing up anyway, an amused breath escaping; he sees Anne clocking it, too, but does not feel the need to perform so much grave seriousness in present company. As they veer out of the tree-lined path to the asphalt, the sight of his car around the corner makes a very compelling case for leaving this awful function. He'd offered enough pleasantries and ate enough irritated commentary to leave with a clean conscience. Speaking of eating.