by Amelia Wilde
Emily’s eyes are shining with tears. “Why’d you buy the cabin if we weren’t together?”
I tell her the truth. “In case you ever came back.”
Emily makes me turn off the truck so we can go inside.
“Finn, this is gorgeous.”
“Not as gorgeous as you.”
She stops and threads her arms around my neck, kissing me for the first time in the place I always wanted to be ours.
When we break apart, she’s breathless. “No. We have plans,” she says. “There’s only time for a short tour.”
“Okay.” I take her by the hand. “It’s bigger than it looks on the outside, but…”
I take her a few steps inside. “Living room, and kind of an open kitchen, right here.”
“Oh, the picture window!” It looks out over the back yard, where a creek runs through the forest. It’s a breathtaking sight, snow on the branches and one red cardinal flitting through the trees.
“I love the view, too.”
“Who knew? All those times we spent in the driveway, and this was here all along.”
She follows me down the hallway. This part of the cabin was mostly hidden from view when we were in the driveway. I didn’t realize how large it was until the first walk-through.
“The master bedroom is all the way back here. It has a private bath.” I turn her around. “Then, on the left side, is a second bathroom, and one bedroom. To the right is another room. It could be anything. Library. Bedroom. Den. Whatever you want.”
Emily turns to face me. “What would you put in there?”
“You know…” I bend to kiss her temple. “All I’ve ever wanted is you.”
“Just for Christmas, or…?” It’s such a terrible joke that we both laugh. Finally, Emily gets a hold of herself. “I love this place, Finn. I love you.”
“I love you, too.” The next kiss gets so deep that I have to pry myself out of it. “Truck’s still running.”
Emily looks up at me with desire written all over her face. “Turn it off and take me to bed.”
I can’t argue with that.
Epilogue
Emily
“Ms. Powell? You have a visitor.”
I’m finishing out my last week at the firm. This is my last day, and I’m not taking any more client meetings. All that’s left to do is divvy up the last of my notes, the last of my documents, to the partners who will be handling my clients after today.
Happy Valentine’s Day to them.
I raise my eyebrows at my assistant, Martha, who’s grinning at me in a way that normally wouldn’t fly in this office. “Send them in.”
“Oh, I will,” she says, and flounces off.
What’s going on?
A moment later, Finn appears in the doorway.
“Hey!” I leap up from my chair and rush over to him, only to stop at the last second and plant a kiss on his cheek. “What are you doing here? Look at you!”
He’s not wearing his usual jeans-and-flannel work ensemble. I’ve been visiting Lakewood on the weekends for two months, and I’ve never seen him dressed up like this. He looks like he could be one of the lawyers at the firm. “Did you get a haircut?”
“Special occasion,” he says.
God, he smells good. Clean and fresh, and the suit is doing him all kinds of favors.
“What’s the occasion?”
He looks around behind me. “This is your office?”
“This was my office.” I feel a little wistful, remembering the first time I saw it. “By tomorrow, it’ll be somebody else’s office.”
“But your new one is almost done. I’ve only got a few finishing touches left to go.” My new office is in downtown Lakewood, a premium spot that I was sure I’d never be able to afford. It turns out that Finn wasn’t kidding about his savings. Buying the office building hardly made a dent.
“I can’t wait to see it.”
“Speaking of waiting—” He glances around at my nearly empty desk. “Are you finishing up?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. Truthfully, I was dragging it out a little bit. Until I saw his face, I was suffering from some last-minute guilt. As much as I love him, this was the plan, and it’s hard to let go. “I just have to drop off some folders, and I’ll be done for the day.”
“Should I wait in the lobby?”
I want him to never leave my side for the rest of my life, but in the spirit of professionalism, I give him a nod. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
My farewell party was yesterday, and already, people are moving on. I feel like I’m on the outside as I drop off the last of the folders, shake my boss’s hand one more time, and hitch my purse over my shoulder. One more walk out of here, and I’m free.
Finn waits in the lobby. He stands up when he sees me. “You okay?”
“It’s sad. Kind of.”
“You know what’s not sad? Getting to sleep.” The hours have been crazy since I put in my extra-long notice. I’ll be damned if I lose a single recommendation off this. Someday, I might want to go back into high-powered law, and I can’t burn any bridges.
“No. That sounds wonderful.” He walks me out into the cold February air, and I pause on the sidewalk.
“How does it feel?”
Just like that, the weight of this job is lifting. It’s replaced by a new nervousness, sure. I’ve never been in practice by myself before. I’m starting from the very bottom, gaining new clients a single person at a time. Oh, and my baby is due at the end of August. No pressure, right? But it’s a good pressure. It’s hopeful. It’s exciting.
It makes me hungry.
Finn reads my mind. “I made lunch plans for us.”
“Oh, thank God.”
The suit should have been a clue, because he drives us to one of the nicest hotels in the city. They have a restaurant on the thirtieth floor that is to die for, and walking in, I feel underdressed. I’m wearing a sheath in a gorgeous magenta, but it feels like skinny jeans and a tank top.
“You should have warned me,” I tell him as the waiter leads us to a table for two by a huge window overlooking the skyline. “I’d have dressed up. Like you.”
“You look perfect.”
We’re seated, and when a basket of perfect rolls is on the table along with two glasses of sparkling water, Finn stops my hand as I reach for a roll.
“The first thing you should know is that I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone.”
I look at him through narrowed eyes. “What’s happening right now?”
“And I’m not doing this because you’re pregnant. I’m doing this because I love you, and I want to spend every single day for the rest of my life with you. Every single one, Em. We don’t have to spend them in the cabin, if you don’t want. We can buy a house in Lakewood. We can buy a house in California—I don’t care.”
I’m so excited I can hardly breathe, for both the rolls and the proposal.
“Oh, my God, Finn…” He gets down on one knee next to the table. I have to know. “Why did you choose this place? We’ve never eaten at a place this nice before.”
“To show you that we can do anything, Em. Anything. The past—it’s over. It doesn’t matter. All I care about now is the future.” Am I imagining that his eyes are glistening? Finn reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small velvet box. “Emily Powell, I can’t live another day without you. Will you marry me?”
I grab his hand and pull him up to kiss him while the tables around us erupt into a rather dignified applause. It’s that kind of place.
When it ends, when the eyes aren’t on us anymore, he opens the box and slides the ring onto my finger. It’s a perfect fit. It’s the perfect ring.
“Three stones,” he says softly. “One for you, one for me…”
“And one for the future,” I tell him, and he kisses me all over again.
Single Dad’s Barista
Single Dad’s Barista
He’ll give her more than just a sip.
At least, that’s my plan when I move back to Lakewood with my baby daughter. Step One: Open my new shop. Step Two: Dominate.
The other shop in town will go down the drain like a melted frozen mocha on a hot day, and I don’t care.
Until I meet Ellie Collins, the barista working behind the counter at the coffee shop across the street.
I catch her twerking when she thinks nobody’s watching...and once I’ve seen her drop it low, I have to have her in my bed. Or on the counter. Or the floor.
We’re supposed to be enemies. In the light of day, our businesses are locked in a battle to the death.
But at night, I can’t stay away…
Single Dad’s Barista is a steamy full-length single dad novel with adult language and an HEA that will have you buzzing with love like a piping hot mug of your favorite coffee drink.
To caffeine and kisses. :)
Chapter One
Ellery
Listen, this isn’t going to be a popular statement.
Let’s get it out in the open.
I hate coffee.
After a day in the shop, I can get used to the smell. But the taste? I’ve tried a hundred different roasts, it’s all bad.
I’m also not a morning person, which probably won’t be as controversial. I loathe the predawn hours. Nobody should ever be awake for them unless they’ve stayed up all night at a great party. I did not stay out all night for a great party. I went to bed early because I had to be up early. Them’s the breaks when you work at the only coffee shop in town.
You think my life doesn’t make sense? You don’t make sense. Also, you’re right.
The damp summer air settles over my shoulders like the hands of a customer who wants to ask me on a date but shouldn’t. I shrug down into my hoodie once more. It’s soft and comfortable, like a bed. I would give anything to crawl back into bed. But the shop opens in half an hour, and I’m the only one to run it, so all naps are postponed until further notice.
I take a final cleansing breath of the lightly scented air in my car. It’s creepy out there, and dark, so I remind myself again how much I love and adore my aunt and uncle, Lakewood’s beloved Lisa and Fred.
One, two, three. I grab the handle and jump out like I’d jump into the lake if I was the kind of carefree person who’d leap in like that.
They’ve been waiting for me, the regulars. Their early morning lives are so devoid of other rituals that all they can do is get into their cars and cruise down the silent streets of Lakewood toward the shop. Sharks. Sharks in the night who’ve scented blood. Coffee blood.
Maybe not sharks. I’m still half-dreaming.
In my wildest dreams, Medium Roast is a well-maintained paradise. By paradise, I mean that it’s stocked with all the things you need to run a coffee shop. Top of the list? Coffee. If you give a barista coffee, she’ll ask you for some decent to-go cups in different sizes. If you give her those to-go cups, she’ll ask you for lids to match the cups. Then you can laugh in her face, because what kind of coffee shop has all those items at the same time?
Not Medium Roast.
I know what you’re thinking. How could a coffee shop run out of coffee?
It’s not a riddle, but I still don’t know the answer. It’s probably filed away with the answer to how could I end up running a coffee shop in Lakewood instead of doing literally anything else with my life?
I love Medium Roast. I love it almost as much as I love my aunt and uncle. I’d do anything for them, which is the truth behind the question. I run this shop because I owe them one. I owe them several. What’s six months of putting off my illustrious career as a photojournalist to keep this store above water for my favorite relatives? Nothing, in the grand scheme of things.
Not like I can pursue that career. Not after what happened. Not now, at least.
Across Main Street a car’s headlights flick on, illuminating the empty spots in front of him. Lou Brewer is parked in front of the storefront that’s been under construction at least six times since I was in school. A fresh round began a few months ago. He’s not here to rubberneck at the new drywall.
“Yeah, I see you,” I grumble under my breath, and reach into my purse for the keys to the shop.
The morning standoff begins.
The regulars, out there in their cars, stalking the perimeter, want me to open the shop early.
I want to open the shop at six-thirty. That’s what the sign on the door says.
They never want to respect the sign. That’s what coffee does to you. Eventually, you need it so much that you’re willing to park in front of a shop and watch a woman inside try to brew coffee in the dark. Turn the lights on early? Oh, no. That’ll have them over here even faster.
I lock the door behind me and take five big, deep breaths. Might as well get the acclimation process over quickly. Okay—it’s not so bad when it’s in the air and the bags of roasted beans. But late at night, when I get a whiff of it in my hair despite having washed it twice after I close? Gross.
First, grind the beans, shattering the silence of the shop. Outside in their cars, the regulars are probably sniffing the air. It’s coming. They sense it.
Tip the grounds into the filter. Filter into the brew basket. Turn it on.
My aunt and uncle would have thrown the doors open early. I’m a good person, but here in Lakewood, they’re revered as saints. You’d have to be one to let people into your shop at the asscrack of dawn because they flick their headlights on and off a few times.
I dig my phone out of my purse and perch it on the counter, in a back corner where I can still see it. Six twenty-eight a.m.
The coffee starts to come through the filter, layering Medium Roast with that freshly brewed scent. I can see the appeal. I, too, am addicted to things. Like Netflix, library books, and never knowing quite how to act.
The car’s headlights go back off. Six-thirty, on the dot, that’s when Lou’s hand will be on the handle of the door. Walt O’Hannigan, who’s probably locked and loaded for his daily gossip rounds, will be right behind him. And Mary Marshé will be here either before or after her yoga class. Probably both.
It’s time.
I spin a portafilter into my hand and lift my chin, stalking toward the door with my head held high.
For one more moment, it’s dark. I breathe it in.
We are all frozen, waiting for the battle horn to sound.
I bring my hand up, flipping on all the switches for the lights and the signs. Light explodes out onto the sidewalk. I’m the first shop on Main Street to open on the last day before all the tourists start arriving for the summer.
Let the onslaught begin.
Chapter Two
Dash
I clear my throat and start singing The Song again. How many times has it been? Enough times that my voice is going hoarse, that’s how many times. The past is nothing but Baby Beluga. The future is nothing but Baby Beluga. It is all Baby Beluga, all the way down.
That’s mainly Rosie’s fault.
I’m half-kidding. Nothing is truly her fault. She’s eleven months old, which means that things like fault and responsibility don’t apply. She can’t help it if her little brain won’t relax unless someone is singing a pleasant song about a newborn whale.
That song is sending me into an early grave. I used to think it was fine. Have you heard kid’s music in your life? The obnoxious shit, not Baby Beluga. After that, Raffi seems like an angel sent to heaven. But today, I’ve had enough of the song. Especially the line about whether your mama’s home in the warm water or whatever. It makes me fucking furious, which is not something I’m going to add to the song. Still, Rosie cries if I skip the line, so I sing it every time, even if it makes my blood boil.
We’ve been driving for six hours. It’s taking forever to get to Lakewood, the town of my grandparents’ birth. It’s also wher
e I’ll get to build a second life.
I hope.
Rosie missed her first nap and then her second. When she started screaming, I had to break out the big guns. How long has it been? I’ve lost track of time in the endless loop of my solo Raffi sing-a-long.
Wait.
It’s quiet.
How long has it been quiet? I have no idea. I’ve been caught up in the rage that comes around every ninety seconds at that stupid line. My heart goes to my throat. Nobody ever told me that a moment of quiet out of a baby can inspire enough panicked energy to power a city.
One look in the rearview mirror and my body sags with relief.
Rosie has fallen asleep, her head resting on the side of the seat, chubby cheeks pink.
I don’t know when, but I can stop singing. Finally.
Without the song, the car seems deathly quiet, so I risk turning up the radio, just a little. The moment I do, Rosie snuffles in the back. So much for the alternative pop station, whatever the hell that means.
We’re forty miles out from Lakewood. That means I have forty miles to stew about this unholy situation with Serena. We were always a mismatch. She had her head in the clouds, and I had mine in the office at the software development company. I thought things would change once Rosie was born. What a stupid assumption. Serena was never going to stop looking for the next shiny object.
She found the ultimate shiny object in Pine Deep, the man with the dumbest name in all of America. Pine Deep. Jesus. I can’t think about it without wanting to smash whatever comes to hand.
That’s the bitch of it all. We were opposites. We were different. But that was supposed to make our love stronger. Instead, I’m left hating a man named after a tree, a hollow emptiness in my chest that aches around the edges all the time. Anger is the only way to survive.