You know that expression “my heart leapt into my mouth?” Well, that’s what it did, right then and there.
“W-what are you doing here?” I completely failed to compose myself before I spoke.
“I was in the neighborhood and remembered you live here. You know, from that time with Marissa?”
I nodded, recalling how Marissa had dropped by with Ryan and Nash a couple weeks back—and how I’d wished I’d been wearing some cute outfit instead of shorts and a tank that day, too.
“I can leave, if now’s not a good time?” he added uncertainly. “I know most people text first.”
“No, no!” It was quite possible I sounded a little too eager.
Be relaxed, easy-going.
Yeah, like guys like Ryan Jones turn up on my doorstep every day of the week.
Only, they so didn’t.
I cleared my throat. “Umm, would you like to come in? I just got home and was going to fix a drink.”
His face creased into a heart-stopping cute smile. “A drink sounds great.”
As I stood back and he stepped over the threshold into my house, I couldn’t help but hope he was here for me. That somehow, he was over the ex who had hurt him so badly, and he was ready for . . . for what?
As I closed the door behind me, I shot him a nervous smile.
Perhaps it was my turn, after all?
Chapter 7
“THIS IS SUCH A great place,” Ryan said as he looked around my living room.
I glanced around self-consciously, wishing I’d known he was coming so I could have had the chance to straighten the place up, maybe have thrown a cloth or a vacuum cleaner around.
But guys didn’t notice that kind of thing, right?
Well, I hoped they didn’t, anyway.
“Thanks.” I spied a pair of shoes I’d kicked off last night as I collapsed on the sofa after a long day at the Cozy Cottage. I surreptitiously shoved them under the sofa with my foot.
“What can I get you?” I did a quick mental inventory of my refrigerator. “I’ve got beer, some wine, juice . . . maybe milk?”
Milk? I just offered the first hot guy to cross my threshold in a long time milk?
Smooth, Bailey.
His smile didn’t falter. “Although milk sounds great, I might go for a beer.”
“Beer. Of course. You are a grown up.” I let out a laugh. “Be right back.” My face heated up as I turned and walked into my kitchen. Opening the refrigerator door, I hoped the cool air might counteract the pinkness I knew must be blooming in my cheeks. I reached in, grabbed a couple bottles of beer, and returned to him.
“Here.” I handed him one of the cold bottles.
“Thanks.”
We stood next to one another in silence. What should I say? Him turning up like this had totally flustered me. I lifted my beer to my lips and clunk! The metal cap clattered against my teeth. “Ow!”
“Yeah, you might want to open that first,” he said with a chuckle. “You okay?”
My cheeks turned nuclear. If I could have fallen through a hole in the floor right then, I would have done it. Gladly.
“I’m fine. I’ll go get a bottle opener.”
“Great idea.”
I beat a hasty retreat back to the kitchen. Locating the opener in a top drawer, I scrunched my eyes shut for a moment.
I really needed to get a grip!
Sure, he was good looking, fun and sexy, and he definitely had an effect on me. Those eyes, those wide shoulders, the way his shirt hinted at a firm, muscular torso beneath. I let out a sigh. I was a thirty-year-old woman, not some teenager with her first crush.
I could handle Ryan Jones.
Hot he may be, but this was not my first rodeo.
Back in my living room, Ryan was peering at my collection of framed photos sitting on the mantelpiece above my exposed brick fireplace. With his back to me once more, I ran my eye over what he was wearing—a casual but stylish ensemble of a collared checked shirt, sleeves rolled up, a pair of cargo shorts, which showed off his long, muscular legs, and a pair of white sneakers on his feet.
Casually-dressed Thor on a day off from his divine duties.
I cleared my throat. “Here you go.” I reached out and he handed me his bottle. I flipped the cap off, catching it in my free hand, then did the same with mine.
“Who’s this? Is it you?” He pointed at the largest photo in the assortment.
I looked at the picture in the old, wooden frame, warmth spreading through my belly at the memory. “Yeah. That’s me with my nona when I was about six.”
“You were cute. Totally rocking those pigtails.” He shot me a smile. “One question, though. What’s a nona?”
I laughed. “Grandma. It’s Italian. She’s Italian. Was. She . . . she died a few years back.”
He returned his attention to the photo. “She looks like she was a nice woman.”
“She was. She was the best. Barely spoke English, but she taught me how to cook.”
I thought of how I would stand on a little stool at the kitchen counter, Nona showing me how to knead bread, how to crack eggs, how to beat butter and sugar. Out of nowhere, I felt a pang of sadness for her loss. She had always been there, only a few streets away from my childhood home, a constant presence in my life from as far back as I could remember.
“So she’s why you can speak Italian so well?”
I nodded.
He raised his bottle. “Here’s to you and Nona.” Ryan clinked his bottle against mine.
I smiled at him. Hot and sweet? Jackpot.
He returned to my photo collection once again. Before I could stop him, he picked up a picture of Dan and me taken the day we got engaged.
I swallowed, that recurring brick growing to my belly.
This was beyond weird.
He examined the photo in his hands. “Is that Josh?”
I forced a smile. “No, that’s Dan . . . he’s . . . was Josh’s brother.” I held my breath.
The last man who I had been alone in this room with was Dan. Now Ryan was here, and it felt . . . I don’t know. Wonderful? Yes, but definitely something else at the same time.
“Right.” He placed the picture back with the others. “You have a nice place here. I already said that. Sorry.”
I let out a light laugh, sensing his nerves matched mine, glad we were moving on from the dead fiancé conversation.
“Thank you. Would you like to sit down? I mean, unless you want to stand? I know sitting is the new smoking, right?”
“I’d heard that.” She didn’t move.
“Right. And smoking causes cancer, and no one wants cancer.”
Cancer?
“Sit, stand. Totally up to you, of course.”
Someone stop me. Please!
His face creased into a smile. “Sure. I’d like to sit, even with the increased risk of cancer.”
“Great.” As I sat down on my sofa, I scrunched my eyes shut. First milk now cancer? Geez, Bailey.
Ryan took a seat in an armchair opposite me. “So, did your nona help you set up the Cozy Cottage?”
“No, she died before I got that place. I . . . ah, opened the place up with someone else.”
The elephant in the room’s name was Dan. He and I had fallen in love with the idea of owning a café together, of making it into the kind of place we liked to go. The Cozy Cottage was our dream—only, he never got to experience it like I did.
I wrung my hands in my lap. Why was I thinking about Dan?
“But I like to think Nona’s watching over me. I think she’d be happy with how I’ve chosen to live my life, you know, running a café, around food all day, every day.”
I took another swig of my beer, and another. After the alcohol hit my bloodstream, I began to feel more relaxed.
Whoever invented alcohol must have known how it could help in situations like this. Like when your crush turns up at your place unexpectedly, you think about your former fiancé, and you start to talk abo
ut cancer. That sort of situation.
“I bet your nona’s really proud of you. You’re . . . you’re great.”
My eyes darted to his face. He was gazing directly at me, an intensity in his eyes I hadn’t seen before.
Something shifted between us.
“I . . . thanks.” I smiled, not letting my eyes drop from his. Part of me willed him to keep looking at me with those warm, hazel eyes of his. Another part had my insides twisted up, that photo of me and Dan burning a hole in my heart.
Ryan blinked and looked down, the moment between us over. He cleared his throat. “So, I’ve got a new place.”
“You do? No more sleeping on Marissa’s sofa?”
Ryan had been at Marissa’s apartment since he’d broken up with his ex. Getting his own place was a move in the right direction for him.
“As comfortable as that was.” He laughed. “It’s not far from here, actually. On Dorchester Street.”
I thought of the leafy street with its cute cafés and boutiques. “Nice. When did you move in?”
“About two weeks ago. It’s good to have my own space again. Marissa was over me staying with her, especially now that she’s all loved up with Nash.”
I studied his face. His expression was not one of admiration.
“Yeah, they seem really happy.”
He harrumphed in response.
I creased my brow. “You don’t like Nash?”
Nash was one of the nicest guys I’d met, and he was so clearly in love with Marissa. How anyone couldn’t like him was beyond me.
“No, he’s great. It’s not that, it’s just . . . love.” He pulled a face. “You know?”
I nodded, not “knowing” in the least. To me, love was the pinnacle—what we were all looking for, what we all wanted in this life.
What I’d had with Dan.
Not something to pull a face over.
“Right.” It was best to change the topic of conversation. Work had to be an easier subject. I took another swig of my beer, the bubbles tickling my nose. “So, you’re an architect, right?”
His expression changed as he nodded. “Yeah, I work for Accent Architecture. I’ve been there since college. We’ve been pretty busy, actually. We even just hired a new intern.”
I sat and listened. He was clearly passionate about his work, and I was drawn to him all the more. A man who loved what he did, who was creative and committed to his career, was pretty darn sexy in my eyes. The fact he looked the way he did was just the icing on the cake.
“We’re working on that tech guy’s new place right now. Down on Cremorne Street.”
“Isn’t Cremorne Street the most expensive street in Auckland?”
“One of them, maybe? It’s pretty nice.”
“Impressive.”
“How about you?”
“I’m not looking to build a multi-million-dollar mansion anytime soon,” I replied with a smile.
“I could give you a discount. You know me.” He winked and shot me a cheeky grin.
I responded with a quizzical smile. Was he flirting with me again?
Man, I could not work this guy out! On the one hand, he talked about how anti-love he was, and on the other, he’d been flirting with me for a while now, and had just turned up on my doorstep.
Talk about a hot conundrum.
“What I meant was, is running a café what you always wanted to do? Is it your passion?”
“Actually, it is. I’ve always loved cooking and baking, and . . . people, I guess. Doing something that involved all three seemed like a good idea. And now I have Paige who knows so much about marketing and business. It’s a match made in heaven.”
“Well, I don’t have much of a sweet tooth, but that cake you suggested is really good. Which is why I’ve kept ordering it.”
“A Nona special.” I smiled at him, enjoying getting to know him a little better—and the fact he liked my baking made me want to smile all day long, too.
We sat in silence for a while, drinking our beer. I noticed he kept shifting his feet as though he couldn’t get comfortable.
He drained his beer, placing the bottle on the coffee table. “Well, I guess I should get going.” He stood up. It was abrupt and unexpected.
“Okay,” I replied, startled. I stood up, too.
“Thanks for the beer.”
“No problem.”
“Do you want me to . . .?” He nodded at the kitchen.
“No, no. I’ll get them.”
“’Kay.” He paused, his gaze moving from me to the wall and then back to me again. He looked torn, lost almost.
I watched him closely. What is going on with him?
After a beat, he looked down and pulled his car key fob from his pocket. “I’ll . . . ah, I’ll see you ’round.” He shot me a quick smile then turned and walked toward the door.
I hesitated, knitting my brows together. I followed, holding the door for him once he’d pulled it open and stepped out onto the welcome mat.
He turned back to face me. “Thanks.”
“Sure.” I smiled through my confusion. “It was nice to see you again.”
“Yeah.” His eyes bored into me. He paused for a beat, two. “I . . .” He inched closer to me, and my eyes instinctively dropped to his lips.
I swallowed, my nerves kicking up a notch.
Is he going to . . . kiss me?
I looked from his lips back up into his eyes, creeping closer to him, my breath catching in my throat. I wanted to reach out and touch him, feel his lips on mine.
But instead, in a fraction of a heartbeat, he blinked and backed away from me.
The moment—if it even was a moment—was gone.
“I’ll see you later.” He concentrated on the floor by my feet.
“Sure. See you later.”
He turned and walked down the path. He paused, looked back, and half-smiled. It seemed forced, sad somehow. He turned and walked down to the gate then disappeared up the street.
I closed the door, deep in thought. He’d turned up here and looked like he was going to kiss me. And then . . . nothing.
I couldn’t help but feel he wanted more, that he was here for more.
But then again, maybe I’d imagined the whole thing?
Chapter 8
AFTER RYAN AND THE possible “almost kiss” last week, questions had pinged around my brain like a bucket of table tennis balls let loose in a wind tunnel.
He’d flirted just enough to make me think he liked me, but had pulled back before anything had happened. Then there was the way he’d referred to love, like it was a four-letter word or something.
Which it was, of course. But not in that way.
Did it mean he wasn’t over his ex? Had she scarred him so much he no longer believed in love? Or was it just some throw-away comment, a guy thing I would never get?
So many questions, so few answers. Not my preferred ratio.
In the end, I made the call I wasn’t going to try to work him out. If he had something he wanted to say to me, I would simply have to wait until he was ready.
And if he wanted to kiss me? Well, I’d just have to wait for that, too.
As much as it killed me.
Arriving at the café while the birds were waking up to catch those early worms on Saturday, I noticed Addi’s florist shop was now totally empty. She was off on her adventure, following her heart to Orlando. I hoped it worked out for her. Moving to another hemisphere to be with someone was a big call.
I peered in the window. The flowers and pot plants were gone, even all the boxes, leaving an empty space. Suddenly inexplicably sad, I hoped Addi would find someone to take over her lease soon, to give this cute shop with the gorgeous courtyard a new lease on life. It deserved to be full of life, not empty and alone like it was right now.
Hold on. What was I thinking? It was a shop, not a living, breathing thing.
I filed “weird feelings about empty shop next door” away and unlocked the Cozy Cottage.
Every day was a busy day at the café, and I had cakes to bake and coffee to brew.
I didn’t have any time to moon over men—or empty shops.
Later that day, Sophie and I were cleaning up after the lunch rush when Paige called me over to her laptop, which she’d set up on one of the kitchen counters.
“I have something to show you.” There was evident pride in her voice. She rotated her laptop so I could see the screen.
I studied it. It was a new page on our website entitled “Cozy Cottage Catering.” She’d used the same fonts and layout as the rest of the site, and added a photo of one of our trademark pink aprons with white polka dots. It was folded neatly beside a plate of hors d’oeuvres, all sitting on top of a rustic wooden table. The styling was perfect and totally “on-brand,” as I was learning to say.
“Oh, Paige,” I exclaimed, impressed once again with her handiwork. “That looks amazing. I love it!”
She beamed at me. “It’s not live yet. I wanted to get your go-ahead before I clicked the button.”
“I can’t imagine it looking more—” I examined the page as tried to find the word. Eventually, I landed on the feeling it gave me. “—right, I suppose.”
“I wanted to stick with what we were trying to achieve. You know, simple, good, honest food with a touch of our Cozy Cottage magic.”
“Well, you nailed it, chickadee. Let me have a quick look through it. Did you stick with the food plan?”
We had made a list of the types of dishes we thought we could make. Nothing too complex, simply good food, with an Italian twist. The list had made our mouths water as we’d compiled it. We were die-hard foodies, that’s for sure.
“Of course. See?” She clicked on a tab that read “Menus.”
Studying the list, I noticed it was all there, just as we’d agreed.
“And here’s the pricing section.” She clicked on another tab. “And our contact info, with a form for prospective clients to complete.” The screen had boxes for people’s names, email addresses, and the type of event they were planning. “If it all works the way it’s meant to, every time someone fills in this form, we’ll get an email. I’ve never done this type of work on a website before, but I watched some YouTube clips on how to do it. I think it’s worked out pretty good.”
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