by Fifi Flowers
MONDAY:
Tall, Dark & Aromatic
FIFI FLOWERS
Champagne Girl Studio
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.
Copyright © 2017 Fifi Flowers
Kindle Edition
Cover Design by Susan Garwood of Wicked Women Design
Formatting by BB eBooks
Published by Champagne Girl Studios
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
www.FifiFlowers.com
WARNING: This book contains sexually explicit material and is intended for adult readers only.
Other Books by Fifi Flowers
-Windows Series-
A Window to Love
-Awakening to You Trilogy-
Awakening to You in Boston
Awakening to You in LA
Awakening to You
-Downtown Series-
Just A Number
-Brother Duet Series-
Drawn to a Cowboy
-Encounter Series-
Reclining Nude in Chicago
Taming the Curator
Falling in Paris
-Encounters Holiday Series-
Love Me Now
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Excerpt from Tuesday: A Double Shot
Other Books by Fifi Flowers
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Fifi Flowers News
Chapter One…
Key in door, turn the lock, pull the door, step in, walk to the alarm, punch in the code, and flip on the front lights. That is the usual start to my day at my very own favorite café… Cafélicious with an exclamation point! Located on a slightly hilly street above San Diego harbor. It’s the last business on the block separated by an alleyway before other shops continue which include; a variety of specialty shops, a couple beauty salons, a small convenience market with an in-store pharmacy, a sports bar, and a few other small restaurants offering various cuisines. My café was the only one on the tree-lined street selling coffee and pastry along with other delicious offerings like homemade mac ‘n’ cheese to die for!
Being the owner of a restaurant wasn’t my first choice when I was deciding to go into business for myself. I did know that I wanted to work for myself, as my parents had, and that I had a very nice inheritance to launch a small company. My original career plan was to maybe open a cut-flower shop or even a garden shop that specialized in growing flowers. My teachers had always told us to pick something that we loved since whatever we chose would be a lifelong commitment. Working for a living could and should involve love and devotion to be happy in your chosen career. So for a whole semester in college I volunteered to work in the garden center at my school and learned a great deal about what I did not think I could do for the rest of my life. First of all, the dirty, sweaty part of the job was not something I found pleasant and secondly, the way everyone teased me about my name, I knew that field was not for me. I couldn’t fathom hearing over and over again how ironic it was that a girl named—after her grandmother’s favorite flowers—Pansie with an “ie” rather than a “y” would grow flowers for a living.
Back to the drawing board: What else was there that I liked in my daily life that I felt was essential to my existence? Coffee in the morning, food in my belly throughout the day, and books to read at night before bed. My caffeine addiction and love of sweet treats were, hands-down, the winners as I had no desire to open a bookstore. Especially not when I knew that all of my friends and family preferred e-books to bound books. Besides, there was already a used books and antiques store on the block that often had recently released bestselling books, featured in their windows.
I opened the doors to my café a few years ago with a coffee-to-go counter and baked goods on display. I had worked as a barista in college so I knew how the daily operations ran. Another plus, I was pretty good at baking, but of course, not good enough to handle volume baking. My cousin, Marzi, came in handy for that portion of the business, and she too was fresh out of college by a few years like me, in need of a career rather than a job. I made her an offer she couldn’t refuse; the bakery part of the café was all hers—whatever sales were made filled her pockets. It saved me the cost of buying, stocking ingredients, inventory issues—the list could go on and on. And lastly was the bonus that I was allowed to get a bit more sleep while she handled the early morning task of baking the sweet treats.
Throwing a black apron with Cafélicious! printed in sparkly pink letters across the bib part that we all wore over our standard uniform of blue jeans and black t-shirts, I walked through the swinging kitchen door to delicious smells.
“Hey Marzi!” I called out to my cousin working on finishing touches to several baked goods soon to be in the display case for customers to drool over before savoring them with a piping hot cup of coffee. Perfect start to the day!
“Hey Flower! Come taste one of my new cookie creations.” Obeying her command of course—I’d be a fool not to—I bit into a sinful treat that had my taste buds dancing. There weren’t many of her sweets that I didn’t like—good thing I walked everywhere to burn off the delectable calories I consumed as her taste tester.
“What is this?” I asked still chewing with my hand up to my mouth.
“An orgasm! Doesn’t it just explode in your mouth?! So many flavors… it’s actually a modified version of a cake recipe called Explosion, but I like Orgasm better.” She laughed and continued to swirl frosting on top of freshly baked and cooled cupcakes.
“Please tell me you are not posting that label with them in the case!” Knowing she would truly like to but wouldn’t, I laughed too. I loved working together. We had been extremely close for as long as I can remember. She made taking risks with opening a new business not so scary.
A coffee shop wasn’t a lifelong goal, but it was a start. I had hoped to expand it, literally, by breaking through the wall of the shoe shop next door. When scouting for locations, the real estate agent informed me that the lease on the place next door would be up in a couple years and the owner of the shop was going to sell it. Sad that it would put the cobbler on the street, the agent assured me that the shoe man was ready for retirement and his kids wanted no part of the business that had put a roof over their heads and paid for their college. With that information, I was sold—the two shops together would make a pretty decent size space for a quaint café offering comfort food.
Until the break-through, we functioned as a coffee and baked goods shop mainly. Although, on request we added specialty of the day breakfast and lunch sandwiches. When customers started asking for sandwiches in the evenings, it was time to hire someone to make them. Marzi only worked until three o’c
lock in the afternoon so that she could get enough sleep to insure that she was able to decipher the salt from the sugar the following morning when she arrived at three a.m. to begin baking. I had my hands full with other tasks to oversee; making coffee orders (until I hired other baristas), wiping off tables, picking up trash, restocking the coffee condiment bar items, and my least favorite; checking the bathroom for cleanliness and supplies. I never had a moment to stand around once the café doors opened at five-thirty a.m., let alone the fact that I was terrible at making food—even sandwiches. Believe me when I say that it is a true art form to see the way my cousin makes sandwiches, and I didn’t share that same gene with her.
A couple years down the line, we shut down for two weeks while demolition and framing between the two brick-walled shops took place. Then once we were assured that we were safe to reopen, heavy industrial plastic tacked in place separated the café from the clanging construction zone. Noisy daily, we found ourselves constantly apologizing for the racket, but our faithful customers kept coming for their caffeine and sweet-tooth fix. We did find less people staying and found our to-go cups and bags being used more than our porcelain coffee bowls and small plates. Thankfully, things moved along smoothly and within three months we were ready to finalize our menu and our soup and sandwich maker extraordinaire, Vin, agreed to stay on as our full-time chef. Since that time he has hired a line-chef to work alongside of him in their galley-style kitchen space, visible to our dining area, on the opposite side of the café from the coffee and baked goods counter.
Packed day and night, no reservations available, we embarked on yet another expansion. That one moved our clients outdoors to a great covered patio area behind our building which provided a glimpse of the activity in the harbor along with ocean breezes. It proved to be a popular spot for our coffee crowd through all-weather thanks to wall-mounted heaters and canvassing that allowed us to close up the outdoor space, sheltering it from the stormy elements. That wasn’t the only addition we deemed necessary to make as we brought in a few nightly events; two open mic nights (one for poets and writers and the other one for musicians) and an artist night once a month when we switched out artwork from local artists. Also, adding a beer and wine license helped immensely and it brought another night event of pairing food to wine and beer or simply tasting nights provided by our beverage vendors. But even with all of the new features in full-swing, it seemed that we mainly functioned as a coffee shop with extra perks available to our customers—regulars and newcomers.
Never in my wildest daydreams—while sitting through boring economic lectures—had I ever imagined that I would have such a successful café business. Never had I imagined being so alone surrounded by so many people daily. Never did I envision my life consumed with daily decisions and responsibilities that had me practically living at my establishment without a family. Never anyone to go home to in my idealized bungalow cottage, complete with a white picket fence and two-car garage—I lived in an apartment steps away. The café was my life. My only means to socialize day in and day out. So why hadn’t I found the right man to help me fill my cottage with the American ideal of one-point-two or one-point-five kids (can’t remember the exact number, but I never understood it) and maybe a dog and cat?
Maybe I could’ve had all of that if I’d accepted my old boyfriend’s proposal, but I just couldn’t do it. He was a nice guy and we had a lot of fun together in high school, but when we broke up to go off to college I was ready to move on. He was too, I thought, until he showed up on my doorstep a few days after both of us were back home after graduation. I thought wrong, apparently, as he arrived dressed in a suit and tie carrying a dozen red roses—my least favorite flowers of all—and got down on one knee in front of my family to propose. No, no, no. I shook my head no and begged him to get off the ground so that we could talk, or I could talk and he could listen. My father thought I was crazy, my girlfriends were swooning, and my mother knew he was all wrong for me and pulled me aside before I walked him out to his car and she told me to be gentle, that I had made the right choice. I thought so too until recently when all of my friends were posting engagement ring pictures, wedding poses, and baby photos on social media while I was sharing café screenshots of happy strangers.
Every day of the week I watched other people hooking up and already hooked-up couples enjoying each other’s company; flirting, laughing, touching, kissing. And I often wondered if any of the couples were taking their caffeine high to a new level in our co-ed restrooms. Secretly, unbeknownst to our customers, the employees called my place Hookup Café instead of its real name which also sounded a bit naughty. Cafélicious! Little did I know that when I selected the name that it would cause heat to rise on my face the way some people said it. Unfortunately, I had never had the pleasure of hooking up in my own place like everyone seemed to be doing, including my workers, to be able to use the name in a sexual way. No one ever showed any interest in me and I never flirted with any of our customers like my baristas often did. Not to say that no one ever grabbed my attention—hot men walked in and out every day, all day long. And there was one, in particular, that sparked my libido, however, I was pretty sure that he was a man I could never take home to meet my parents. Speaking of home, I wasn’t sure if he even had one—the first time he came in pretty grungy.
Chapter Two…
“Excuse me, but could I get a cup of coffee. I know I shouldn’t even be in here. I truly apologize. Just plain dark roast is all I need. Nothing fancy. Just tall, dark and aromatic.” The voice was manly and soft at the same time, almost timid. It did not match the rest of him when I got a closer look.
Standing up from being crouched down on the floor to retrieve some supplies from a cabinet, I was struck by such beauty. Men really are beautiful. And this one even filthy dirty with scraggly long greasy jet black hair (or maybe it was wet), and a sweaty torso that had his shirt glued to his skin, he took my breath away. His chiseled face, sporting a scruffy beard, was perfect harboring unusually pale spring-green eyes that reminded me of being in a meadow of tall grass. They held me in place silently until he spoke more clearly without hesitation. Did he sense that I found him attractive? I wondered.
“Black coffee, please.” He repeated, kindly.
“Oh, yeah. Sure…” It was me who was stumbling on my own words as I turned to grab one of our extra-large cups and fill it with a nice dark aromatic roast as requested.
Back at the counter, he was searching the pockets of his stained and torn grungy jeans. “Sorry… I…” He set a few quarters on the granite top revealing his dry, calloused hands with dirt under his finger nails.
“No problem. On the house.” I was always happy to give a cup of coffee or even food to the homeless that occasionally came inside. I had never had one affect me like he did and what struck me as unusual was how good he smelled… of soap, lilac… sage and, I think, rosemary. He was a regular herb garden of earthly delights, very earthy—dirt and all.
“I promise you I will come back and pay for this… I must have left my wallet in my car or it might have slipped out in the empty lot at dusk… when sunbeams decide to retire…” He really didn’t seem to be talking to me after he mentioned paying me back. In fact, he seemed off somewhere else, deep in thought about something—maybe retracing his steps or reliving a moment. “Well, I’ve got to run, the flowers are about to begin folding up, bidding farewell to the day,” he said looking down at his arm as if a watch was there. Then he turned around, thanked me again holding up his complimentary cup of coffee, and walked out the door. Damn he even had a great ass!
Completely out of view, I laughed at myself. Leave it to me to finally be attracted to a man, and he has no job, no home, no money, and sputters nonsense. Who was the crazier one, me or him? Probably me as he surely had no interest in me beyond maybe a cup of free coffee. That told me that maybe it was time to talk to one of my customers who kept mentioning some new dating site she had just signed up for, Blind Dating Someth
ing or other. I certainly need some kind of date or manly attention before I started roaming the street in search of my poetic Homeless-Romeo. Romeo seemed a good name for a guy that I had no business daydreaming of, as Romeo spelled out a tragic ending for all involved.
Still, even knowing nothing was ever going to happen between us, I couldn’t get him out of my head. Walking home alone to my apartment located only a few blocks from the café, I wondered if I would maybe see him. Maybe he was new to the neighborhood as I had never seen him come in for coffee before. Did he have a cozy spot to sleep, sheltered from the elements? Where did he get food? From one of the outreach groups maybe? Did he have enough to eat? I could’ve given him a to-go sandwich with a baked good for dessert. But he wasn’t skinny, he was actually tan and nicely built—outdoor living. Then my mind moved on to what had put him on the streets: Had he lost his job? Did he have a drug problem… alcohol? I thought as I poured myself a nice glass of Pinot Grigio to go with an order of chef Vin’s special halibut tacos from my café. Did he have mental issues? He did speak about random things that were a bit off-colored, bizarre… kind of poetic, really. Beautiful words that matched his beautiful face. Shaking my head, I told myself that I needed to stop thinking about him, stop trying to figure him out.
That talk of mine didn’t really help as I stepped out onto the street the next morning, a bit later than usual as Saylor, one of the baristas, had offered to open early as she needed to tackle some extra work with my books. I had a feeling it had more to do with seeing a certain customer who had gotten under her skin. Whatever her reason, for once, I welcomed the opportunity to sleep in since I had trouble sleeping the night before thanks to one gorgeous, grungy man. A man who I imagined running into as I strolled slowly to work, scanning my surroundings. No luck, he wasn’t visible on my path as I finally reached my destination and stepped inside to start work that I hoped would take my thoughts in another direction.