Wandering around the cottage, I find it just as lovely as advertised. The stone fireplace in the living room is stacked with logs ready to be lit. I peek through the kitchen and note the ivory cabinets are filled with copper stoneware and plenty of pots and pans. Four matching stools surround the butcher block island.I straighten one that is slightly askew. The bathroom is stocked with fluffy white towels and a basket of bath salts and scented soaps. Upstairs, the bedroom loft has French doors opening to a hot tub that overlooks the icy blue water of Lake Michigan, capped with soft white waves. The calming vista has already loosened my shoulders.
Pleased so far, I read the handwritten card propped up on the dresser:
I picture Mr. Delgado as a retired snowbird who rents out his place in the winter to fly south. He probably hires someone to handle these thoughtful details, but they’re still a nice touch.
After unpacking, I tuck my stress ball into my coat pocket. I don’t expect to need it while exploring the area, but it’s a familiar touchstone in a new situation.
Bayside is located about one hundred and fifteen miles north of Chicago. It’s a quaint little town yet still offers many urban conveniences. I discovered this coastal haven six months ago when my father considered building here. The locals protested heavily. They were concerned that big box stores and high-rise condos would ruin the timeless feel of their lovely village. It wasn’t like my father to back down from a fight—but he had. Getting a glimpse of the beautiful coast on my drive up, I’m glad Townsen properties hadn’t taken it over.
Bundled in my down-filled coat, I stroll along the boardwalk, returning friendly greetings and browsing the shops. When I come upon a café, I’m ready to get out of the chill. I duck inside and wipe the fog from my glasses.
The Acoustic Café is aptly named. Its brick walls are adorned with guitars and vinyl records. Edison bulbs cast a soft yellow glow over the bistro tables, and there are comfy leather couches near the fireplace. I breathe in the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee and baked goods.
I love coffee shops. There’s just something about the smell and warmth that’s almost as comforting as my heated blanket. There was a time when I thought I might own something like this. But that dream and others were put away when I caved under the pressure to follow in my father’s corporate footsteps.
The appearance of a towering figure holding a guitar brings me back to the present. At least six foot three, with broad shoulders and a husky build, he looks like he could easily wrestlea bear or fling around a woman of five-eleven. I blush at my thoughts.
A slouch beanie hides most of his hair except for the dark, crinkly curls that dance against his neck.He pushes up the sleeves of his taupe sweater to reveal thick forearms covered in tattoos.
“Mind if I play for you?” he asks. His deep baritone carries over the chattering patrons. The small crowd quiets and then eagerly applauds, urging him on.
I linger near the entrance, watching him pull up a stool in front of the fireplace. I’m mesmerized as his inked fingers glide with fluid grace over the neck of the guitar while he sings about longing and loneliness.
His voice is richly textured. The high notes pebble my skin, and his lower register vibrates in my chest. The chorus is a smooth blend of Spanish and English that deepens the song’s emotion. He ends with, “And I’ll find love someday,”the haunting melody fading into the silence. His eyes open, and his fingers lift from the strings. Only then does the audience erupt into cheers and applause.
“Thanks for listening.” He flashes a dimpled grin that gives him a boyish charm, despite his short beard and rugged stature that are all man. “It’s always a pleasure to play for you.”
Another round of applause follows as he takes his leave and moves toward the back. I feel my cheeks heat again at the sight of just how well his jeans fit him. He exchanges a few words with the baristas before disappearing through a door behind the counter. It’s obvious he works here, and I wonder why a man of his considerable talent isn’t making records and selling out concerts.
I approach the counter, snapping my posture into shape. After years of deportment classes, it’s now instinctual to straighten my spine and square my shoulders. At nearly six feettall with size eleven shoes to match, I was always the tallest girl in school. I used to hunch over, shrinking my gangly body to seem as small as I felt inside.
A lushly curved woman in her late teens or early twenties is at the espresso machine. Her black apron is embroidered with the shop moniker in tan lettering.
“I’ll be right with you,” she says, steaming milk in a stainless steel pitcher. Her caramel-brown hair, styled in a dozen long twists, catches the afternoon sun like spun gold. Curly edgings frame a naturally pretty face.
She hands a to-go cup to the customer, then turns to me with a dimpled smile that resembles the one I saw on the singer just minutes ago. “Hi, welcome to the Acoustic Café. What can I get for you?”
My impulse is to order my usual: an Americano with skim milk and two pumps of sugar-free vanilla. But I’m here to start living by my own rules, and sugar-free isn’t on the list. I glance at the chalkboard menu and decide on the mocha special instead.“A tall, extra-hot, please.”
“Sure. Would you like a pastry to go with that?” She gestures to the display case. “It pairs well with our signature cinnamon loaf—it’s kind of like coffee cake, but better.”
“Sounds great.”
“You won’t be disappointed,” she promises. “I’ll warm it up. For here or to go?”
“I think I’ll stay.”
The backroom door swings open, and the sexy singer appears, tying the strings of an apron at his back. This close, I can make out the details of some of his tattoos—a guitar, two doves, and musical notes on his fingers. His ears are pierced with small hoops, and he has a white scar cutting through his right eyebrow, while a silver barbell at the edge of his left one winks against his hickory bronze skin.
He glances at me curiously, and I feel an odd sense of déjà vu. For a moment, I get lost in his warm brown eyes, flecked with sepia undertones, like in old photographs. He walks to the counter, boldly holding my gaze.
I drop my eyes and try to swallow the lump lodged in my throat. It goes down the wrong way, causing me to sputter and cough. Mortified, I cover my mouth, wishing I could disappear.
“Can I get you some water?” he asks, his expression pinched with concern.
I shake my head. This can’t be happening. It feels like every eye in the café is on me. I work to pull myself together, knowing that if I start to panic, I’ll only make it worse. Finally, the coughing subsides, and he hands me a napkin.
“Thank you.” I dab beneath my glasses at my watering eyes, and though I’m dying inside, I attempt a lighthearted recovery. “As far as first impressions go, that wasn’t embarrassing at all.”
