“You okay if I head out?” Sophia asks. The café is spotless, and Jamar, my other barista, has left. “I need to pick up some stuff for tonight.”
“Right, the Beyhive’s coming over.” She and four of her equally Beyoncé-obsessed friends are partying at our place. “No one drinks and drives.”
“I know the drill.” She rolls her eyes, reminiscent of her teen years, then whisks off her apron and hurries out the door.
Alone, I pump a live Santana album through the sound system and start tallying the day’s earnings. Owning a café was never part of my plan. Neither was becoming a parent to my sister.
After high school, I was headed to Atlanta, ready to immerse myself in the music scene and work with the best R&B producers. But life threw me a devastating curveball.
I’d already lost my father when I was twelve, months before Sophia was even born. Then, seven years later, to lose our mother to a fatal infection blew our world apart. At nineteen, I didn’t know the first thing about raising a little girl who was grieving just like me. But I knew I couldn’t care for her as a struggling musician. I had to set that dream aside and grow up—fast.
Eva Vargas, my mom’s best friend, helped me take care of Sophia while I went to work for her husband, Val. He owned a seafood restaurant called The Ship Mate. I started as a busboy, worked my way up to line cook, and eventually became the manager. Val took me under his wing, teaching me the ins and outs of the food industry and how to run a business.
There were times I sank into a dark hole, but looking after Sophia gave me purpose; it kept me afloat. For a while, I abandoned music. But not having it in my life felt like another kind of death, and I’d already lost more than I could bear. Music was a connection to my dad. Even though he’d been gone for so many years, it still made me feel bonded to him.
I started writing songs again, finding it cathartic. Posting them online led to a large following, and I’ve even sold several of them to indie record labels. It wasn’t huge coin, but it was enough to help me buy the café from Dax Beaumont, who retired six years ago.
As a tribute to my dad, I hung his guitars on the walls and named it the Acoustic Café. He would’ve loved that. Thebusiness does well all year round but kills during tourist season. It allowed me to put Sophia through college and buy the cottage, which became another investment.
At thirty-four, my life is content—but there’s something missing. Intimate dinners, easy conversations, and slipping between the sheets with a woman who interests me, in and out of bed. I haven’t felt that kind of connection with someone in quite a while. A man can only rely on lube and his own hand for so long before he starts writing songs about lonely nights.
As “Black Magic Woman” hits the guitar riff that made Carlos Santana a legend, my mind fills with an image of mink-brown hair brushing slender, square shoulders. A classic oval face, graced with a wide, shapely mouth tinted pale pink. And those eyes—yeah, they got my attention—rare navy blue, like the lake on a dark summer night when the water is still and the air is sultry.
Lexie Monroe.I like her name.
She wore black, stylish frames that gave off sexy intelligence. Not that glasses are synonymous with intellect, but the lusty part of my brain doesn’t always make sense.
Her voice was a warm, cultured contralto, and the way she carried herself with an air of poise and sophistication made me think of private schools and etiquette lessons. People in that upper tax bracket tend to be arrogant, self-absorbed assholes who don’t give a shit about anything other than elevating their status and fattening their wallets. Granted, my experience is limited and very personal.
If Lexie’s wealthy, she doesn’t act the part. She was poised but lacked pretense. She blushed and embarrassed easily, but she wasn’t shy. Guarded, maybe. She wore almost no makeup or jewelry, and her clothes were casual. Though her coat was expensive, I was more interested in the tall, fine form beneath the brand.
There was something about her, beyond her beauty, that intrigued me. When I leaned in and caught a hint of vanilla and lavender, I wanted to chase that scent from behind her ear to the curve of her neck and keep going. But as friendly as she was, she didn’t flirt back. The only hints of interest were those tiny hitches in her breath when I got close.
I want to get to know her. To find out what’s behind those lake-blue eyes and why she’sreallyhere. I didn’t buy her story for a second. No one vacations in a coastal town in the middle of winter just to enjoy looking at the water.
Turning back to the closing procedure, I finish up but feel no rush to head home. Instead, I shut off the playlist and pick up my guitar, strumming a few chords.
The pursuit of a woman is like music. Sometimes, it demands a hot, quick tempo. Other times, a slow, simmering melody. She strikes me as the latter. If I take my time, inch close enough to see what’s behind those captivating eyes, maybe—just maybe—I’ll get even closer.
And getting close to Lexie Monroe is a song already playing on repeat in my head.
The next morning, I pull out my new camera. Photography is a hobby I packed away years ago, along with the other parts of myself. Excited to get back to it, I go down to the beach.
It’s a clear day, perfect for getting some shots of the waterfront. With the afternoon sun glittering off the powdery snow and scattering wide rays of light over the lake, I change thecamera settings and adjust the lens until I’m satisfied with what I see through the viewfinder.
When I crouch down to capture the different angles of the white shore against the slate blue of the water, I hear a dog barking in loud, rusty woofs behind me. Alarmed, I turn around and see big paws chopping through the snow, charging toward me. With a screech, I stumble back, trying to keep my balance but land smack on my butt.
A sharp whistle brings the dog skidding to a halt in front of me, its large, wrinkled face inches from mine. “Nice, doggy,” I whisper, my breath growing shallow as I stare at the dripping jowls. Over four million people are bitten by dogs every year. I know this because one of my quirky coping mechanisms is reciting trivia. My head is filled with all kinds of random information that sometimes helps ground me in a stressful situation. Although this particular statistic isn’t helpful right now. But looking into those big, brown, droopy eyes, I’m pretty sure I’m not about to be mauled—slobbered on, maybe.
“Bitsy, heel!” The owner jogs up, his command firm yet gentle. Bitsy immediately sits on her rump. He extends a gloved hand, helping me to my feet.
Great! I’ve once again made a graceless spectacle of myself in front of Chaz Delgado.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay. Just startled.” I dust off my snow pants. I’m not used to dogs that don’t fit neatly inside designer handbags.
“Bitsy’s excitable but very friendly. Aren’t you, girl?” She looks up at him with adoration, which I’d wager is his usual effect on women. He smiles at her and scratches her head. “I’m dog-sitting today.”
