“Oh, wow.”
He extends his hand. “And you are…?”
“Lily-Anne,” I reply, shaking it. “Nice to meet you.”
“Pleasure.” He leans on the counter, surveying me with interest. “Is that an Australian accent I hear?”
I laugh. “Yes. I’m here on sort of a holiday. I’m staying with a…friend.”
I hesitate for a beat, unsure how to refer to Brandon.
My father’s friend?
Family friend?
Myfriend?
The last one seems the least accurate, but it’s too late to call back the words.
Willoughby hasn’t noticed my hesitation. “Fantastic! Welcome to Whits. You’ll love it here.” He hands me my coffee, along with a paper bag.
I blink. “What’s this?”
“A complimentary muffin. Sorry again about the dress.”
“Oh, that’s okay.” I shrug, trying to look unfazed by the giant pool of brown on my chest. “It’s new—I just bought it in town—so I probably should have washed it first before wearing it anyway. You know, chemicals and stuff.”
I cringe inwardly at my rambling.
“Well, it’s a real showstopper.” He gives me a movie-star smile, gaze unwavering, and I feel heat creeping up my neck. “I hope you’ll be back. Will I see you this Wednesday at the open mic?”
“Oh—” My throat catches. “I don’t know…I’m not sure I can play.”
“All good. We can’t all be performers.”
He chuckles, easy and unbothered, and I remember—of course, he doesn’t know I’m a musician.
“You should come and watch,” he continues. “It’s a good night. Live music, plenty of atmosphere. Bring your friend. And share our page—hashtag Willoughby’s Café.”
I open my mouth to speak, but he’s already on his phone. “Hold on, what’s your handle? I’ll invite you to like our page.”
“You can’t. I’m not on social media.”
He lowers his phone and stares at me like I’m crazy. “Really? Okay. Wow. That’s rare these days. And…” He bites his lip. “Sort of mysterious.”
Flirting was not on the agenda today. But neither was soaking up my caffeine via osmosis. So, for the sake of not appearing meek, I roll my shoulders back and smile.
“Mysterious is what I was going for.”
He gives me a salute, and I wave goodbye as I leave the café. There’s nothing mysterious about me, but I don’t care. I feel like a million bucks. That stupid smile is back on my face, and it stays with me the entire afternoon.
Back in the cottage, I change into fresh clothes and find Brandon’s washing machine. I may not have had much luck making espresso, but I’m willing to give this a go. It looks just like Mum’s machine back home.
“We’ll be friends, won’t we?” I whisper as I pop the dress in with my cardigan and pressSTART.
It gurgles in response as it fills with water—a promising sound.
8
