It’s hard for me to imagine going off on a customer, but for the sake of the daydream, I raise my voice and tell him just how absurd it is for him to suggest that I replace his book. And just how in the world did he know it was a spiced chai latte with a double shot of espresso anyway?
My face is red.
My blood is heated.
But suddenly, he pulls a sheepish grin.
I’m ticked off, and I don’t know if I want to slap the guy or tell him to shut up and kiss me.
I’m so wrapped up in the tale that I almost hit a man as I pull away from the gas pump. I barely see his khaki coat and checkered scarf as I slam on the brakes hard.
The tires screech in protest. The balloon bouquet flies into the front half of my car. Red, white, and pink orbs obscure my view as they crowd against the windshield, bob against my head, and cling to my hair with static-ridden snaps.
A small clip holds the ribbons together; I know that much,but as I search blindly for it, determined to yank the balloons back into place, I come up short.
“Where in the world is it?” I mumble, patting my legs, the gears beside me, and the passenger seat, too. The pungent rubber balloons give me a free facial as I lean far over, grasping for the clip while my fingers clumsily follow the ribbon length.There!
I manage to secure the thing at last and fling the naughty balloons back into the corner where they belong. I can not only feel the static-ridden energy along the crown of my head, but I can also see the strawberry blonde strands of my hair waving merrily at the guy I almost hit. He hasn’t moved, and boy does he look furious.
Wait just a minute. This guy isn’t bad. Not bad at all. It comes to my attention that I didn’t even do this one on purpose. Bubbles of excitement rise in my chest.
He glowers at me through the windshield, then looks down to gauge the distance between my bumper and his legs. Man, his eyes sure are bloodshot. Wait, isthatClassy Produce Guy? Itis.ItisClassy Produce Guy.
This is destiny, maybe.
I fight back a grin, lower my window, and inwardly dare him to yell at me.‘What, are you trying to kill me, lady?’
He doesn’t. Instead, he shoves his hands deeper into his pockets and ducks his chin. “Bunch of crazy people around here,” he mumbles.
Embarrassed heat flares in my chest. “No,you’re crazy,”I holler, then instantly feel bad. I roll the passenger side window down just as he ducks for cover inside the station. “Sorry. Thatwasmy fault, actually.” I roll up my window. “And so was the grocery cart thing,” I add quietly, attempting to tame the static that probably makes melookas insane as I feel at this moment.
I double-check both ways before slowly accelerating once more and shake my head. “Geez, I really am crazy.”
The Coffee Loft is busy today, like usual, making morning turn to late afternoon in no more than a blink. The publisher suggested we set up a mock stage of sorts, which we place at the base of the new, storytelling banner. That way, almost everyone present will be able to watch the action—those in the loft, those in the lounging areas, and from the dining spots, too. Guests who don’t want any part of the event will be directed to the one corner of the shop that doesn’t offer a view of the stage.
Speaking of the mock stage—I asked Jeb Nobly if he could set one up, but he was unable to do it, so I hadChantelask Braxton, and he agreed, saying he’d tack on a small fee for setting it up and tearing it down once we were through.
“Surprised he didn’t makemeask,” I murmur as I arrange the voting cards, pencils, and noisemakers provided by the publisher. Just when I thought I wouldn’t see another celebration horn until next New Year’s, I got five dozen of them sent to my shop.
A quick glance out the window tells me Braxton is still working on the caboose. Hopefully, we can keep things cordial until he’s done. After that, I won’t have to see him again. Until Beau and Kirsten tie the knot.
A flitter of something floats across my memory at the thought. Not in a pleasant way, either, but it’s easily pushed from my mind as I notice how many guests are piling into theCoffee Loft. The place fills up quickly with a crowd of singles and couples alike. I hand out the voting cards while they tug off beanies, unwrap scarves, and drape coats and jackets over the backs of chairs.
The spunky author hosting tonight’s event is already working the crowd, asking couples how long they’ve been together and prodding singles to point out someone in the room they’d be interested in getting to know.
I’m surprised to see that Kirsten and Beau took me up on the invite. They take a seat beside a group I recognize from the forty-something singles event.
JJ approaches me with a wide grin. “Great crowd,” she says under her breath, eyes wandering over the filled tables and chairs. Her gaze lifts to glance over those seated in the loft. “I’ll be asking for volunteers,” she explains, “but I might call on a few unsuspecting souls too. See if we can’t make a love match.”
I tip my head back; that’s why she was asking the singles if they had their eye on someone. I’m simultaneously glad and sad about the fact that I’m not a candidate for the event. The couples who get the most votes will move on to the next round. There, one lucky couple will win a romantic date package for two.
JJ gets started by inviting a couple who’s willing to show everyone how it’s done. They happen to be JJ’s parents, who sit front and center in the crowd. They’ve been married for over thirty-five years. She hands them each a mic, takes a step back, and hollers, “You start, Ma. Once upon a time…”
JJ’s mother takes it and runs, describing the time a fair maiden met a noble knight in the woods one day. JJ’s fatherbroadens his shoulders and lifts his chin as the woman describes his handsome face and fine physique.
When it’s his turn, he takes over telling the tale, saying the two were barely beyond introductions when a dangerous band of gypsies broke through the trees. He was forced to hoist the fair maiden onto his horse and bolt into the densest part of the woods where no one dared venture.
By the time the couple’s eight minutes is up, the crowd is collectively leaning forward and waiting on bated breath.
