We pull up to a classic New England building with white clapboard siding and black shutters.
A small sign reads "Patriot Hotel & Café — Est. 1847."
"Here we are, sir," Henry announces, already moving to open our door.
Inside, the café buzzes with energy. Patrons look Country Club style rich, lots of tennis whites and pastel dresses.
A hostess with perfectly styled black hair approaches us. "Good afternoon. Table for—" She stops mid-sentence when she recognizes me, her professional smile freezing in place.
"Table for two, please," I say before she can make a scene. "Big enough to accommodate my guitar and my dog."
"Of course, Mr. Crow. Right this way."
She leads us to a corner table with a view of the hotel's terrace and harbor beyond. Edison settles beside Posey's chair like he's appointed himself her personal bodyguard.
"Nice place," I tell Posey. "Thanks for suggesting it."
A young, blonde, server approaches our table. When I look up at her face and see that face, I feel a flicker of delighted surprise.
"Hello, Cinderella."
Her green eyes widen, and color floods her cheeks when she recognizes me.
"Cameron! I mean, Mr. Crow," she says, looking around as if afraid of getting caught flirting with a patron. "What a surprise."
I just smile.
That kiss we shared was so magical. The memory of her mouth against mine, the way she melted into that kiss, floods back. When her friends interrupted us, I was first angry, then grateful.
I wasn't shopping for a relationship. And in the short time I'd known her, Tara was a girl I could fall for hard.Too hard.
There wasn't time in my life for relationships, I warned myself. I forbid myself to ask for her number.
Then regretted it all that week.
"Hi. I'm Posey," my daughter says to Tara.
As Tara turns to my child, a variety of expressions cross her face.
Surprise. And if I'm reading her right, slight suspicion. Tara’s wondering if I had a family the world didn't know about.
"Posey's my daughter. We just met in person today. Her mother's out of the picture."
"Oh," says Tara, her voice softening. "I see. She crouches down to Posey's eye level with natural ease. "And what would you like this morning?"
"Orange juice, please," Posey says with perfect politeness. "And do you still make butterfly waffles?"
"Butterfly waffles?"
"Sam used to make them special for me," Posey explains.
"They're shaped like butterflies, with fresh berries for the wings and powdered sugar for the body. I had them when I came here with Grandmother."
A look of understanding crosses Tara's face. "I'll ask the kitchen. I'm sure we can arrange something."
As she heads away, I can't stop watching the sway of her hips, the way that uniform skirt follows every movement. Edison's head follows her too, but for very different reasons than mine.
Tara returns with our beverages. When she sets down my coffee, her fingers brush mine. The contact sends electricity straight through me. Her breath catches, and I know she feels it too.
