CHAPTER ONE
I’m having one ofthosedays.
The kind where everything seems to go wrong from the moment your feet hit the floor after waking up. First, my ancient bathroom pipes did a death sputter that resulted in the hot water cutting out halfway through my shower, leaving me to shiver my way through rinsing the conditioner from my hair. The way my auburn curls are hanging like limp noodles tells me I didn’t quite manage to get it all out. By the time I went to make coffee, there had been an emergency water shutdown in the whole building, which meant I missed out on a much-needed caffeine fix.
To add insult to uncaffeinated injury, I got stuck in a traffic jam caused by a family of Canadian geese who decided the middle of the road was a good place to convene for ten or fifteen minutes. The guy who got out of his car to try to shoo them along was hissed and honked at so loudly I could hear it from my position four cars back. Once I arrived at Bellevue Family Village, the huge entertainment complex where my café is located, I had to circle the parking lot half a dozen times because some jackass had parked in my designated spot. When Ifinallystarted my workday, I had to deal with a wrong shipment—still not sure how they mixed up almond flour with cornmeal—and a massive overcharge from my coffee supplier.
After spending most of the morning on the phone getting orders and invoices sorted, I decided a little art therapy was in order to clear my mind. The result is a Pump Up the Flavor menu, listing all the pumpkin-infused goodies on offer at Cravings, the café I co-own with one of my best friends, complete with a doodled pumpkin and leaf border.
“This will cheer you up, Willow. Look what just arrived.”
I cap the orange dry-erase marker in my hand and swivel on my stool to face my friend-slash-business partner, Marisol, whose face is mostly obscured by the giant bouquet of flowers in her hands.
“Where did those come from?” I ask, scrambling to move my markers and assorted papers so she can set the vase on the counter. As she does, I admire the stunning autumn-colored blossoms. This arrangement must have cost a fortune.
“It was just delivered.” Marisol plucks a card from between two cabbage roses and hands it to me. “Let it be known I wasn’t nosy and didn’t peek at the card.”
I give her a wry smile as I take the tiny sealed envelope from her. My stomach drops the second I open it and recognize the handwriting on the card.
Willow,
I know you have absolutely no reason to trust me and you don’t want to see me, but please give me a chance to at least clear the air. Go to dinner with me next week—you name the time and place, and I’ll be there.
Love,TJ
“Oh, honestly.” I pass the card to Marisol while eyeing the flowers. I should have known only TJ Lewis would send something so ostentatious. If the flowers weren’t so damn beautiful and didn’t fit the café’s autumn decor perfectly, I’d hand them to the next customer who came in.
“He never gives up, does he?” Marisol tosses the card onto the counter with an exaggerated roll of her big brown eyes.
“No, but I sure wish he would.”
TJ is my ex-boyfriend. The man who, at one point, I considered the love of my life, the person I wanted to marry and grow old with. He had other ideas, though; ones that involved another woman and a pack of lies.
After he broke my heart three years ago, I left our hometown of Bellevue, a small city in Ontario, and headed for the big city about two hours away. Life in Toronto was fast-paced and often chaotic, but I needed to stay busy. I needed the fresh start and new scenery I never would have had in Bellevue, where everything and everyone reminded me of TJ and how he’d smashed my heart to smithereens.
I knew I would return to Bellevue someday—my mom is here and we’re close—I just didn’t think it would be so soon. But when my friend Ivy Sima-MacKinnon, who co-owns Bellevue Family Village with her husband, told me the Village’s café was up for sale, I had to make my move. Owning my own café was always my ultimate dream, and there was no way I’d be able to swing it in Toronto, where real estate prices are as sky-high as many of its buildings.
“Maybe you should meet with him and get it over with,” Marisol says.
“Ormaybe I should get a restraining order against him.” My statement is met with a raised eyebrow from Marisol. “Okay, fine, that might be a bit much.”
I’ve known Marisol since ninth grade when her family moved to Bellevue from Venezuela. The two of us spent countless evenings and weekends turning our parents’ kitchens into our own personal culinary experiment labs, all while dreaming up ideas for the day we’d own our own bakery. A lot has changed over the years, including the desire to incorporate our mutual caffeine addiction into our plans, but Marisol and I are as close as ever. It still feels surreal to have our teenage dreams become a reality.
“Even though you have every reason to despise him, youdidlove him at one point, right?” Marisol says. “So you could meet him and let him say what he needs to say. It’d give you a chance to get some things off your chest, and then you can tell him to leave you alone.”
I make a non-committal sound. I hate to admit she might be right. It’s possible Ihaveunintentionally been sending TJ mixed messages the last few months. In my defense, the fact I’d been back in Bellevue for all oftwo daysbefore running into him at the grocery store left me completely flustered. I had managed to avoid him on my regular visits home over the last three years, but it was as if officially changing my address back to Bellevue was a beacon, and there he was, as handsome and charming as ever.
With those beautiful honey-colored eyes searching my face eagerly and the signature dimple flirting with his left cheek, he’d told me how happy he was to see me, and how he’d love a chance to catch up. In my haste to get away from him, I’d chirped, “Yeah, sure, let’s get together soon!” I mentally berated myself the moment I walked away, and yet every time I’ve seen him since, I’ve given similar responses, despite telling myself to firmly decline. What can I say, I’ve never been good at dealing with confrontation.
“The thing is, I already know what he’s going to say,” I tell Marisol as I set about making myself a pumpkin spice latte. Despite the two coffees I’ve already inhaled, I need caffeine, sugar, and pumpkiny goodness if I’m going to make it through the rest of the morning. “He’s given me a preview every time we’ve seen each other. He’s sorry for hurting me. He’s done a lot of reflecting, he was stupid, he has regrets, he’s changed. He claims he doesn’t want anything from me other than to talk, but I know him. He always has ulterior motives.”
“What if hehaschanged, though?You’vechanged. You’re not the same person you were when you left three years ago.”
“Why are you defending him?” The words come out much more snappish than intended.
Marisol holds up both hands in a placating gesture before reaching forward to briefly cup my face. “I’m not, I promise. Just playing devil’s advocate.”
“Emphasis on the devil,” I mutter, although now I’m smiling.
