Page 10 of Common Grounds

“So,” she breaks the silence. “What inspired your grandfather to open a coffee shop? Was he always a coffee connoisseur or…” she trails off, waiting for me to fill in the blank. “Unless it’s hard to talk about him for you? You said he had passed. I’m not trying to bring up hard memories.” She’s babbling, and it’s so perfect. I want to run my fingers along her jawline, cup her cheek, and watch her eyes settle on mine.

I don’t usually talk about my grandfather. Not because it’s hard, exactly. I miss both him and my father terribly at times, especially now when I want to ask them things like what the best move for this shop would be or how to talk to a pretty woman. I’ve seen the old photos. Both my grandma and mom were lookers back in their day. My mom used to tell stories about how my dad charmed her. Surely, they’d have some tips for me.

Most of the reason I don’t talk about them, though, is because I don’t need to. The only people I talk to are Mike, who knew them well, and James, who didn’t know them at all. I’m out of practice.

I clear my throat. “No, it’s totally fine,” I flash her what I hope is a reassuring smile. “I like talking about them. A coffee connoisseur… yes, in a way. He has stories from his youth about cafés and coffee houses and the community they fostered in Croatia before the wars. He told me of coffee bars where people would sit and sip their drinks and talk and do business. Croatians do everything better than Americans, according to him.” I smile slightly at the memory of his pride in his country. It was never-ending, that pride, and he had so many stories.

“What brought him to America?” Emery asks gently, drawing me out of my memories and back to the conversation.

“He immigrated here with my baba—my grandmother,” I add for her benefit, “shortly after World War II. Europe was pretty devastated at the time. America was prospering.” I huff. “Tale as old as time, I suppose. He was always good at talking to people, you know? He could read a room like no one else. I think the shop was a way for him to be part of a community here. See people and foster connections. And live the life he thought he’d have before the war made everything harder.” I shrug as if it’s no big deal, but it is. He was proud of what he did here, but he missed his country, and he was never able to go back, even for a visit. Travel was expensive. While the shop did well, it didn’t do afford-a-trans-Atlantic-flight-in-the-seventies well. And being two generations removed from his, I’ve always felt left out of this connection he had to places of his past.

The back of Emery’s hand brushes against mine as we step in time with each other. “That’s beautiful,” she says softly. Then louder, “Just when you stop believing in the American Dream, you hear a story like that. It gives you hope, in a way. Where was he from in Croatia?”

“Dalmatia. Right on the sea. He used to talk all the time about how beautiful it was there.” I let my hand brush against hers again, welcoming its warmth and softness.

“You’ve never been?” she asks. I shake my head.

She turns her palm toward mine in silent question. I trail a gentle finger down it, then curl my fingers into hers as my heart beats like a middle school boy on his first date. Her hand settles into mine like it was meant to be there. I squeeze, and she squeezes back as she laughs lightly.

“Seems a shame for him to leave the sea for land-locked Indiana.” She chews on her bottom lip for a moment, considering. “Wasn’t Croatia part of Yugoslavia after World War II?” she asks.

“Impressive,” I say. “Yes, it was, but the Croatian identity is a strong one.” I pause, but I have to know. “You carry around knowledge of Croatian history with you to, what, bust out at parties or something?”

She laughs again, heartier this time. “It’s a great party trick.”

“I can only imagine you and your purple-haired friend sitting around waxing philosophical about the annals of eastern European lore and debating which country belonged to which empire and when.”

Her laughter is still bright, but it turns a little bitter at the edges. “With Violet? No. Not her scene.” She swings our arms between us as if she’s trying to fake an air of nonchalance. “I… uh… I used to run with a different crowd.”

“Historians?” I venture.

“Political reporters,” she answers, and from the way she won’t meet my eyes, I can tell that’s where this conversation ends. Fair enough.

I turn us off the main road, and we walk a little more in silence until we come to a pedestrian bridge over one of the many little streams that weave their way through Baker’s Grove. She stops and looks out over the water. Her fingers relax in mine, and I reluctantly take it as a hint to drop her hand. I lean my forearms against the railing of the bridge, clasping my hands together in front of me to keep myself from reaching out to her again. She, however, leans backward against the bridge, her elbows resting on top of it and her shoulder meeting mine.

Her eyes are dark, which I noticed in the bar, but when she turns her face toward mine out here, they’re night incarnate. Deep pools of mystery, shining in the moonlight that’s glinting over us in the absence of the lights that line the main street.

My breath catches. A corner of her mouth lifts. It’s a taunt, maybe, but it’s soft. I can’t make myself look away from it. It’s a challenge I want desperately to accept.

She takes in a deep breath, and her eyelids flutter closed. “You smell like coffee,” she whispers. Her eyes fly open, wide as saucers. “Oh, I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

I chuckle, pressing myself closer to her. It’s her breath’s turn to hitch, and it brings me no small amount of joy to know I’m having the same effect on her as she’s having on me. “Job hazard,” I tease, and I’m rewarded with a soft laugh.

“I like coffee.” She drags her bottom lip through her teeth, her eyebrows raising slightly.

I don’t have words. I’m too smitten with her, and too awkward to know what to say, so I take a chance. I reach up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. It’s hard to tell in the moonlight, but the bashful curve of her shoulders suggests she’s blushing. I take another chance and drag my finger slowly down her jaw like I wanted to do earlier. She shivers, her eyes closing again. Her chin tips up, and her lips part slightly.

That’s it. That’s my sign.

I close the distance between us.

Chapter five

Emery

The man is funny, charming, adorably awkward, and hot as hell. The scent of coffee mixed with sugar and vanilla practically comes off him in waves. It’s a heady scent that could leave me breathless all on its own. And he’s a good kisser, I realize as his tongue slips between my parted lips, the warm heat of it sending a wave of desire through me.

It’s criminally unfair, how much this man has going for him.

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