Page 8 of Single-Minded
“Bronson’s spoiled you.”
“I miss Bronson’s.”
The indie artisan coffee shop was across the street from my condo in Nashville. Chloe had lived two floors below mine until she and Holden hooked up, and Bronson’s had been our daily routine for years. I’d kept it up even after she moved out. Bronson’s specialized in craft-brewed coffee. Once you started drinking the high-quality stuff on the daily, it was impossible to go back to standard fare.
“Is there really not one place to get”—I lowered my voice—“even halfway decent coffee in this town? Like, even somewhere off the square? Anywhere?”
She tilted her head and shot me a look that said, Sorry but no. “You have money. Go online and buy the nicest home coffeemaker you can find.”
“I’m on it. At least the waffles are going to be amazing.”
“Nothing compares,” Chloe said as Patrick delivered an individual-sized cream pitcher.
“Your waffles just came up,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
We thanked him, and I poured cream into my coffee.
“Where’s Sutton this morning?” I asked as we waited. “I figured you’d bring her with you.”
“Holden’s taking her to Quincy’s at her usual time. It’s hard to pivot with a one-year-old. She was just waking up when I left.”
“I didn’t think about that when I invited you out. I’m confusing Mom Chloe with Single Chloe. Sorry about that. It’s okay to tell me no.”
“I didn’t want to tell you no. Holden can handle it just fine today. You sounded a little…desperate in your text.”
“You can’t hear a text.”
“You know what I mean. Something about the please tell me you can save me from myself and meet me for breakfast.”
“Ah,” I said. “I might’ve felt a little desperate.”
Patrick returned with our waffles, saving me from having to say more.
“You’re amazing,” I told the server who was probably in his late forties.
“All I do is deliver,” he said dramatically. “These waffles speak for themselves.”
Dragonfly Dust Waffles were thick Belgian waffles that had blue, green, and purple sprinkles in the batter. On top was a generous tower of homemade whipped cream and more sprinkles, these in the shape of tiny dragonflies in the same colors. They were a thing of culinary beauty, a treasure at this unassuming diner. Almost enough to make up for the blah brew in my cup.
Once Patrick left us, I poured pure maple syrup on my sugar-laden waffles and took my first bite. The sensory pleasure of sweetness on my tongue was instant.
“Between this and donuts from Sugar, I might become diabetic before I hit thirty-six,” I said.
Chloe laughed. “They do have eggs here.”
I made a face that showed my opinion of eggs, particularly as I dipped my next bite into the thick, fluffy whipped cream.
“So what’s up with the desperation?” Chloe asked.
My waffle-induced endorphin rush faded. I chewed and stared at my food, organizing my thoughts.
“Things sort of caught up with me over the weekend,” I said. “I finally got all the moving details and real estate stuff taken care of. I’ve been consumed by that for the three weeks since I quit, you know?”
“You basically overhauled everything in your life in three weeks,” Chloe said empathetically, nailing the issue like only my best friend could. “And now you have time to think.”
“What have I done, Chloe? Like, I threw away more than a decade’s worth of career. All my life goals were tied up in that job. Now suddenly I have this blank slate, and I don’t know what to do with it.”
“You said you don’t want to go back to investment banking, right?”
