Page 42 of Coffee Shop Girl
We wandered through the kitchen and onto the patio.
“Grandpa had good taste,” he murmured, leaning against the railing, “that’s for sure.”
I managed a smile, preferring the view of Maverick to the mountains. Not that the mountains weren’t breathtaking, but I’d grown up with them. He was something else altogether.
“He had better-than-good taste,” I said. “This place will be a dream when you finish.”
“Will it?”
His query seemed genuine as he glanced around.
“Not your style?” I asked.
He shook his head. “A little too much for me.”
“You prefer a shack?”
“A tent would do,” he quipped, but there was an edge to his tone. “Something small and uncluttered.”
“Uncluttered?”
He shrugged. “I don’t likethings. My family says I’m a minimalist.”
Interesting.
“Clutter can be distracting,” I said, studying the vista instead of the sooty eyelashes that hid his mysterious caramel eyes. “I can appreciate a little minimalism. But maybe not tent-level. I’m assuming that you don’t plan to stay here?”
“No.”
The simple word, spoken without emotion or wavering, made something inside me crack. But why should it? He owed me nothing. I knew almost nothing about him. This was just a crush that I’d let get a little too much steam. It had felt wonderful not to be so alone.
Still, best nip this growing attraction in the bud now.
To preserve myself, I switched to safer topics. “The Frolicking Moose story. You ready to hear this?”
“Lay it on me.”
For the next ten minutes, I told him about the coffee shop. About Dad retiring from his work in Jackson City and wanting something grounded. His plans for adding a bed-and-breakfast—that brought an adorable little smirk to Mav’s handsome face—and how much he loved fishing. I breezed over the heart attack and the funeral and went straight to the day after the funeral, when I picked the shop up.
When my dreams for real estate really started to tank, and everything pulled me under.
“I can’t remember much, to be honest. My memories of the early days when I was trying to figure everything out are hazy.”
Wrapped in grief. Fuzzy, the way humidity and heat warp the horizon. All I could clearly recall was stumbling around, a knot in my chest and tears at the ready. Dad’s picture in my pocket. Coffee spilled on the floor and me not remembering how it got there.
Constant loneliness in my chest.
“And Lizbeth and Ellie? What’s the story there?”
My lips pressed together. For a moment, I’d forgotten about my inherited parenting duties, and the reminder brought a sudden chill.
“Not really that pertinent. Suffice it to say, Jim will eventually look for them here. I don’t know when that will be. I don’t think he’ll make a scene in public. Despite all evidence to the contrary, he doesn’t normally make a big deal out of things. At least, not with people around.”
As if he saw something dark in me, he straightened.
“Come inside.” He gave a little jerk of his head. A night breeze had descended, stirring goosebumps on my arm when he touched the small of my back. “Let me show you what I mapped out for the Frolicking Moose. Great name, by the way. Who came up with it?”
I laughed, relieved to turn the spotlight away from me. “That was 100% my dad.”
