Chapter 1
The Window
Andi
The espresso machine was screaming again.
Not the familiar hiss and gurgle of a machine brewing liquid gold.
This was a wail that meant the pressure valve was on its last legs.
The kind of sound that led to "closed for repairs" and "goodbye, rent money.
" I could already hear my mother's voice: "This is exactly why sensible people don't blow their inheritance on coffee shops, Andrea. "
"Marcus!" I called over the shriek. "Kill the steam!"
My barista, Marcus, was already in motion, his tattooed hands dancing over the controls with practiced precision.
At twenty-six, he'd abandoned art school for the exciting life of a barista by day, ink artist by night.
He was the only one who treated this ancient machine like it was a temperamental child rather than the money-sucking nightmare I knew it to be.
He twisted the valve with the specific combination of force and finesse that the thirty-year-old Italian beast required, and the screaming died to a sulky hiss.
Marcus stroked the machine's chrome side as if it were a skittish animal. "She just needs a little sweet talk," he said, planting a loud, theatrical kiss on the steamer wand.
"Don't we all." I grabbed a rag and started wiping down the bar, trying to ignore the line of customers that had formed during the mechanical tantrum. "Sorry, folks. Give us two minutes, and we'll get you sorted."
"Take your time, sweetheart," called Frank Kowalski from the corner booth, with his telltale accent where the 'heart' sounds more like 'hahht.
' Sixty-something retired electrician, Frank was a fixture at Grind since before I'd taken over the place.
He snorted. "Some of us remember when this joint served coffee from a Mr. Coffee machine.
" He lowered his voice to a gruff mutter.
"Tasted like old Maeve had put it through an old oil filter.
This fancy stuff? It's practically the Ritz. "
"Frank, you literally complained about the coffee yesterday," said Dolores Martinez, sliding into the booth across from him. Night shift nurse, three sugars in her coffee, and Frank's favorite sparring partner. "You said it was 'too fancy.'"
"That's because Marcus put a leaf in it."
"It's called art, Frank," Marcus said without turning around.
"It's showing off."
I smiled despite my stress. This was why I'd bought the place.
Not for the temperamental equipment, or the barely-there profit margins, or the 4 AM wake-up calls.
For these—the regulars who showed up every morning like clockwork, who knew each other's orders and life stories, who'd turned a corner coffee shop into something that felt like community.
The morning rush was gaining momentum. In about ten minutes, the veritable stampede would begin—bleary-eyed nurses and doctors either heading in or home, ordering triple shots and sugar-laden pastries.
"Andi, we're out of oat milk," Marcus said, his tone suggesting this was a catastrophe on par with the espresso machine's earlier drama.
Of course we were. Because today was clearly that kind of day.
"I'll check back. Can you handle the line?"
"In my sleep. I got this." He was already smiling, already turning to the first customer with the easy charm that made him excellent at his job. "Morning! What can I get you?"
I headed to the storage room, mentally calculating whether I'd ordered enough oat milk for the week or if I needed to add it to Thursday's delivery. Running a business turned out to be ninety percent numbers and ten percent things I actually enjoy.
Two years in, and I still had imposter syndrome.
When I returned, the morning rush had officially begun.
The next hour was a blur of orders. Marcus narrated each song change like a radio DJ—"This one's for all you corporate warriors heading into battle"—while Frank offered unsolicited opinions on everything from the "revealing" outfit on the lady who just left, to the "ridiculous" cost of the muffins he bought every single morning.
By mid-morning, the chaos had finally settled. I grabbed my rag and started my rounds, wiping tables, collecting abandoned mugs, straightening chairs that had been shoved around. The routine usually calmed me, but today my brain had other ideas.
Like reminding me I was thirty-two and still single.
Like replaying my mother's last phone call with whispered words about my eggs aging, as if saying it at a decibel over a whisper would make it less mortifying.
Like the fact that my dating life for the past decade could be summarized as: a lot of first dates, fewer second dates, and exactly zero relationships that made it past the three-month mark.
"You still good with closing tonight?" Marcus asked, interrupting my spiral. "I've got that thing."
"The thing where you're definitely not on a date?"
"It's a gallery opening."
"You hate pretentious art."
"I like Riley," he grinned, unrepentant. "She made me a mug."
"One mug and you're this gone?"
"It has a handle shaped like an octopus tentacle."
"That's actually kind of cool."
"Right? So, yes or no on closing?"
"Yeah, I got it. Go be young and in love."
"You're only six years older than me."
"In relationship years, that's basically ancient."
"That's depressing."
"Tell me about it."
Movement outside the window caught my eye. Just another person heading to the T, nothing unusual. Except this one made me forget how to function.
Tall, with dark hair that looked as if the wind had whipped it coming around the corner.
Dressed in a way that screamed money, but not the obnoxious kind—just the kind that meant he didn't have to think about whether his jeans were clean or his shoes had holes.
He was doing something on his phone, walking with purpose, clearly heading somewhere important.
And then he looked up.
Our eyes met through the glass.
The world stopped.
I'm not being dramatic. The actual world just—stopped.
Like someone hit pause on reality and forgot to press play again.
He wasn't just attractive, though he was definitely that.
It was the way he stopped walking. The way his phone dropped slightly.
The way he looked at me as if I were the only person on a crowded street.
I should look away. Should go back to wiping tables. Should literally do anything other than stand here staring like I'd forgotten how to move. I didn't. Couldn't.
His phone lit up—I could see it even from inside. He glanced down at the screen, and the spell was broken. I shook it off, knowing I needed to get on with my work.
But the bell above the door jingled. As I looked up, there he was—walking through my door saying something on his phone before he hung up. The guy from the window was actually coming inside.
He paused just inside the entrance; those same eyes that had stopped me cold through the glass now locked on mine in person.
When he approached the counter, I saw that up close, he was even more devastating—tall, sharp jawline, the kind of face that made you think of romance novel covers and daydreams.
I should move. Say something. Be a functioning human being.
"Hi," he said, and his voice was deeper than I expected.
"Hi." My brain scrambled for words. Any words. "Welcome to The Grind. What—what can I get you?"
I was already moving behind the counter, Marcus stepping aside with a look that promised ruthless mockery later.
"Large coffee. Black."
"Sure. Black. Large." Stop. Talking. Like. A. Robot. "Anything else?"
His gaze drifted to the pastry case. "Those muffins any good?"
"They're mine," I blurted, then felt my face heat. "I mean—I do them. I mean—make them. So. Yes?" Oh, God. Why me?
A smile tugged at his mouth. Real, not polite. "Then I'll take one."
"Which—" My hands were actually shaking. "Which kind?"
"Surprise me."
I grabbed the lemon poppy and bagged it while he paid. When I handed him the coffee, our fingers brushed, and I swear every nerve ending in my body woke up at once.
"Thanks," he said softly.
He was still standing there. Like he wanted to say something. I could see it in the way his jaw tensed, the way his eyes searched mine.
I opened my mouth—no idea what was about to come out—
His phone rang. And the moment was gone. He glanced at the screen, and something shifted in his expression. Important. Work. Reality crashing back in.
He looked back at me, and I swear I saw regret there. "I have to—"
I nodded. Because somehow, in the last few minutes, I forgot that I knew how to make words come out of my damn mouth. But he didn't move immediately. Instead, he pulled a twenty from his wallet and tucked it into the tip jar, his eyes never leaving mine.
"That's too much—"
"It's not." He was already backing toward the door, phone still ringing. "The muffin looks worth it."
Then he was gone.
"Boss?" Marcus's voice came from very far away. "You breathing over there?"
I blinked. Realized I was still frozen. Just standing there as if I didn’t have a million things to do. "Yeah. Fine."
"You looked like you, uh…got a little flustered there."
"No. Just working here."
"Andi. That man just tipped you twenty dollars for a coffee and a muffin."
"He was being nice."
Marcus's eyes lit up with mischief as he waggled his thick eyebrows like caterpillars doing the wave. "He looked like he wanted to be a little more than nice to you! Like he’d have preferred you to the muffin he got."
I felt my face heat up until my cheeks burned. "Shut up. Get back to work, or your paycheck might somehow get lost in the garbage."
"Ha! Yeah, right." He leaned against the counter, his tattoos popping and drawing my eyes as he crossed his arms over his chest. "So, who was the dreamboat?"
"Dreamboat? Been watching Nick at Night again?"
He hip-checked me and went back to leaning. "Avoiding the question."
"I don’t know who he is, okay?"
Marcus's voice lilted up and down like a playground taunt. "But you want to know." I pressed my lips together, refusing to give him the satisfaction of agreeing. I did want to know, though. God help me, I really did.
The reality , however, was that guys like that didn't notice women like me. I had a lifetime of evidence to prove it.
"Earth to Andi," Frank called. "You planning to stand there jawing all day, or can an old man get a refill?"
"Sorry, Frank." I moved on autopilot, grabbing the coffee pot, falling back into routine. But my brain was still stuck on the last few minutes.
By noon, I'd convinced myself I'd imagined the whole thing. The intensity, the moment between us. Projecting loneliness onto a random hot stranger. I was basically a Hallmark movie at this point.
My phone buzzed. Danny: Ma wants to know if you're coming to Sunday dinner. She's making pot roast.
I typed back: Tell her, maybe. Depends on work.
Same dance every week. Ma trying to get all her kids in one room, me too wrapped up at work.
Danny still lived at home—twenty-eight and "saving money," which really meant enjoying free laundry service and home-cooked meals.
The twins ran their landscaping business out in Quincy.
Tommy had his construction company, his wife Rachel, and three kids.
And then there was me. Middle child, single, owner of a coffee shop, living above a pub.
Not exactly the success story my mother had envisioned.
"You gonna actually go this time?" Marcus asked, reading over my shoulder.
"Probably."
"You always say probably."
"She's making pot roast. This time it really is 'probably'."
The afternoon crowd was lighter—freelancers with laptops, elderly couples making one coffee last two hours, the occasional person who clearly just needed somewhere warm to sit.
I used the lull to prep for tomorrow, restock, prep for the morning baked goods, grind beans, all the tasks that had become muscle memory.
But every time the bell jingled, my head snapped up so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash.
Pathetic.
Marcus shrugged into his leather jacket and paused at the door, eyebrows dancing like they had minds of their own. "Try not to work too hard…or to lose yourself in daydreams about the dreamboat."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Have fun with Riley."
"Oh, I plan to."
The evening crowd was sparse—a couple of students with laptops, Harold from down the street nursing a decaf. By closing, I was alone, wiping down tables and trying not to think about the fact that I'd spent the entire day hoping to see a stranger again.
I locked up just after eight, having been there for fourteen hours.
I was exhausted. The street was quiet except for the muffled sounds from the bars.
The walk home was three blocks through streets I could navigate blind, past gentrified storefronts and old-school barbershops that refused to change.
Inside my apartment, I collapsed on the couch and stared at my reflection in the TV—too tired to move. My phone buzzed.
Bridget: Dinner tomorrow? I miss your face.
I hesitated. Tomorrow is inventory day, and Bridget would probably try to get me to do online dating again—fat chance.
But I missed her. And everyone needed to eat.
Me: Yes. But nowhere fancy.
Bridget: Pizza and wine at mine?
Me: Perfect.
I set my phone down and closed my eyes, but all I could see was him. The stranger in the window. Those moments when our eyes locked—damn, that was a once in a lifetime moment.
"Get over yourself," I muttered to the empty room. "He was just some guy."
Some guy who was exactly the kind of man who didn't end up with women like me.
Some guy I'd probably never see again.
But for just a moment—one stupid, perfect moment—I'd let myself believe otherwise.