9. Beth
Chapter 9
Beth
“ L et me get you something to drink,” I said quickly before he could refuse and leave. I darted behind the counter, heart pounding against my ribcage.
The rich aroma of cocoa wafted up as I poured hot chocolate into a mug. The scent of melted chocolate and steamed milk filled the air, mixed with a hint of cinnamon and nutmeg. It was comforting and familiar, yet today it made me more anxious than usual.
I couldn’t understand why I was so nervous. This was just Daryl—gruff and quiet Daryl. Yet, every time our paths crossed, he lingered in my thoughts longer than I cared to admit.
Carefully topping the drink with a swirl of whipped cream and a sprinkle of cocoa powder, I took a deep breath before heading back to his table.
“Here you go,” I said, handing him the mug with what I hoped was a steady hand.
He took it without meeting my eyes but muttered something that might have been thanks.
I watched as he took a sip, his expression softening slightly at the taste. Maybe this was how I’d crack his shell—one small gesture at a time.
“Do you like it?” I asked, biting my lip as soon as the words left my mouth.
He looked up then, and for a moment our eyes met. There was something there—something that made me feel like maybe this wasn’t all one-sided.
“It’s good,” he said gruffly before taking another sip.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
I barely had time to enjoy the rare moment of connection before a couple of customers waved me over from the other side of the café.
"Excuse me," I said, squeezing Daryl's hand gently. "I'll be right back, okay?"
He nodded, his gaze already shifting back to the mug in front of him. I took a deep breath and turned away, my mind buzzing with the thought that I might have made a tiny crack in his armor.
As I approached the customers, my usual smile slipped easily back into place. They were regulars—an elderly couple who came in every Wednesday for our live music nights.
"Hey there! What can I get you two today?" I asked, grabbing a couple of menus from the counter and handing them over.
"Oh, just our usuals," the woman replied with a warm smile. "And could we get some extra napkins?"
"Of course! Be right back with those," I said, jotting down their order on my notepad.
I moved swiftly behind the counter, grabbing a handful of napkins and setting them on a tray along with their drinks—one peppermint mocha and one chai latte. The steam curled up from the cups as I carried them back over, careful not to spill anything.
"Here you go," I said, setting everything down in front of them. "Enjoy!"
They thanked me, and I turned to check on a few other tables. A group of teenagers needed more sugar packets for their hot chocolates, and a young mom asked for a lid for her toddler’s juice. Each request kept me busy for a few more minutes, but my thoughts kept drifting back to Daryl.
When everything seemed under control again, I made my way back to his table. He was still there, surprisingly, nursing his hot chocolate like he had nowhere else to be. Maybe he didn’t.
I slid into the seat across from him once more. "Sorry about that."
"No problem." He shrugged, but there was something softer in his eyes this time. "You’re busy.”
"Always," I said with a smile. "But I love it. This place is my dream come true."
He raised an eyebrow, and I could tell he was curious despite himself.
"I’ve always wanted to own a café," I continued, leaning back in my chair. "A cozy spot where people could come together, share stories, and enjoy good coffee. It’s been a lot of hard work, but every moment has been worth it."
He nodded, taking another sip of his hot chocolate.
"Actually," I said, reaching into my bag and pulling out my notebook, "I carry this around with me everywhere. It’s filled with ideas for the café—designs, menu items, everything."
I flipped it open to a page with a sketch of a new layout for the seating area. "I was thinking about adding more tables over here and maybe putting up some fairy lights to give it a warmer feel."
Daryl leaned in slightly to look at the drawings. He examined them for a moment before looking back at me.
"You’re a terrible artist," he said bluntly.
"Daryl Walker," I exclaimed, trying to sound offended but failing miserably as laughter bubbled up inside me. "That’s rude—even if it’s true."
His lips quirked up into the smallest of smiles, and my heart skipped a beat. It was rare to see him smile, and when he did, it felt like I’d won some small victory.
"Yeah," he said after a moment. "But you have good ideas."
The compliment took me by surprise. "Thanks," I replied softly.
We sat there in comfortable silence for a few minutes. He seemed more relaxed than usual, and I found myself wishing this moment could last just a bit longer.
Just as I was about to ask Daryl another question, my barista, Jenny, hurried over with an apologetic look on her face.
"Beth, sorry to interrupt, but we have a situation with the booking for Julian Everett. Could you come take a look?" she asked, her eyes darting nervously to Daryl and back to me.
"Of course," I said, standing up. "Excuse me for a moment," I added to Daryl, who nodded and returned his focus to his drink.
I followed Jenny behind the counter and into the small office at the back of the café. The phone was already ringing on the desk.
"Thanks, Jenny. I’ll handle it from here," I said as I picked up the receiver.
"This is Beth from Hearth while the book was filled with café designs, it also contained my most private song lyrics.
He glanced up as I approached, his expression unreadable. I slid into the seat across from him, feeling exposed.
“Find anything interesting?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light.
Before he could answer, Jenny’s voice rang out over the microphone. She stood on a small stage at the back of the café, where we hosted our live music nights and other events.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Hearth & Harvest’s annual cookie contest!” Jenny announced with a wide grin. The room erupted in applause. “We have some fantastic bakers here tonight, ready to showcase their delicious creations.”
Daryl handed me the notebook without a word, his eyes lingering on mine for a moment longer than necessary. I quickly closed it and set it aside, relieved to have it back in my possession.
“Let’s meet our contestants,” Jenny continued, her enthusiasm contagious. “First up, we have Lucy Fields! Lucy is a preschool teacher and is known for her amazing gingerbread cookies and famous hot chocolate.”
Lucy waved to the crowd as she made her way to the front. The applause grew louder.
“And next, we have Annie Stark,” Jenny announced. “Annie comes from one of our town’s founding families and has a secret family recipe that we’re all eager to taste!”
Annie, an even younger woman—maybe still in high school—grinned, tying her short, dark hair into a ponytail as she gracefully joined Lucy at the front of the room. The two women exchanged friendly smiles.
The contestants took their places behind their respective tables, each covered in an array of beautifully decorated cookies.
“As you can see,” Jenny said, gesturing to the spread before them, “we have some tough competition tonight. Our judges are going to have their work cut out for them!”
The cookie contest continued as Jenny explained the rules and introduced the judges. I tried to focus on the event unfolding before us but couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between Daryl and me.
But I couldn’t think about that right now. There was a contest to host, and I had to keep my focus.
Jenny moved around the stage, her excitement palpable as she continued introducing the contestants. The crowd leaned in, eager to see and taste what these talented bakers had brought to the table.
Lucy’s table was adorned with rows of meticulously decorated gingerbread men and women. Each cookie was a miniature work of art, with tiny candy buttons and delicate icing patterns. The smell of ginger and cinnamon wafted through the air, making my mouth water.
Next to her, Annie’s display was equally impressive. She had created an assortment of sugar cookies shaped like Christmas trees, snowflakes, and reindeer. They sparkled under the café lights, dusted with colored sugar and adorned with intricate royal icing designs. Her cookies had a playful yet elegant quality that caught everyone’s attention.
As Jenny moved down the line, introducing more contestants, I noticed Daryl still watching from his seat. His eyes followed the proceedings with an intensity that made me wonder what he was thinking. But I had no time to dwell on that now.
The next contestant was Mrs. Thompson, a kindly older woman who had been baking for the contest since its inception. Her table was filled with traditional shortbread cookies, each one perfectly golden and dusted with just the right amount of powdered sugar. They looked simple but were undoubtedly delicious.
Then there was young Peter, who had decided to participate for the first time this year. He presented a batch of chocolate chip cookies that were gooey and warm, the chocolate still melty from the oven. They smelled heavenly and reminded me of home.
As Jenny wrapped up the introductions, she handed the microphone over to our head judge for the evening—Mr. Patterson, a retired chef known for his discerning palate. He stepped forward with a smile and began his remarks on how each cookie would be judged on taste, texture, and presentation.
The room buzzed with anticipation as Mr. Patterson approached Lucy’s table first. He took a bite of her gingerbread cookie, chewing thoughtfully before nodding in approval. The crowd applauded softly as he moved on to Annie’s display.
And he was here.
He came.
And that made me feel more joy than I could have ever expected.
Then again, everything about Daryl Walker was unexpected.