Chapter Two
ONE YEAR LATER
L ooking through the window from my little office at the back of the shop, I delight in seeing the trees change their colours once again. Autumn will forever be my favourite season; the smell of pumpkin spice lattes and carrot cakes, wearing my furry collar coat every day, going to bed under a chilly breeze at night. Is there anything better than that?
I turn my eyes back to my laptop and back to my Excel sheet. As strange as it sounds, it's so satisfying for me when my numbers match. However, this is not always the case.
I run a small vintage coffee boutique with my best friend, Tatiana. I'm in charge of accounting and general management, while she oversees orders and purchasing supplies. We both attend to customers while having a little extra help on Fridays, Saturdays, and Mondays. It gives us time to re-invent and create new recipes for beverages and desserts, as we try to offer a menu that changes with the season.
We recently attended an estate sale in France—imagine the biggest garage sale at a beautiful venue, whose last owners lived certainly during the 1930s, right before World War II. It was challenging not to take most of the things we saw, but we did take those pieces of decoration that blended perfectly in the boutique, ones our customers can also buy.
I'm immersed in my office work, almost in a trance, trying not to get distracted. Total concentration with my eyes glued to the computer. Yes, I must finish this today. Manifesting responsible adult, responsible adult , until the incessant bell on the main door breaks the silence of the store. I look at the clock and it’s almost noon. Tatiana pokes her head out of nowhere with a smile showing all her teeth.
“Your favourite time of the day,” she teases, her silky, dark, wavy hair bouncing over her shoulders as she adjusts the apron around her waist.
“We’ve got a full house out there. You come to help, or should I send them in here to chat with you?”
She gives me that look that translates into don’t you even try to avoid being behind the counter again . Tatiana’s eyes can kill. I have zero proof and zero doubts.
I laugh, shutting my laptop and standing up to stretch.
“Please, the last thing anyone wants is me rambling on about budgets. I’ll be right out.”
As I step out of the office, I find myself in the narrow corridor. I take five steps to the left and arrive right behind the counter, greeted by the familiar hum of conversation mixed with the scent of fresh pastries and coffee.
The air is warm and inviting, filled with the aroma of cinnamon and cloves—Tatiana’s latest seasonal creation, a “Chai Pie” stuffed with baked apple slices, sitting proudly on display. I was not fond of the name at first, but it does look cute once it’s baked. And it smells like heaven, like Indian heaven.
The atmosphere feels just right; cozy and intimate. The autumn sun streams in through the large front windows, casting a golden glow over everything. I’ve always loved this time of year when the place truly comes alive. The regulars are here, curled up in their usual spots, while a few new faces sit scattered throughout, sipping lattes and chatting quietly. There is something about the combination of crisp air and warm, sweet flavours that seem to bring people together. Tatiana catches my eye from behind the counter and gives me a wink.
“We sold two of those Art Deco vases from the estate sale this morning,” she announces, tilting her head toward the shelf where our latest finds were displayed. “You were right about those,” she continues, “people really do love that authentic touch.”
I smile, feeling a surge of pride, and a I told you so creeping in the back of my mind. I'm glad I insisted on those.
“I knew they’d fit perfectly here. They’re so unique. Plus, who wouldn’t want to own a little piece of French history?” I ask in the most conceited tone.
As I helped prepare drinks and chatted with customers, the afternoon drifted by in a contented blur. The coffee shop is busy, but manageable. The way I like it. Every now and then, I glance at the vintage decorations in the room, memories of our trip to France flashing through my mind. That estate sale had been an adventure in itself—wandering through dusty, forgotten rooms filled with relics from a bygone era. It had been like stepping back in time. God knows how obsessed I am over these things. I can almost imagine the stories each item holds.
In the coffee shop, we all have our favourite spot. Tatiana prefers to be behind the counter; she has made sure that the first thing our customers see when they enter is the counter. Behind it there’s a light green wall covered with shelves, loaded with peonies and some modern books in pink colours. The counter is wide and long, made of oak wood, with a rustic side.
In my case, the book nook is my favourite place here. It’s usually reserved for reading club sessions as it’s farther away from the tables, giving a sense of privacy. It’s also clearly a favourite spot among regular customers, who enjoy our place to drink coffee and get some work done.
Every evening at six, we prepare this place specially for groups of people who get together to discuss their recent read over a hot chocolate or coffee with pastry. I put all my effort into designing this little corner to make it special. All the books covering the walls of this area were carefully thrifted by me , from Jules Verne’s 1920s and Jane Austin’s early 1900s editions, to more recent and contemporary. I played with the colours of book covers giving a bright, sophisticated look to it.
But despite the joy I feel, I can’t ignore that something is gnawing at me, like background noise inside my head. There is a sense of restlessness that I can’t quite shake, a whisper of longing for…something more. Maybe it’s the crisp air outside or the way the trees are shedding their leaves. Or maybe it’s the souvenir of that rainy morning with a certain faceless not-so-much stranger. My skin gets goosebumps by the mere thought of him.
It’s been almost a year since our encounter. Maybe more than that? It’s been several months since I stopped all communication with Nathaniel, skipping his calls and messages on the website. I didn’t log in, or have any form of contact with him anymore. Why? Because I couldn’t wrap my head around it, around the idea of him. I was beyond afraid of falling for him, of getting too attached and addicted to him, his presence.
One morning with him was enough for me to realize that he was too easy to fall for, and I am not ready to take the risk. Not after everything I’ve been through. What we had was meant to be fun, not me looking at my phone waiting for his texts. Not me looking forward to the end of the day for his late-night call. Even if it was still fun, I couldn’t shake the feeling of something more. So—I think it is fair to say that I ghosted him. I know, not very mature of me. But I didn’t even see his face, nor he saw mine, so we were half-way there, anyway.
I’m jolted out of my thoughts by the sound of the door chiming again. A man walks in, the beams of golden hour lighting behind him. What a way of interrupting my train of thought. I think I can almost hear the instrumental of Hello by Lionel Richie playing in the background.
Mysterious, golden man is tall, with broad shoulders and a confident stride. He is handsome in an understated way. As he approaches, I notice his dark hair and a slight scruff on his jaw. His eyelashes are long and curled, being the perfect frame for his brown-hazel eyes. He has a little dot near his nose, a beauty trait that adds to his charms. He pauses at the counter, scanning the beautifully, chalk-handwritten menu behind me with a thoughtful look before locking eyes with me. He smiles briefly, and his eyes go back to the wall behind.
Tatiana appears out of nowhere and leans over to me as we both wait for him to place his order.
“If he becomes a regular, I’m making this shift my favourite shift,” she says between her teeth, her voice low with curiosity.
I squint.
“Weren’t you taking a short meal break?”
“Haven’t you heard of intermittent fasting?” she rebuts, making me snort. She turns around to the coffee machine while I stand there, hiding my laugh behind a big smile. He smiles at me with warmth while I wait for him to place an order.
“Hey, there.” He finally lifts his head, his voice smooth and deep. “I couldn’t help but notice your setup from the outside and had to come in...everything is more striking inside, though. I feel like sitting in that area over there,” he says, pointing his hand near the book nook.
Surprised by how nice and talkative he is, I smile. Not only because he is gorgeous, but because he has such good taste.
“Glad to know the decoration is working its magic.” I pause with a smile. “What would you like to have?” I ask, curious of his order.
“Well, being my first time here, I don’t really know what to order. Is there something I should try?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow with a shrug of his shoulder.
“Oh, well in that case—” I am ready to recommend something, but he cuts me off.
“Take your time to consider it,” he states. “It’s the first time I’ve come in here, so this order is crucial in me either loving it and coming daily, or hating it and you never see this face again.” He grins. I show surprise by his statement, a smile forming on my face. “So yes, no pressure. Take your time,” he concludes.
A conceited personality with good humour. Nice .
“Oh yeah, that’s seriously something I cannot take lightly.” I pause, seeing his grin. I suppose he enjoys that I’m playing his game.
“Your order would depend on your preferences. What do you usually enjoy?” I ask.
“Well...I’d like something new. Sweet and hot. Maybe a hint of spice—do you have something like that...besides yourself?” he asks, leaning forward against the counter, pulling an arrogant smile.
I laugh.
“Oh yeah, yeah, I think I do have that. Hold on.”
He chuckles and follows me with his eyes as I take a nice piece of delicious pie from the showcase, placing it on a beautiful, porcelain, vintage plate. I turn around to face our coffee machine and prepare his coffee: strong brew, decaf, a hint of milk, and vanilla extract. I feel the weight of his gaze lingering on me. There’s something about this moment—casual, flirtatious, but also charged with a strange familiarity. It puts me both at ease and on edge.
As the coffee machine hums and hisses, I catch myself sneaking another glance at him. He took a seat by the counter, resting his elbows on the hard wood, watching me with an expression that isn’t only interested, but curious. It isn’t uncommon for us to get flirty customers, but something about him feels different.
Tatiana brushes by me with a smirk as she walks to the showcase to get another piece of pie for a different customer.
“Clearly your type,” she murmurs under her breath, her voice laced with tease. I nudged her playfully, trying to keep my cool. When I finish, I place his order in front of him.
“Hello again, Casanova. Here you have one slice of our newest creation and a hot coffee, specially modified for your taste...new, sweet, hot, with a hint of spice. I hope I hit your sweet spot,” I say, quite proud of how steady my voice sounds.
He smiles up at me laughing lightly, his eyes warm.
“Thank you...?”
“Olivia,” I introduce myself with a smile.
“Olivia,” he repeats. “I’m Adam—I have to say, if the desserts and coffee are half as good as the service, I’ll be a regular here for sure.”
“Then I guess I need to get used to seeing you around,” I say with a confident tone and conceited smile. Not only because we own this place, but because Tatiana makes the desserts, creates most of the recipes, and all her cakes and pastries are like biting a piece of heaven. I’m not even exaggerating here.
He takes a bite and closes his eyes for a moment, a satisfied smile spreading across his lips. Bingo.
“This is fantastic,” he says, his voice almost reverent. “I think you’ve made a believer out of me.”
I can’t help but smile at his reaction.
“Glad to hear it. We like to think we know our way around a dessert.”
He leans back, taking a sip of his coffee, his gaze never leaving mine.
“Mmm, Olivia, this tastes delicious. What did you put inside—is it vanilla? I think it’s vanilla.”
“Leave some mystery. If you like it, that can be your ‘the same as always’ drink as a regular here.” I say, assuming he will come back on a daily basis.
He narrows his eyes at me.
“You’re good,” he says in a low tone. “You’re really good.”
“I know, right?” I grin.
“Listen, Olivia,” he says, sipping on his coffee. “If you’re ever looking for a job, let me know. We could use having people like you.”
“Listen, Adam,” I mock his tone, “I own this place.”
His eyes widen in surprise.
“Wow,” he says, “are you hiring?” He winks at me.
I laugh lively and I open my mouth to continue our conversation, when Tatiana swoops in, her hands holding a tray with little plates and cups, breaking the moment.
“Liv, can you prepare the book nook for the book club? They are arriving any time now, and for them, we need to add an extra table.” I nod, giving Adam an apologetic smile.
“Duty calls,” I say, shrugging.
“Of course.” His smile remains constant. “I apologize for having stalled you here.”
“You haven’t.” I wink.
His stay in the shop was short. He did in fact come in for a little sweet treat, no computer or cell phone in his hand. I met his eyes a couple of times, and we smiled at each other every time our eyes locked. Ok. He’s attractive.
The rest of the evening flew by. Tatiana vacuumed the floor while I cleaned the coffee machine and the showcases, the clock reading 8:45 p.m.
“Did you empty the tip jar?” Tatiana calls out, fake smiling, knowing I never do it.
It was an ongoing joke between us. Maybe I have a problem, but I hate touching coins. The texture, the smell—yeah, not my thing. Honestly, it’s a miracle I survive behind the counter at all. Thank God for credit cards and cell phone payments, saving me from my ridiculous aversion most days.
“Absolutely, you know I always do,” I say sarcastically, wiping the last bits of dried milk and coffee off the coffee machine. Tatiana chuckles, shaking her head.
“I swear, one day our payment terminal won’t work and you will go through hell.”
I roll my eyes at her, stacking the last few pieces of porcelain neatly on the shelf. God, I love these cups. Every time I clean them, I find myself fantasizing about sneaking them home. But I don’t. They belong here, so they stay here.
Tatiana is emptying the tip jar next to me. I don’t understand how she is capable of doing so with her bare hands.
“Oooh,” I hear Tatiana’s voice in a teasing, melodic tone, “looks like someone’s got an admirer!”
I glance up to see her holding a small piece of paper in one hand, making exaggerated air quotes with the other.
“What is it?” I ask, half-amused, half-dreading what she might’ve found. She reads the note out loud, her voice dripping with stretched sweetness:
Olivia, thank you for a fun and nice chat. Your choice was indeed what I needed. I will come back tomorrow near closing time. Hopefully, you will grant me more of your time. Adam.
“Do you have anything to say to your admirer?” Tatiana looks at me with an eyebrow lifted and a wide grin, waiting for my response.
“Did he leave an actual tip?” I ask, deadpan, avoiding her mischievous gaze. Tatiana lets out a dramatic sigh, the kind that could win an award.
“Who are you trying to fool? He’s your type. He’s everybody’s type!”
I laugh as I wipe the sink.
“I’m not trying to fool anyone. He’s attractive, sure, and funny, but I’m not looking to get into anything right now.” Tatiana’s eyes narrow playfully.
“Right. Because who wouldn’t want a hot, charming man leaving flirty notes around?”
“You’re being ridiculous.” I roll my eyes. “He’s just a customer, and that’s just a friendly note,” I say, pointing to her hand holding the little piece of paper.
“Uh-huh.” Tatiana leans in closer. “Sure, Olivia. Because most customers leave notes asking for more ‘time’ with you. Face it—he’s interested.”
I sigh, drying my hands and trying not to give her more fuel.
“I’m not saying he isn’t, but I’m not interested—not now. You know that,” I respond, but knowing Tatiana, she won’t stop there. She will most likely go deep and try to get the tiniest drop of information she can as to why I’m not interested in our gorgeous, new, maybe regular, customer.
“That’s what I don’t understand. You’ve been single for way too long. You have a business, savings, your own place, and you’re gorgeous. Why are you closing yourself to everything?” She pauses, looking into my eyes. “It’s been even worse lately! Last year, I thought you were finally coming out of your own cage. You were bubbly and flirty, I even assumed you were seeing someone.”
Her last sentence hits hard. The blurry memory of him crosses my mind and it drowns me.
“Tate, I’m not ready,” I say in the lowest possible tone.
“Olivia,” Tatiana continues, “you know I love you like a sister. And I need you to understand that the situations that you lived in the past are not coming after you. People who hurt you are no longer in your life for a fair reason. But if you keep on thinking in the past and the people who did you wrong, you are allowing them to live in your present, granting them a place in your near future.”
“Good God, you give good speeches!” I look at her wide-eyed.
“I’m being serious!”
Without saying names, I know who she’s talking about. I close my eyes, taking in her words like a slow, deep breath. She’s right. Tatiana always has this way of cutting through my defences with her blunt honesty and loving intent. But knowing she’s right doesn’t make it any easier to digest.
“I know, I know,” I whisper, feeling the weight of my past like an old, heavy coat I’ve been wearing for too long. “It’s just—it’s not that simple, you know? I finally feel balanced. I found the best routine for my everyday life, I feel grounded,” I continue. “Dating would only add expectations and disappointments. I can’t set myself up for failure again. I just regained self-confidence and peace of mind,” I say, trying to ease her worries. “I’m happy, Tate. I’ve built this life, this fortress around myself. And I don’t want to think about letting someone in. Because every time I do, it reminds me how it felt when…when everything fell apart.” I try hard to keep my voice steady. Talking about the past always makes me vulnerable, even if I’m way beyond it now.
Tatiana softens her gaze, stepping closer. Her voice is quieter now.
“Liv, I get it. I really do. But sometimes the walls you build keep all the good from coming in, too.” She continues, “Please, allow yourself some fun. No strings attached.”
I let her words hang in the air, feeling the truth of them. I’ve spent so long keeping everything and everyone at arm’s length, convincing myself I was fine with it. That it was better this way. Safer.
She wiggles the note teasingly in front of me again.
“He’s not asking for a lifetime commitment, Liv. Just a bit of your time. And maybe he might end up scratching an itch you didn’t know you had,” she says, giving me her playful smile.
I chuckle, taking the note from her hand and folding it into my pocket.
“Fine, I’ll think about it,” I concede. Tatiana grins triumphantly like she’s won a prize.
“It was the ‘itch-scratching’ that made you change your mind, wasn’t it?"
I laugh at her comment.
“I’ll make sure to ask him if he’s up for scratching my itch.”
“That sounds bad, you know. Not even in a good way, to be honest.” Tatiana laughs.
“Hey! I’m quoting you ,” I say, sounding fake offended.
“Don’t blame your twisted mind on me.” She fakes disgust. “Can we get out of here? I’m tired.”
“Absolutely.” We both grab our bags and I close the door behind us.
“By the way,” she says. “If it doesn’t work out with Adam because he turns out to be a freak or something, can I keep him?” I narrow my eyes at her, shaking my head.
“What!?” she asks. “A girl’s gotta eat!”
I realize she is being serious.