Chapter 1
Five weeks earlier…
Lex: I’m here!
After a two-hour drive, blasting my Fuck It playlist for inspiration, I text my girls to let them know I made it.
Now parked in the driveway, I squint through the chalky, salt-splattered windshield at the little white cottage tucked among snowy trees.
This will be my home for the next six weeks. I’m equal parts excited and terrified.
My best friends are quick to respond.
Dee: You deserve this time, Lex. Love you to bits.
Jordyn: So effing proud of you, babe!!! You got this!
I respond with a stream of heart emojis and promise to give them a video tour later.
Bracing myself for the cold, I exit the car into the bitter wind that tosses my hair and stings my cheeks.
While a trip to the Caribbean might have been a more obvious choice for January, I was drawn to this coastal town.
From the pictures, it seemed an ideal place to recharge and make plans for my future.
After retrieving my bags from my trunk, I follow the shoveled pathway to the porch and punch in the security code.
Inside, the air is warm and inviting. I hang my coat on a hook by the door and line up my boots on the mat—heels even, toes pointed toward the wall.
It’s a small thing that helps me retain some sense of control.
Wandering around the cottage, I find it just as lovely as advertised.
The stone fireplace in the living room is stacked with logs ready to be lit.
I peek through the kitchen and note the ivory cabinets are filled with copper stoneware and plenty of pots and pans.
Four matching stools surround the butcher block island.
I straighten one that is slightly askew.
The bathroom is stocked with fluffy white towels and a basket of bath salts and scented soaps.
Upstairs, the bedroom loft has French doors opening to a hot tub that overlooks the icy blue water of Lake Michigan, capped with soft white waves.
The calming vista has already loosened my shoulders.
Pleased so far, I read the handwritten card propped up on the dresser:
I picture Mr. Delgado as a retired snowbird who rents out his place in the winter to fly south. He probably hires someone to handle these thoughtful details, but they’re still a nice touch.
After unpacking, I tuck my stress ball into my coat pocket. I don’t expect to need it while exploring the area, but it’s a familiar touchstone in a new situation.
Bayside is located about one hundred and fifteen miles north of Chicago.
It’s a quaint little town yet still offers many urban conveniences.
I discovered this coastal haven six months ago when my father considered building here.
The locals protested heavily. They were concerned that big box stores and high-rise condos would ruin the timeless feel of their lovely village.
It wasn’t like my father to back down from a fight—but he had.
Getting a glimpse of the beautiful coast on my drive up, I’m glad Townsen properties hadn’t taken it over.
Bundled in my down-filled coat, I stroll along the boardwalk, returning friendly greetings and browsing the shops. When I come upon a café, I’m ready to get out of the chill. I duck inside and wipe the fog from my glasses.
The Acoustic Café is aptly named. Its brick walls are adorned with guitars and vinyl records. Edison bulbs cast a soft yellow glow over the bistro tables, and there are comfy leather couches near the fireplace. I breathe in the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee and baked goods.
I love coffee shops. There’s just something about the smell and warmth that’s almost as comforting as my heated blanket.
There was a time when I thought I might own something like this.
But that dream and others were put away when I caved under the pressure to follow in my father’s corporate footsteps.
The appearance of a towering figure holding a guitar brings me back to the present. At least six foot three, with broad shoulders and a husky build, he looks like he could easily wrestle a bear or fling around a woman of five-eleven. I blush at my thoughts.
A slouch beanie hides most of his hair except for the dark, crinkly curls that dance against his neck. He pushes up the sleeves of his taupe sweater to reveal thick forearms covered in tattoos.
“Mind if I play for you?” he asks. His deep baritone carries over the chattering patrons. The small crowd quiets and then eagerly applauds, urging him on.
I linger near the entrance, watching him pull up a stool in front of the fireplace. I’m mesmerized as his inked fingers glide with fluid grace over the neck of the guitar while he sings about longing and loneliness.
His voice is richly textured. The high notes pebble my skin, and his lower register vibrates in my chest. The chorus is a smooth blend of Spanish and English that deepens the song’s emotion.
He ends with, “And I’ll find love someday,” the haunting melody fading into the silence.
His eyes open, and his fingers lift from the strings.
Only then does the audience erupt into cheers and applause.
“Thanks for listening.” He flashes a dimpled grin that gives him a boyish charm, despite his short beard and rugged stature that are all man. “It’s always a pleasure to play for you.”
Another round of applause follows as he takes his leave and moves toward the back.
I feel my cheeks heat again at the sight of just how well his jeans fit him.
He exchanges a few words with the baristas before disappearing through a door behind the counter.
It’s obvious he works here, and I wonder why a man of his considerable talent isn’t making records and selling out concerts.
I approach the counter, snapping my posture into shape.
After years of deportment classes, it’s now instinctual to straighten my spine and square my shoulders.
At nearly six feet tall with size eleven shoes to match, I was always the tallest girl in school.
I used to hunch over, shrinking my gangly body to seem as small as I felt inside.
A lushly curved woman in her late teens or early twenties is at the espresso machine. Her black apron is embroidered with the shop moniker in tan lettering.
“I’ll be right with you,” she says, steaming milk in a stainless steel pitcher. Her caramel-brown hair, styled in a dozen long twists, catches the afternoon sun like spun gold. Curly edgings frame a naturally pretty face.
She hands a to-go cup to the customer, then turns to me with a dimpled smile that resembles the one I saw on the singer just minutes ago. “Hi, welcome to the Acoustic Café. What can I get for you?”
My impulse is to order my usual: an Americano with skim milk and two pumps of sugar-free vanilla. But I’m here to start living by my own rules, and sugar-free isn’t on the list. I glance at the chalkboard menu and decide on the mocha special instead. “A tall, extra-hot, please.”
“Sure. Would you like a pastry to go with that?” She gestures to the display case. “It pairs well with our signature cinnamon loaf—it’s kind of like coffee cake, but better.”
“Sounds great.”
“You won’t be disappointed,” she promises. “I’ll warm it up. For here or to go?”
“I think I’ll stay.”
The backroom door swings open, and the sexy singer appears, tying the strings of an apron at his back.
This close, I can make out the details of some of his tattoos—a guitar, two doves, and musical notes on his fingers.
His ears are pierced with small hoops, and he has a white scar cutting through his right eyebrow, while a silver barbell at the edge of his left one winks against his hickory bronze skin.
He glances at me curiously, and I feel an odd sense of déjà vu. For a moment, I get lost in his warm brown eyes, flecked with sepia undertones, like in old photographs. He walks to the counter, boldly holding my gaze.
I drop my eyes and try to swallow the lump lodged in my throat. It goes down the wrong way, causing me to sputter and cough. Mortified, I cover my mouth, wishing I could disappear.
“Can I get you some water?” he asks, his expression pinched with concern.
I shake my head. This can’t be happening. It feels like every eye in the café is on me. I work to pull myself together, knowing that if I start to panic, I’ll only make it worse. Finally, the coughing subsides, and he hands me a napkin.
“Thank you.” I dab beneath my glasses at my watering eyes, and though I’m dying inside, I attempt a lighthearted recovery. “As far as first impressions go, that wasn’t embarrassing at all.”
“For the record, I’m impressed.” His smile deepens the dimples in his cheeks and crinkles the corners of his eyes. “And don’t worry—no one noticed but me.”
My hand slips into my pocket to discreetly squeeze my stress ball, but his easy charm makes it impossible not to return his smile.
“Is this you?” he asks, glancing at the register. “Mocha special?”
“Yes,” I nod.
He turns to the barista, plating my loaf. “I’ll make this one.”
“I’m sure you will,” she laughs, and they exchange matching grins.
“You two must be related,” I say.
“Yep, this brat is Sophia, my kid sister.”
“I’m not a kid.” She rolls her eyes in mock exasperation. “But do you think I can convince him of that?”
“Never.” He laughs, and I like the sound. It’s warm and soothing, like melted honey over fresh bread. “Grab a seat,” he says, gesturing to the dining area. “I’ll bring out your order.”
I release the ball to pull out a ten-dollar bill.
“It’s on the house.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to. Choices are always better than obligations, don’t you think?”
His words about choices hit deeper than he could know. “Thank you,” I offer sincerely, giving him another smile.
I find a table by the fire, my mind overly busy and stimulated by the sexy singer and unfamiliar surroundings. Calming the chaos in my head, I organize the sugar packets in their holder, aligning them by type—Raw Sugar, Stevia, and Splenda. There, that’s better.
Minutes later, he brings out my order. His presence draws the attention of everyone in the room. He’s met by a chorus of greetings, which he answers with chin lifts and good humor. I assume he’s the owner as I watch him stop several times to check in with patrons sipping their drinks.
A group of women at a nearby table is particularly eager for his attention. One of them calls out, “Hey C, you can sing for me anytime!” He offers them that killer smile as he makes his way toward me. If I could bottle the effect, I could sell it for millions.
“Here you go,” he says, setting down the plate and mug in front of me.
“Thank you.” I admire the artful snowflake in the foam. “Did you make this?”
“I did. Like a woman, each snowflake is unique.”
I can feel my cheeks flush. He’s entirely too charming. “I like your café.”
“Thanks. I like it, too.”
“What song were you playing earlier?”
“It’s untitled. Still a work in progress.”
He wrote it? I wonder what inspired the lonely lyrics. Surely, someone like him wouldn’t have trouble finding a willing partner.
“Customers are polite enough to let me try out my new material on them,” he adds.
“I doubt it’s politeness. You’re very talented.”
“You flatter me.” Another smile, this one more intimate, sends my heart into my throat. “I haven’t seen you here before. Just passing through town?”
“No. I arrived today for a mini vacation,” I say, spinning the truth.
He quirks his pierced eyebrow. “Most tourists come in the summer. Bayside isn’t your typical winter destination.”
“I’m from Chicago. I don’t mind the cold, and I love the water.”
“I’m the same, but I tend to hibernate in the winter with my music. When it warms up, I hit the lake—fishing and kayaking. How about you?”
“Oh, I haven’t tried any aquatic activities,” I admit. “I’m not much of a swimmer.”
“What do you like about the water then?”
“The peacefulness. The quiet. I have a wonderful view from the place I’m renting across from the beach.”
“Ah.” He grins, spinning my insides again. “You must be Lexie Monroe.”
“How do you know that?”
“You’re renting my Airbnb.”
My mouth drops. “You’re Chaz Delgado?”
“Why does that surprise you?”
“I just pictured you differently.”
“How so?”
I can’t tell him I envisioned a kindly old gentleman, not someone who would literally make it hard to swallow. “You’re just different than I imagined.”
“Hm,” he hums, amused by my cryptic answer.
“The cottage is lovely, by the way,” I quickly add.
“I’m glad you like it. Have everything you need?”
“So far, so good.” I catch myself tapping my index finger against my thumb, one of several calming habits, and switch to cradling the mug between my palms.
“Try the mocha,” he encourages. “The chocolate ganache is made in-house. Let me know what you think.”
I glance down at the delicate foam art. “It’s almost too beautiful to drink.”
“Beauty is meant to be enjoyed and experienced.”
Was this guy for real? I’ve never met anyone quite like him. The men in my circle are staid and serious, obsessed with their status. They don’t write love songs, have tattoos, or ooze sexiness from every pore.
Unsettled, I lift the mug and take a sip, praying my throat won’t betray me again. The silky latte hits my tongue, perfectly balanced with roasted espresso, semi-sweet ganache, and creamy milk. “It’s delicious.”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret.” He leans down for a conspiratorial whisper, his breath warm against my ear. “It’s even better with Kahlúa. But since I don’t have a liquor license, that’s part of the after-hours menu.”
Thank goodness I wasn’t mid-sip.
Straightening, he gives me space to form coherent thoughts again.
“Latte artist, singer-songwriter, café owner—seems you’re a jack of all trades.”
“And a master of a few.” He winks, continuing to flirt with me when I’m not a woman accustomed to being flirted with. “I hope to see you again soon, Lexie.”
He drags out my name in a slow, deliberate drawl.
I scoff at myself for the chaotic tingles taking over my body. I’m here for my health and to figure out my future—not to get distracted by a too-smooth man I wouldn’t even know what to do with.