3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Lattes, Letdowns + a Little Shot of Rum
Aspen
Six months ago.
By the time I make it to HollyDates, the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg smacks me in the face like a scented intervention.
The place looks like a department store holiday aisle exploded.
Twinkle lights still strung from Halloween, turkeys with glitter feathers hanging from the ceiling, and Christmas trees peeking from the corners like they’re early to the party.
Because here in Cinnamon Grove, every season is a holiday season. And at HollyDates, every day is a reason to celebrate.
It’s chaotic, ridiculous…and a little bit perfect.
I spot Tatum instantly, perched in our usual corner booth.
Her nails are fire-engine red, her big, bushy blonde curls styled to perfection, and she’s already halfway through her “Peppermint Pick-Me-Up,” the seasonal drink she swears gets her through deadlines and dramatic life updates. Of which I am currently providing both.
I don’t even head to the table first. I beeline for the counter where Holly is humming Olivia Dean and decorating a cookie to make it look like it’s wearing a bikini.
“Holly,” I whisper, breathless.
She looks up from behind the counter, grinning. “Aspen, darling. Let me guess—nutmeg latte, oat milk, extra foam?”
I nod, stepping closer. “Yes. And if you love me even a little, you’ll toss in a shot of rum.”
She blinks. “It’s eight in the morning.”
“It’s Thursday,” I counter flatly.
Her brow furrows. “Ummm.”
I give her my most serious don’t-play-with-me-woman look. “Holly.”
She lets out a loud laugh, but starts reaching under the counter. “Okay, fine! The customer is always right!”
“Thank you,” I whisper in desperation.
While waiting for my drink, I take a breath and finally face the text from my mother I’ve been too anxious to touch all morning.
Me: Still not sure if I can make it to the baby shower. And no, you can’t know the last name of the man I’m seeing so you can add him to your prayer wall.
Here is the thing, my mother knew about Croix, but only in theory.
I’d always told her I was seeing someone, but I’d framed it as “respecting her too much” to introduce her to a man who might not last. It was a convenient little game because it kept her happy enough to send me home with extra plates of food, and ask polite questions about our dates without actually invading my privacy.
But now that Croix and I are over, just friends, and she’s demanding I show up to a family function with a plus-one, I’m seriously questioning why I ever opened my mouth about the man in the first place.
Then I remember exactly why. Because my mother had a dream that I’d be married by this time this year.
My mother is a dreamer. If you grew up in a Black family, you know the matriarchs usually are.
They are known to pass down prophetic messages through their dreams, and surprisingly, many of them actually come true.
My mother is ours. And while I respect her gift and everything that comes with it, I really need her to mind her business right now.
Because rather than fighting the most recent string “prophecies” and “premonitions,” I’d simply decided it was easier to go along with the narrative and allow her to think Croix and I might be going somewhere, too. Poor Croix ended up being a casualty of it all.
Drink in hand, complete with my contraband splash of rum, I weave through the crowd toward the corner booth where Tatum is busy scrolling through her phone.
“Put your phone down,” I say, sliding into the seat across from her. “This is going to require your full attention.”
“One sec,” she mutters, still typing. “Just hitting send and…” Her thumb taps the screen, and then she flips her phone face down.
“Okay. I’m all yours.”
“I wasn’t interrupting anything important, was I?”
“Actually?” she says, a flash of excitement lighting up her whole face. “I just got invited to interview with the Atlanta Strikers soccer club!”
I gasp. “No way!”
Tatum has known me since high school. We ran track together, though she took it way more seriously than I ever did. She came from the kind of life that demanded success, or the environment would swallow you whole. From the moment I met her, she knew she wanted a career in sports.
At first, she stuck with track, but she realized she hated how much the travel kept her away from her brother.
Then she considered sports management before realizing she couldn't stand the politics.
The sexism never bothered her. Ultimately, marketing and PR swept her off her feet.
Now she is the youngest team lead at Beaumont Sports Network, crafting campaigns for elite athletes like she was born for it.
And for the past six months, she’s been the only person I’ve been able to talk to intimately about Croix. So in a weird, full-circle way, it feels fitting that she’s now interviewing for a job with his team.
“Yes, girl! My second interview is with one of the female owners in two weeks. I’m so excited.”
“And I’m so proud of you! What are Eros and Ares Beaumont going to do without you? You’ve basically rebuilt BSN’s marketing department from the ground up.”
Tatum just takes a sip of her latte and shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I’m sure the billionaires sports moguls can afford a headhunter. Besides, Ares is the one who recommended me for the job. It was a no-brainer, according to him.”
“Wow,” I say with admiration. “Look at you. Boss moves only.”
“Okay, enough about me! Did I read your text right?” she leans in. “Croix proposed? On actual bent knee like a Boyz II Men ballad?”
I laugh into my latte. “Yes! And the ring was stunning, but—”
“But, what the actual fuck?” Holly yells from across the counter.
Tatum and I whip our heads toward her. “You heard that?” Tatum blinks. “We’re at least a hundred feet away.”
Holly shrugs, untying her apron as she hands a cup of coffee to her last customer. Surprisingly, customers are very accepting of Holly’s colorful language. “Honey, I used to work with badass toddlers. I know how to activate the mom-hearing gene when I need to.”
I take a deep breath and another long sip. “Come on over then, so you don’t pull a muscle in your neck trying to eavesdrop. This one might need a whole committee, anyway.”
She pours herself a coffee, adds a shot of rum to match mine, and slides into the seat across from us.
“Okay,” she says, clapping her hands like we’re about to start a reality show confessional. “Back up to the part where you turned down an engagement ring when men are scarcer than rain in the Sahara.”
We all bust out laughing, loud enough to draw a glance from an elderly couple in the other corner, but neither of us cares.
Tatum clears her throat dramatically. “So, turns out stringing him along for six months wasn’t the best strategy, huh?”
“Shut up,” I snap, tossing a napkin at her. It’s the only comeback I’ve got because, unfortunately, she’s not wrong.
“All because you couldn’t be honest with your mother about her dreams.”
“Again,” I say with a plastic smile. “Shut. Up!”
Tatum might be blunt to the point of rudeness, but she’s never been dishonest. She’s the kind of woman who dates men for what they bring to the table—not for fairy tale endings—and she lets them know her agenda up front.
Maybe that’s why she always saw through my situation with Croix.
She never bought into the idea that something lukewarm could boil into love.
“Plus, I’ve been saying you weren’t into that man like that,” she says, folding her arms.
I groan, letting my head fall back against the booth cushion. “I know, I know. But I really thought love would come eventually. I thought maybe I was just…slow to burn.”
“Girl, you were room-temperature this whole time,” she says with a smirk.
Even Holly winces in sympathy as she sips her drink. “Oof. I can’t believe he held on for that. And proposed.”
“Once we talked it through, he got it,” I say, wrapping both hands around my warm cup. “Deep down, I think he felt the same. He just thought a proposal might move things along. Move me, I guess.”
Tatum shakes her head slowly. “Geez. He’s worse than the women who think a baby will save a marriage.”
“It’s not like that,” I defend. “Haven’t you ever held on to something too long? Even if it was just for the comfort of it?”
Holly and Tatum exchange a quick glance, then look back at me with twin expressions.
“No,” they say flatly in unison.
“I hate you both.” But I’m smiling.
“Look, Aspen,” Tatum says, leaning forward. “I hate to say I told you so, but that man has been trying to sleep with you for six months, and you’ve been treating him like your co-worker with HR over your shoulder.”
I wince. “But we had so much fun together, Tay. We were even planning to take French classes together so we could learn how to talk shit about people in another language.”
Tatum rolls her eyes. “And that makes him your bestie, not your baby daddy. You don’t want to climb him like a tree. You want to high-five him after soccer matches and text him memes about your menstruation.”
Holly snorts into her drink. “Yeah. I’ve seen the roster of manliness on that team.
I’d gladly mount any of them—consensually, of course—and then very disrespectfully.
The fact that you’ve had unfettered access to one with an Irish accent who worships the ground you walk on, and you never even attempted to get in his pants? Honestly, I’m ashamed of you.”
I open my mouth to defend myself. Say something that makes this all sound less tragic. But all that comes out is a groan.
Because they’re right.
Both of them.
And I hate it here.
Tatum folds her arms. “So, here’s what’s going to happen. You are absolutely coming to Vegas with us next month.”
I whine. “Girl, I can’t. Work is crazy right now. You know that place falls apart without me whenever I’m not there and I always return to a forest fire of issues.”
“Bullshit,” Holly coughs into her drink without even looking up.
I blink. “I beg your pardon?”
She sets her mug down. “I said bullshit. No one person is holding a whole ass hospital together, Aspen. Delegate. Train someone. Or admit you’re hiding behind work as a cop-out.”
I flip her the bird, and she just smirks and sticks her tongue out at me.
“You’ve said it yourself,” Tatum adds. “All you do is work, and that’s why it made it easier to ignore the faux relationship you’ve been carrying on with Croix. Come to Vegas. Live a little.”
One of our old sorority sisters just got divorced and hit the financial lottery in the settlement.
Mylene’s going full Big Vegas Energy to celebrate, complete with first-class flights, penthouse suites, unlimited drinks, spa days, and shopping sprees.
And while everyone else RSVP’d immediately, I’ve been playing the, “I’ll see,” game every time they try to lock me in.
“Come to Vegas with us, Pen,” Tatum says, her voice softening. “Let us get you out of your comfort zone while we spend all of Kevin Spencer’s money.”
Kevin Spencer. Mylene’s ex-husband. Professional ball player, disappointment, and casual misogynist. Honestly, spending his money would be its own kind of healing.
I crack a smile, but I don’t say anything.
Tatum sees the hesitation and pounces. “When was the last time you did something just for you? Something a little crazy?”
“I don’t do crazy,” I say flatly. “My momma raised me Pentecostal.”
Tatum flashes me a sneaky grin. “Well, no friend of mine is leaving this earth without having at least one reckless weekend in Vegas. We can pray about it afterwards.”
Holly clinks her mug to Tatum’s. “Yes! I still remember my first wild night in Vegas. It’s basically a rite of passage.”
I squint at both of them. “Rite of passage in what world?”
Holly smiles sweetly. “The one where someone clearly dropped you on your head and made you think love would magically appear between you and a sexy man when you had zero sexual chemistry between your legs for him. You need a reboot, baby. A reset to remind you what chemistry and connection is supposed to feel like. And I think Vegas is just the place.”
“Explain to me how a city literally nicknamed for sin is where I’m supposed to find chemistry and connection?”
Tatum smirks over the rim of her cup. “Nope. You’ll just have to come and find out for yourself.”
Holly shrugs. “Seeing is believing, baby.”
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “Okay, bitches. I’ll think about it.”
“Think fast,” Tatum warns. “We leave in two weeks, and the only drama I want on this trip is whether we end up on a yacht or in jail again.”