3. Annabelle
Annabelle
The Frostline has heavy tables and corner booths with dark leather seats, lit with exposed Edison bulbs overhead and electric candles in birchbark holders on the tables. The wall art is black and white nature photography in matte frames.
I want to sit by the massive stone fireplace in the corner, but the seats around it are already taken.
In the center of the room, six middle-aged corporate types sit at the largest table with appetizers and pitchers of beer.
The men are wearing dress shirts with fleece vests over them, while the women sport sweatshirts that say Solduxe in a cursive font.
They’re loudly debating the best project management system.
Not how I’d want to spend a Friday night, but they seem very passionate about software.
I take a seat at the bar. The bartender is young and pretty, with lush brown curls and a dimpled smile. She hands me a specialty cocktail menu. Her eyes slide over to the businesspeople. “Unless you’d prefer beer or wine?” She sounds sad at that prospect.
“What’s your favorite cocktail to make?” I ask.
“Right now, it’s the winter cosmo.”
“You know, I was just saying to myself that I love a cosmo and I wondered if there’s a winter variety I could try.”
“Did you now?” She raises her eyebrows. “You said that?”
“If I didn’t, I should have.” I give her my credit card. “One winter cosmo, please.”
She fills a shaker with ice, then adds white cranberry juice, vodka, lime syrup, and orange liqueur.
She does a movie-style cocktail shaking dance, then strains the contents of the shaker into a wide-bowl glass.
She takes a moment to add a delicate sprig of rosemary and two sugared cranberries before placing it in front of me.
“This is gorgeous,” I gush. “Almost too pretty to drink.”
“But you’re going to anyway?” She lifts her chin with pride.
“Heck yes I am. But just know, I’ll have a tiny bit of regret in my heart.” I take a sip and put a hand over my chest. “The regret is fading, because this is delicious.”
She grins and then moves down the bar to help the man who just walked in. It’s my doorman from the bakery. I don’t know why I’m surprised to see him again. What did I expect in a small town?
He removes his beanie and runs his fingers through shiny brown hair that floats into place as if it hadn’t been mashed down by a hat a second ago.
He shucks his coat to reveal a plaid flannel shirt, unbuttoned to reveal his t-shirt underneath.
My fingers give an involuntary twitch, dying to reach over and see if the flannel of his shirt is as soft as it looks.
I thread my fingers in my lap, making them still.
He stands at the bar, chatting with the bartender as she makes his cocktail, and finally turns my way. I raise my eyebrows and lift my drink. “Just so you know, confusing men with doors isn’t my signature move.”
“That’s a relief,” he says. “Not sure the bakery’s heating bill could take another standoff.”
I indicate the empty seat next to me. “I’m not even blocking barstools these days.”
“All right, then.” He accepts his drink, thanks the bartender, and takes his cocktail to the far corner booth.
I watch him go, then turn back to the bar. “Seriously?”
The bartender gives me a sympathetic nod. “Seriously.”
So much for that.
I decide that’s a good thing. The best thing. I’m new here. Fresh off a breakup. Not the time to meet interesting men who are very hot and clearly single. My brain knows this. My hormones just need a minute to catch up.
I have pencils and a sketchpad in my bag.
I should be working on new card designs.
But I don’t want to. I drove across the whole state today, and I deserve a minute to relax.
I swivel on my barstool. My gaze rolls over the knot of people near the fireplace, past the big table in the center of the room, landing on the hot guy in flannel.
I’m not staring. I’m trying to read his t-shirt.
I can only make out “Mi Bet Ha.” What does the rest of it say?
Over at the central table, the conversation gets louder.
They’ve moved on to “leveraging synergies,” whatever that means.
Then one of the men launches into a story that involves bootstraps and a tough management style, because, “I’m done coddling Gen Z crybabies.
” Just to be more gross, he adds in some homophobic and ableist slurs.
The men at the table laugh. The women exchange a look but say nothing.
Disappointing. I know it’s hard to be a woman at a table full of dude bros, but come on, ladies! Do better.
The guy in the corner tilts his head toward the loud table and back to me, as if asking for my opinion. I turn up my nose in an “eww” face. He nods in agreement.
While the Solduxe people go on about crushing the competition and having the best sales prospects in the Midwest, I pretend to fall asleep at the bar. When I open my eyes, he’s laughing, brown eyes crinkling up.
I put my hands under my chin in mock prayer, praying for escape. My new friend nods in agreement, his eyes rolling toward heaven.
Solduxe is looking forward to a big meeting with someone named Bronson. They’re going to keep going until they find the sweet spot, keeping it hands-on while drilling down to the most important action item, all while straddling objectives.
The guy in the corner tilts his head toward them and mimics a hand job. I cough into my fist to disguise a laugh, which only encourages him.
But what really sets us off is when the youngest of the business bros says—more than once—that he wants to “open the kimono.” My friend looks left and right, grabs either side of his flannel shirt, and holds it open.
I can finally read his t-shirt. It says “Michigan’s Better Half” with the outline of the Upper Peninsula.
I’m done. Gone. This man is more than attractive. He seems fun.
The bartender runs the blender. The conversation at the fireplace is low in the background. The business theater goes on. Meanwhile, we’ve got our own private channel and are saying a whole lot of something.
I grab my sketchpad and a marker from my bag.
I write nice shirt in block letters and hold it up.
He pats his pockets as if looking for a pen to write me back, then spreads his hands.
Empty. He raises his eyebrows and waits, eyes locked on me for seconds that seem like hours.
I go warm all over and every nerve in my body is concentrated between my legs.
When he points to the seat across the booth, I gather my tote bag and drink, and head over.
“So you don’t like sitting at the bar? Is that it?” I ask.
“The bartender is my cousin. She gossips.”
“Well, you do look like tomorrow’s scandal, so…”
“Quick. Sit. Shield me.”
I sit opposite him. “I’m Annabelle.”
“Grant.” He lifts his drink and I lift mine. We clink glasses. He takes a small sip, his lips kissing the edge of the glass.
“That looks delicious,” I say.
Grant nods. “It’s called a Northern Flame. Made with cinnamon schnapps. Warms you up on a cold night.”
“Not many men drink cocktails.”
“They’re missing out.” He says it with calm confidence that’s extremely attractive.
Loud laughter erupts from the center table. Grant frowns at them. “I take it you don’t work for Solduxe?”
I try to parse the logo on their clothing, but it’s nothing but generic circles and lines. “What do you suppose they do?”
“No idea.”
One of them chokes on something. He coughs and swears while his buddy pounds his back and the others laugh at him. “I’d like to find out,” I say.
“Why?”
“So I can do whatever’s the opposite of that.”
“What do you do?” he asks me.
“I design greeting cards.” I’m getting used to saying it and decide that I like it. I let out a breath that feels like exhaling all the stress of last year. I’m glad to be here. Glad I took the chance to work for myself. To make my dream come true.
“Wow,” he says. “Until today, I didn’t know that’s a job.”
“It is, though.”
“Of course it is. Someone writes those words.”
“Unless the card’s blank. In that case, you write them.”
“I never buy those. I never know what to say.”
“See?” I lift my drink with a satisfied smile. “The world needs me.”
“My hero.” He’s staring at my left hand. No ring. He’s noticed. “Are you Up North with friends?” he asks.
“Just me.”
“We don’t get many solo travelers.” He tilts his head and gives me a minor squint, as if he can’t quite figure me out.
That makes two of us. I mean, I think I know what I’m doing, but I’m not a hundred percent sure. More like fifty? Maybe moving to Echo Creek will be the best move I ever made. Maybe it will be a bust, and I’ll scoot back to Ann Arbor, out of business and flat broke. Again.
But that can’t happen. I can’t let it happen. I believe in my greeting cards, and I believe I can make a living from them. I inherited a building, fully paid-for, with an apartment to live in and space to rent out. It’s the cushion I need to get started.
I think. I hope.
“So you’re from Michigan,” Grant says.
“What gave it away?”
“Your accent more than anything else. But you don’t sound like a Yooper. More like someone who’s grateful she made it across the Mackinac Bridge before the storm hit. Are you from Detroit? Grand Rapids?”
“Ann Arbor,” I say. “And don’t you dare call me a troll.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You’re thinking it.”
“Of course I’m thinking it. I meet someone who lives below the bridge and…” He spreads his hands. “But I won’t say it out loud. My mama raised me right.”
“Good mama.”
“The best.” Grant takes a drink. “What was your bridge song?”
“How did you know I—” I cut myself off as I deflate in my seat. My voice is very small as I ask, “Does everyone have a special song they play when they cross the Mackinac Bridge for the first time?”
He nods.
I thought I was so cool, starting my song the moment my front wheels touched the edge of the bridge. I felt like the adventure was truly beginning and I wanted to mark it with a soundtrack as I drove across the five-mile span. Turns out I’m not cool at all. I’m a cliché.
Grant puts his elbows on the table. “It was Taylor Swift, wasn’t it?”
“Ha. It was not Taylor Swift.”
He tilts his glass toward me. “Indigo girls? ‘Closer to Fine?’”
My jaw drops. “Dammit.”
“It was, wasn’t it?”
I crumple in the booth. “Well, that’s embarrassing.”
“Why?” he asks. “The Barbie soundtrack is iconic.”
I perk up a little. “You liked that movie?”
He shrugs. “It wasn’t bad.”
My estimation of him skyrockets. A man who likes Barbie, even if he won’t admit it, is a man I want to know.
He’s still considering me, his gaze thoughtful. “Is that how you felt while crossing the bridge? Like you were getting closer to fine?”
“How I wanted to feel,” I say.
The whole way up here, I gave myself a pep talk like I was my own life coach. This is good. This is brave. This is a fresh start.
The farther north I went, the more the pines took over while the drifts got higher.
Before I even crossed the bridge, it felt like I’d already crossed into a different version of winter.
Bold. Strong. Impressive. It fit, and I wanted to be bold, strong, and impressive too.
So I chose my song and made sure it was ready.
“What else did you listen to on the bridge?” Grant asks me.
“That’s it.”
“It takes about seven minutes to cross. Longer than one pop song.”
“Not if you hit repeat.” I hold up three fingers.
“I’ll drink to that.” He lifts his glass. I lift mine. Both are empty.
Grant raises his eyebrows and waits, hope and anticipation in his expression. He’s flirting. He’s sending me signals. But he’s a gentleman, waiting for me to make the first move.
I could end it here. Say goodnight, nice to meet you, and we’d go our separate ways. See each other around town. Be friendly.
Or we could extend this evening into an adults-only place. I could take him up to my room and hurl myself at him, trading wise decisions for orgasms.
This man is attentive. He’s buff. I bet he’s got stamina.
Those orgasms are going to be exceptional.
I put down my empty glass. “How about another?”