1. Neesha #2
“You asked for a maple café au lait with oat milk and one pump of syrup.” I motion toward my dead espresso machine. “Since this isn’t working, I used our house blend.”
She puckers her mouth in disgust. “Ew, this tastes like gas station coffee. Worse than engine oil.”
I cross my arms. “Oh, really? You’ve tasted engine oil before?”
Her eyes narrow. “No. But I’m sure it’s that bad.”
I clamp my mouth shut and remind myself that assault charges would definitely affect my Seattle bakery fund.
“I’ll make you another drink,” I say, barely containing my frustration. “What will it be?” I grab a new cup, mostly to avoid launching a cupcake at her head .
“Are you actually telling me you can’t make my signature drink?” she practically shouts.
Every person in the cafe stops what they’re doing to watch our little drama unfold, and I’m pretty sure I’ve never wanted to disappear more in my entire life. Instead of trying to understand my situation or showing a little compassion, she’s faulting me for a broken machine.
“I’m happy to make you an alternative and give you a refund,” I say calmly.
She heaves a long sigh like I’ve ruined her entire day. “What kind of cafe is this without a working espresso machine?”
Something cracks inside me—the machine, my composure, maybe both. I try not to let the frustration seep into my tone. “Brittany, I’d be happy to give you a free cupcake to make up for the inconvenience.”
“But I don’t eat sugar. And I’m off gluten too.”
That’s a bald-faced lie, considering she’s posted three selfies this week holding treats from our competitor, the Maple Grounds Bakery.
I give her a tight smile. “Of course you are.”
She rolls her eyes so hard I think they might pop out. “This place has gone downhill. I only came because Nate said we should support Emmy ’ s bookstore.” Emphasis on my friend’s ownership and not mine .
Even the mention of my ex’s name is like pressing on a bruise that’s still sore. The reminder that he was with both of us for months—me thinking we had a future, her knowing she was the real choice—confirms my deepest fear that I’m forgettable. Replaceable.
“Forget it.” She waves a hand dismissively. “I’ll go to Maple Grounds, where they know what they’re doing.”
She whips around and storms out, marching straight into traffic without looking. A beat-up pickup truck slams on its brakes, narrowly avoiding a Brittany-shaped dent in his bumper.
I sigh. Some people have all the luck .
“Ignore her,” Mrs. Nelson murmurs, setting her cup down and giving me a look of understanding. “Anyone who turns down your cupcakes has questionable judgment, at best. We understand you can’t help the espresso machine breaking.”
“Thanks,” I say, the humiliation rising in my throat. I hate that I let Brittany affect me after I promised Emmy I could handle her myself.
Mrs. Nelson gives my hand a pat before she and Mary-Ellen hurry out the door. I assist the remaining customers, but the stranger keeps his distance, browsing the bookshelves as the cafe gradually empties.
When the last customer leaves, I let out a breath and turn toward the silent machine.
Everything’s falling apart, which would be fine if I were the kind of person who had backup plans or money to fix it.
But I’m more of a “wing it and hope for the best” type, which works great until your espresso machine decides to die on the same day your ex’s girlfriend shows up to remind you why you have trust issues with men.
The espresso machine was supposed to be my investment in the future, something I could take with me to Seattle when I finally open my bakery. Emmy let me buy it myself for exactly that reason.
But now it’s broken, I don’t know how it works, and I definitely can’t afford a repair guy, not when I’m already eating ramen for dinner so I can save for Seattle. My bank account has seen better days—specifically, days when it had more than $47 in it.
“I didn’t know Regina George had a twin,” a voice says behind me.
I whip around to see the cute stranger standing on the other side of the counter. “Regina George?”
“The blonde who hassled you. Giving off major influencer-who-thinks-service-workers-are-invisible vibes.” His eyes are kind, not mocking, which somehow makes me feel a little better.
“Oh, that’s just Brittany,” I say. “She’s had lots of practice treating people like furniture. Do you want some coffee or a cupcake? Both are guaranteed to be less toxic than her personality.”
He smiles, then nods toward the espresso machine. “Do you need help with that first?”
“You’re an espresso-machine repair man?” I ask, frowning. That would be way too coincidental right now.
“No, but I’ve been told I have a talent for fixing things. I’d be willing to take a look.”
“Let me guess,” I say, looking him over. I know the type—the good-looking ones who pretend to want to help. “You’re one of those guys who thinks a broken machine and a damsel in distress equals special treatment?”
His smile deepens, which only makes him more attractive. I’ve always had a weakness for competent men with nice hands—the kind who can actually solve problems instead of just mansplaining why the problem exists.
“No special treatment expected,” he says. “But I figure if you can create something that draws a crowd like this every day, there must be something special about this place. Judging by the line this morning, it seems like a safe bet.”
I study him, lifting an eyebrow warily. “And what’s this going to cost me?”
“I mean, if the drink comes with a cupcake, I wouldn’t say no. Besides, it looks like you’ve been holding down the bookshop and cafe by yourself this morning. Let someone else help for two minutes.”
He’s either very observant or incredibly bold, and I can’t decide which is more unsettling. Most strangers don’t notice when someone’s barely holding it together, let alone comment on it.
I motion toward the machine. “Knock yourself out. You probably can’t break it any worse than I have.”
He pushes his rolled-up sleeves a little higher and circles around the counter, already assessing the machine like he’s done this before. There’s something appealing about a man who looks at a broken object and sees a solution instead of a problem.
While he crouches in front of it, I busy myself wiping the already clean counter, suddenly aware of how small the space feels with both of us in it.
“I used to fix stuff for my family’s rental properties,” he tells me while he fiddles with a few parts on the machine. “My grandfather was a handyman. Taught me everything he knew about tinkering until you find the problem.”
“What brings you to our little drama-filled corner of the world? Just passing through?”
Please say yes. Please be safe .
“Actually, I’m sticking around for a while.” He glances up at me, those clear blue eyes catching me off guard. “New job.”
“Well, I’m sorry your first visit to Falling for Books involves you fixing something.”
“It’s no problem,” he assures, reaching over the machine to study the back.
After a few minutes of poking and prodding, the machine suddenly hums back to life.
“You fixed it?” I don’t even hide the surprise in my voice.
He straightens. “You had a loose connection. Should hold for now, but you’ll want to get it serviced soon.”
I hand him a towel, our fingers brushing for just a moment. “Seriously? That’s it?”
He shrugs like it was no big deal, but he just saved my entire morning. “Broken things just need patience … and a little extra love.”
The way he says it, gently and matter-of-fact, sends a little spark through my chest, the kind I thought I’d lost forever.
“Well, let me make you a latte, then. It’s our first day of pumpkin spice season, and I owe you something.” I move toward the espresso machine, grateful to have something to do with my hands.
He leans against the counter. “I’m Lucian Lowe, by the way. ”
“Neesha Gilmore.” I begin making his drink, muscle memory taking over. “That’s unique—Lucian. Roman emperor or vampire novel?”
“Neither. It was my grandfather’s name. The handyman.”
“Ah, so fixing things runs in the family.”
“You could say that. My grandfather used to say that when things break, it’s just a chance to learn how they work.” He watches me make his drink with a focus that makes me self-conscious. “Where did your name come from?”
“My mom wasn’t into popular names. She wanted something special.” I measure the coffee precisely, needing the distraction to keep my thoughts off the way he’s staring at me. “My mom read it in a poetry book. But all my life I just wanted a name like Emily or Jennifer.”
“I get that.” He laughs lightly. “I always wanted to be Jake or Isaac. But at least Neesha is a name you won’t forget.”
I glance up, trying to read what’s behind those calm sea-blue eyes. There’s something about him, a steadiness that feels too good to be true.
Which means it probably is.
“So what’s this new job of yours?” I ask, because I need to know what I’m dealing with. Who I’m dealing with. “Please tell me you’re not associated with that Alexander guy everyone’s talking about.”
He rubs the back of his neck like he’s thinking. “Nothing like that. I’m here to help fix up a home.”
He’s being vague. Evasive. Red flags everywhere.
I hand him the latte and he pulls out his phone to pay. That’s when I notice: no ring. But his hands look like they’ve seen real work, not the soft hands of someone who’s never had to struggle for anything.
I shake my head. “I meant it when I said it’s on the house.” Then I nod toward the cupcake display. “My way to thank you. Take two, if there’s someone else you’d like to share with. ”
A girlfriend? A wife? Someone who’d make him off-limits and harmless to my heart.
“There’s no one else. It’s just me.” He scans the options and picks the cinnamon chai cupcake.
So he’s single and handy? Okay, I have to know—how is he still on the market? “Good choice. One of my favorites.”
“So I should have high expectations?” he asks.
“I meant it’s awful,” I deadpan. “Total disaster. You’ll hate it.”
He laughs and it changes his whole demeanor. “You know, for someone who makes the best cupcakes in town, you’re really bad at selling them.”
“Who says they’re the best in town?”
“The line at the cafe this morning. The way people’s faces lit up when you offered free ones. The fact that even Regina George’s twin came here first.” His eyes hold mine. “You don’t have to hide how good these are, you know.”
I look away, wiping down the counter again.
He probably thinks I’m a germaphobe based on the way I’ve been scrubbing it.
It’s just a compliment. But it’s been so long since a guy said something nice without wanting something in return that I’ve forgotten how to just accept it.
My ex had been controlling in ways that made me feel small and stupid.
It started out with his “suggestions” of what I should wear and who I should be friends with, making me feel guilty for having a life outside of him.
Nate was a master at making his control feel like caring, his jealousy like protection.
By the end, I was asking permission for things that should have been my choice.
The worst part wasn’t even the relationship itself—it’s how it messed with my ability to trust my own judgment. If I couldn’t see the red flags with him, how can I trust myself to recognize them with anyone else?
“Thank you,” I concede finally. “It was good to meet you, Lucian. And welcome to Maple Falls.”
“You too, Neesha. ”
The bell on the door jingles as he leaves, and just like that, the cafe is quiet again. I let out a long breath, my heart still galloping in my chest like a runaway horse.
I glance toward the register…and freeze.
Sitting at the top of the tip jar, folded neatly and impossible to miss, is a crisp, hundred-dollar bill.
For a moment, I just stare at it. A hundred dollars.
That’s money for my bakery, or a tiny chunk toward my mom’s leftover medical bills, or it could be a small reminder that kindness costs nothing.
Maybe this is what he meant when he said that when things break, it’s just a chance to learn how they work.
Perhaps this is how things start working again in my life.
I touch my bracelet, the tiny metallic cupcake charm smooth against my fingers, and let myself wonder if this fall might smell like something new after all. Even if it shows up wearing flannel and waving every red flag my heart has warned me against.
Outside, a single crimson leaf twirls in slow circles before drifting to the ground.
“Okay, Fall. You win. You can have the weather, the pumpkin spice, the men in flannel. But you’re not getting my heart.”