Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
“Yes,” I say, though even I can’t stop my smile.
“Uh-huh.” She leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. “You realize you blush every time you talk about him, right?”
I groan. “I do not.”
“You absolutely do,” she says. “And that little grin you’re trying to fight off right now? Dead giveaway. So come on, spill it. Is there something brewing there, or are you just playing hard to get?”
I sigh, turning the mug in my hands. “Fine. We’re going out on a date.”
Larkin’s whoop startles me, sending a tiny bit of coffee sloshing over the edge of my cup. “I knew it,” she says, grabbing a napkin from the silver holder and blotting up the spill before I can. “The heat rolling off you two could have melted the butter on your amazing biscuits.”
I can’t help laughing. “You’re exaggerating.”
“Not even a little. The air practically sizzled. So, when’s the date?”
“Tomorrow night,” I say, trying for casual, but the butterflies in my stomach give me away.
She gasps, delighted. “Oh my God, Penny Bean’s got a date with Sam-Pete Rochelle, no less. The same Sam who once gave a eulogy at Floyd’s goldfish funeral because nobody else could stop laughing long enough to talk?”
“The very same,” I say with a laugh, having forgotten that bit of nostalgia. Floyd was very attached to that fish and insisted on a funeral on the square.
“Well, this I gotta hear.” She props her elbows on the table. “How’d it happen?”
I hesitate. “He just called… asked me straight out. No games, no awkward buildup. I liked that.”
Of course, I can’t tell her everything that went on before that—the trip out to his mansion, the revelation he’s a romance author and the fact he trusted me with his secret.
“Straightforward’s good,” Larkin says, nodding. “So, what’s the verdict—nervous or excited?”
“Both,” I admit. “I mean, he’s… Sam. He’s grounded, genuine and nothing like the DC guys I’ve dated who think ordering an Old Fashioned makes them deep.”
She snorts. “Let me guess—suits, cuff links and zero personality?”
“Pretty much.” I smile. “Sam’s just… different. He listens when you talk, but not in that fake polite way. He actually hears you. I don’t know… it’s hard to explain.”
Larkin studies me, her teasing playful and supportive. “Doesn’t sound hard to explain at all. Sounds like you’re smitten.”
“Don’t you start,” I warn, but my heart does that stupid little flip anyway. “We’ve only hung out a couple times.”
“Uh-huh. And how many times do you think about him when he’s not around?”
I glare at her. “You’re dangerous.”
“Occupational hazard. I spend all day surrounded by sugar—some of it’s bound to rub off.”
I grin, shaking my head. “You really are something.”
Larkin pops up from the chair. “I gotta get a tray of cookies out. Want a refill on the coffee? Another croissant?”
“Lord, I don’t need another one of those. Take your time.”
I scroll my phone, savor the last few bites of my pastry, and finish my coffee.
The bell above the door jingles again, and before I can turn, a voice rings out—rich like cream, a little on the high side, and unmistakably performative.
“Hide your husbands, hide your deviled eggs, and alert the town council—Morri D. is back in Whynot!”
Larkin laughs as she comes out from the back kitchen. She’s grinning with her hands on her hips. “Lord help us,” she mutters, though there’s nothing but affection in her tone.
I pivot just in time to see Morri sweeping through the door like he’s making a Broadway entrance. He’s tall, gorgeous and looks like he stepped straight out of a glossy New York fashion spread then took a wrong turn at the state line. His dark skin glows against a linen shirt the color of buttercream, his trousers are pressed sharp enough to cut glass, and his scarf—a riot of floral silk—drifts dramatically over one shoulder. Oversized sunglasses perch on top of his head amid close-cropped curls, and he carries himself like someone born to be adored.
Larkin crosses her arms. “I thought New York was keeping you busy, city boy.”
“New York,” Morri says, drawing out the syllables like he’s exhausted by the very idea, “was draining my spirit and ruining my cuticles. I needed to come home and breathe some honest-to-God Southern humidity.”
He sweeps his gaze toward me, a grin spreading across his face. “Look at what the cat dragged in… Miss Penny Pritchard.”
I stand up and air-kiss his cheeks. “It’s good to see you, Morri.”
“And it’s good to see you too,” he says, taking both my hands and squeezing them. “I heard you came back to open Central Café and have been dubbed by the town as savior of biscuits and patron saint of caffeine. Honey, your name has reached the outer boroughs.”
I laugh and wave him off. “That’s an exaggeration.”
He presses a hand to his chest. “Not in my circles. I had a man in Chelsea tell me your bacon melts away despair. I wept.”