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No way would Viviane believe that excuse. She silenced her phone. Needing some air, she exited the car and wandered the neighborhood. Mid-century homes with lush greenery gave her the illusion she was no longer in the city.

“What the…” A rainbow flag—always a comforting hug—flew outside a small brick home in the middle of the block. A sign on the door displayedSugar Mugs.

Perfect.A quick cup would jolt her from her funk.

The shop captured the ambiance of a warm living room. Beautiful hardwood floors, shelves overflowed with books and board games, and plants. So. Many. Plants. On the wall hung photos of Seattle-based musicians Macklemore, Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Dave Matthews, Jimi Hendrix, and Foo Fighters.

Mack froze when she turned her focus to the woman at the counter.

Thick, curly red hair framed a freckled face with equally red plump lips. A floor-length flowy dress completed the modern-day Renaissance look. Full. Curvy. Round.Stunning.

Oh, holy hell… who are you?

THREE

CHARLIE’S DRINK SPECIAL: MEET-CUTE MACCHIATO

Charlie stared at the striking woman with an undercut, skinny jeans, and the whitest T-shirt Charlie would never brave wearing at the counter. A new customer! She didn’t remember every face that passed through Sugar Mugs, but she would’ve remembered this one. After a terrible night’s sleep where the bills she shoved in her desk yesterday morning haunted her, this was a perfect distraction from her sleepy gloominess. “Hey there, what can I get started for you?”

The woman shoved her hands in her front pockets. “Can I get a short drip?”

“For sure. Room for cream?”

“No, black.”

My kinda woman.“Gotcha. Anything to eat?” Charlie poised her marker over the cup and waited. And waited some more. “We’ve got fresh blackberry scones, coffee cake, brownies…”

The woman cleared her throat. “Ah, just a plain bagel.”

“Toasted?”

A smirk flashed above a sharp jawline. “No self-respecting New Yorker would ever toast a bagel.”

That voice. She had a velvet rasp like she could probably karaoke the hell outta Stevie Nicks. “New Yorker, huh?” Charlie lifted a brow. “I thought I sensed an accent. You on vacation?”

A blush swept her cheeks. “Not exactly.”

Ooh. Mysterious. I like it.

The woman stuffed a ten-dollar bill in the tip jar and moved to the pickup area.

Charlie was a sucker for accents. She wiped a phantom spot on the counter in front of the New Yorker, hoping to scrape out a few more words. “If you need any good recommendations for non-tourist, local stuff, let me know.”

The woman lifted her eyebrows. “You get a lot of tourists around here?”

“The city does, for sure, especially in the summer. But this place here”—her multiple beaded leather bracelets clicked when she waved her arm to the shop—“it stays pretty local.”

“Short drip and bagel.” Ben slid the items to the holding spot.

Damn it.

“Thanks.” The woman pulled up a barstool next to Charlie’s working station.

Yes!

The doorbell jingled. Erica and Amanda, her favorite mother-daughter duo, burst through the doors.

“Hey there!” Charlie waved. “Awww, look at you, Amanda,” she said to the bouncy nine-year-old. “I’m totally getting a glitter unicorn T-shirt for myself this weekend.”