Page 3 of The Hookup Situation (Billionaire Situation #5)

JULIE

T he Tuesday morning rush hits Cozy Coffee like a caffeinated hurricane.

I’m in my element as I move like a bartender behind the counter.

Steam hisses from the espresso machine while I pull two shots at once.

The smell of cinnamon and freshly ground beans wraps around me like the quilt my grandmother made me when I was a kid.

“One maple latte, extra hot, for Mrs. Henderson.” I slide the cup across the reclaimed wood counter, already starting on the next order. “Tom, your usual black coffee’s ready. Yes, I put it in a to-go cup even though we both know you’re staying until eleven.”

He’s an older gentleman with bright blue eyes, a perfect smile, and a white handlebar mustache. I shoot him a wink. Tom grins and plops down in his favorite armchair by the window. When he crosses his legs, I see he’s wearing his favorite boots that have been through some shit.

“You know,” he says in his thick Southern drawl, “I have a few sons your age.”

“I know. Tell them to come visit me and say hello themselves. No one wants a matchmaking parent,” I remind him for the hundredth time.

Tom Valley owns Devil’s River Ranch in Texas.

He also owns a vacation escape thirty minutes away, up in the mountains.

When his sexy-as-sin sons visit Colorado, they party at Silver Sky, the next town over.

Everyone knows about the Valley boys—cocky, homeschooled Texas cowboys who mostly keep to themselves but always show up for pumpkin season.

I glance around the shop, and everyone seems happy, thrilled to be here. It’s one of the hottest hangouts in Cozy Creek, where most come to get their piping hot gossip after the sun rises.

Cozy Coffee is my second home, where I’m sure of myself, where everything works out for me.

This is my family’s eighty-one-year-old business that runs like clockwork when I’m managing.

Here, I know exactly who I am and what’s expected of me.

Here, I’m the boss. I don’t ever question the future, and there’s no confusion about my career path.

Now, my relationships? That’s a whole cluster of a conversation.

“Jules, honey, you won’t believe who I saw at the Maple Inn this morning when I stopped in to grab a newspaper.” Mrs. Patrick leans across the counter, eyes bright with gossip.

She’s part of the women’s group that I nicknamed the Fairy Godmothers over a decade ago. They play matchmaker and are always meddling in relationships around Cozy Creek under the guise of a romance book club.

“Oh?” While I don’t have time for this right now, I lean toward her with a smile to appease her.

I pour more roasted beans into the machine, knowing we’re getting low as orders print nonstop.

“Let me guess. A sexy pumpkin peeper who’s staying for the season that I should totally hook up with?”

Pumpkin peepers are what we call the tourists who have zero self-awareness, who show up just for the festivities.

“Craig Downing.” She drops my ex’s name like an atomic bomb. It’s been nearly a year since anyone has mentioned him to me.

“ What ?” It comes out louder than I meant .

Blaire clears her throat from the register, and I quickly turn back to the espresso machine, grateful for the grinding that’s drowning out the silence.

“He’s still in love with you,” Mrs. Patrick continues like it’s nothing. “I overheard him telling Jeanette at the front desk he had regrets. Said he missed home. Apparently, he moved back and broke it off with your replacement.”

I keep my voice flat. “That’s impossible. They were engaged.”

“People change their minds,” she offers. “But remember, a tiger never changes its stripes.”

The two of us have this toxic cycle. He returns to Cozy Creek, says sweet things, makes promises, and then we have sex.

But not this time. I promised myself never again.

Mrs. Patrick watches me with the intensity of a teacher who’s taught hormonal seventh-grade students for forty years—because she has. “Figured I’d give you a warning. Don’t be shocked if he strolls in here.”

“Mrs. P, it won’t matter. Trust me when I say, Craig and I are ancient history.” I flash my million-dollar smile, the one that says, I’m fine , while I force my hands to stay steady. “I want a real man.”

A college kid at the register counts out crumpled bills and loose change for a large latte. As Blaire waits for him, I wave him off, sliding an extra chocolate croissant into his bag.

“Student discount,” I lie.

We only have a senior discount, but he looks like he’s living on ramen and anxiety. I try to spread good vibes when I can.

“Thank you,” he says graciously. No way he’s a day older than nineteen.

“You’re too nice for your own good,” Mrs. Patrick says as the guy walks away, but she’s smiling. “You remind me so much of your grandmother.”

“Thank you. But don’t forget, Gran kept a metal baseball bat under the counter and wasn’t afraid to use it.” I wipe down the already-clean machine, needing something to do with my hands as Blaire rings in the following order. “I kill with kindness, caffeine, and croissants.”

The bell above the door chimes, and Mike Ashford stumbles in, nearly walking into a table and chair because he’s staring. At me. Again.

“Hi, Jules.” His face goes red as he fumbles with his debit card.

“Hi, Michael,” I say.

He’s adorable, but I’m eleven years older. At thirty-five years old, I do not want to date someone who could only recently order a drink at a bar.

“Still denying me?” He looks up at me with googly eyes.

“Yes, I am,” I say with a laugh.

I blame his reaction on my genetics. Sometimes, being a ginger goddess is a blessing, and other times, it’s a curse.

At the thought, I glance at my reflection in the espresso machine.

My red hair refuses to be tamed, and my eyes—the ones my mother insists on calling “emerald” instead of just green—stare back at me, almost hollow.

Freckles multiply across my nose anytime I even think about sunshine.

Most guys say I’m intimidating just because I have a sassy mouth and an attitude that matches my hair.

Sometimes, I’m exhausted by the attention I receive from men.

“Did you do something different with your hair?” Mike manages, still hovering by the register like he’s afraid to come any closer. “You’re glowing.”

“It’s called downing double espresso shots before nine. Caffeine makes the world go round. But thank you. I appreciate the compliment.”

He orders a simple coffee with two sugars and a splash of cream before he practically runs out of the building.

Mrs. Patrick chuckles. “That boy’s been crushing on you since high school.”

“I know, but I just can’t. Last week, I gave him dating advice and explained how having confidence is attractive.” I shake my head. “We just need to work on the execution.”

“Mm-hmm,” she says with a nod, but she’s kind enough not to push.

“Well, I’d better get going. Garden club is judging autumn arrangements today to decide which ones will be displayed in big potted plants around the town when fall officially kicks off next week.

I want to win that title. I’m sick and tired of Patty winning each year. It’s rigged, I tell you! Rigged!”

“Good luck,” I say with a laugh as she leaves, and I’m grateful that the conversation is being dropped.

Five minutes later, when I look over my shoulder, Blaire is smirking at me. And that’s when it’s confirmed she heard every damn word.

“So, Craig is back?” she whispers close to me.

I meet her eyes. “I can’t bang him while he’s here. Seriously. I’m done with him. I’m going on almost a year of no contact.”

“We have to find you a distraction.”

A chuckle releases from me. “Put me next on your love spell list.”

“I’ll make you one tonight,” she says with a wink, and we go our separate ways as the second rush comes in.

When we’re nonstop busy, I lose track of everything.

Four hours later, the shop is practically empty, and there is too much quiet and not enough distraction. Blaire and I clean so we can leave right at three when the afternoon shift comes in.

As I’m emptying and replacing trash bags by the condiment station by the door, I catch sight of a blacked-out Range Rover sliding past the wall of windows.

My traitorous heart does a stupid little skip.

Lots of people have fancy cars, and hundreds of thousands of people drive through Cozy Creek in September to catch sight of the large pumpkin patch that’s constructed in the middle of the town square.

I work on making the shop sparkle as Blaire stocks everything. Cozy Coffee is my sanctuary, my legacy, my perfectly controlled universe, where no one leaves without saying goodbye and everyone gets exactly what they ordered.

“Jules!” Finn Morrison pops his head in, still in his fire chief gear. “Just wanted to warn you, Autumn’s on her way, and she’s got that look.”

“What look?”

“You know the one.”

Autumn is my best friend, my ride or die, who used to work the morning shift with Blaire and me.

That is, until she met the love of her life, Zane Alexander, and married him.

Now, she lives in a haunted house on top of the hill that overlooks Cozy Creek—Hollow Manor.

Sometimes, when I think about it, I can’t help but laugh.

That house was the feature of our childhood ghost stories, and now it’s where Autumn calls home.

“Thank you,” I tell him, preparing myself, wondering if Mrs. Patrick ran into her and snitched about Craig being back.

“Uh-oh,” Blaire says, her crystal earrings dangling as I move behind the counter.

“Yeah. Thanks for the support,” I mutter. “If Autumn knows Craig is here, she’s going to track him down and drag him through the town square by the balls.”

Blaire bursts into laughter. “He deserves everything he has coming to him.”

I straighten my apron, tighten my ponytail, and prepare for Hurricane Autumn. At least I know how to handle her.