Page 10 of Yours Temporarily

CHAPTER 4

Zuri

I pace the café’s tiled floor. Each step echoes in the space with chipped chairs upturned on the wobbly tables. I don’t need to walk around the wall to know the other half of the café is set up the same way. Ten tables, each with four to six chairs. Yep, not quite what I envisioned for my plan. And settling for less isn’t how I want to start a business.

But that’s the least of my problems. Jeremy will be here soon. With the way he keeps time, he might be twenty or thirty minutes early.

I rub my eyes, not proud of how I’m going about this. Relying on his financial assistance feels like an odd compromise. I’ve always dreamed of visiting Colorado, and under different circumstances, attending a wedding with Jeremy wouldn’t require such a trade. But the harsh reality is my café needs this money.

A steely cold tightens its grip around my stomach, and I press my hands against the clamping pain. More than the café’s future unsettles me. Confidence prompted me to text, but was I wrong to meet here after work hours and disrupt his schedule?

As I glance toward the kitchen, at the cash register where bags of our dinner supplies await, a soft knock at the half-open door jolts me back to reality. Jeremy emerges, handsome as if he just stepped out of a glossy magazine. His brown hair, sleek and well combed, shines under the recessed lighting. His broad shoulders stretch out the crisp white button-down, neatly tucked into navy dress pants.

My heart lurches to a stop, misses a beat, and then starts to thump. How misguided my grand plan for this meeting was! With his sophisticated air and polished appearance, he’s out of place in my work-in-progress café. He’s too refined for a self-prepared dinner here. As for my fantasies about him since the day we met, they’re just dreams. The last time I dated someone in my brother’s circle, I ended up messing up his friendship. If I fall for Jeremy and things don’t work out, Damien might have to find another job. But that won’t be a problem because I’m not Jeremy’s type. Well, I’d thought I was Mike’s type, but he didn’t find me attractive enough to stick with me. So, I have no idea whose type I am. With each step Jeremy makes forward, my confidence wavers and morphs into a growing sense of inadequacy. I feel every bit too unsettled, too short not to be overlooked.

“Hello.”

I shake my head and work to breathe normally. His approach, weaving through the haphazardly pushed-aside tables and chairs, seems almost tentative. The soft padding of his leather dress shoes against the beige tile floor marks his progress.

Clearing my throat, I straighten up and muster a smile that better conceal my nerves. “I hope you don’t mind meeting here.” Good. I sound more confident than I feel.

“Not at all.” He pauses to sit on the edge of a table and scans the space. “It’s been a while since I’ve been here.”

“Three months is a long time for a restaurant to be closed. I got a good deal on the lease because it had sat so long.”

He scratches his stubbled jaw. “I haven’t been here in a year. Most times, I eat at my desk. Jill arranges my food delivery.”

And here’s an opportunity to share my vision. “That’s why I need this café. To convince people like you to step away from your desk when it’s mealtime.”

“Is that so?” His well-sculpted mouth curves into such a charming smile I can’t maintain eye contact, so I start walking and beckon him to follow.

“As you can see, changes are necessary.” I gesture around the room, my fingers brushing over the vacant tables and chairs. “I want this place to be a haven for conversations, an escape from the office routine.” I pause to face him. “You know what I mean?”

Jeremy shakes his head, his gaze shifting from the dark-gray walls back to me. His warm blue eyes seem to absorb every detail. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

A nervous chuckle jitters free, and I wring my hands. “No, far from it. My blog was my focus, but it never paid the bills.” But he doesn’t have time to listen to me ramble, so I steer the conversation elsewhere and guide him to the wall bisecting the café. “I’m not sure who designed this layout, but I spoke with your company’s architect. This isn’t a support wall, so it can be torn down. It’s less than inviting now.”

He holds up a hand, stilling me. “By less inviting, you mean?”

“Closed off.” I fumble with my sleeve. “An open space feels warmer, more communal. People can see each other, maybe even interact over their meals.” More than anything, I believe in the power of food to bring people together. “Food has a unique way of opening people up and fostering connections. It’s a powerful tool in combating loneliness.”

“That’s a concept I’ve never encountered before.”

Pointing at him, I grin. “You will soon.” Especially since I’m hoping to cook with him and discuss this whole fake-date arrangement. My plan now seems tangible with him standing here, though it still feels like a leap into the unknown. At least, this is the perfect setting to ease my nerves.

“I want to show you something.” I beckon him toward the kitchen. The small functioning fridge’s familiar hum fills the otherwise silent space, a stark reminder of the broken commercial fridge, a dormant giant needing replacement. The freezer, too, might need a fix. These are just a few of the many expenses looming over my start-up dream. In the meantime, I’m paying the lease without turning any profit. I try not to think about that.

I grab the red apron hanging by the kitchen entrance and toss it to him. He catches it, eyeing its carrot and herb decorations. Slipping mine with its puff-print cupcakes over my head, I tie it at the back.

“What do you want me to do with this?” He waves it at me.

“We’re going to cook our dinner.” I stifle a laugh at what could be a challenge to him. His eyes widen. I know full well his hectic work schedule probably means a late-night dinner. “You haven’t eaten yet, right?”

“I usually order takeout.” He shrugs and slips on the apron.

“I figured as much.” Damien often mentions Jeremy’s long office hours. “I thought it’d be a good idea to discuss your brother’s wedding and the whole fake-date situation while we cook.”

“Okay.” He moves to the sink and rolls his shirtsleeves higher. Then he fumbles with the apron strings, and I laugh, step close, and show him how to tie it properly. But he’s grumbling. “For your information, the only reason I’m wearing an apron for the first time is that I know you’re taking charge of whatever we’re cooking.”

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