Page 11 of Sweet Somethings

Three

By four o'clock in the afternoon, his shoulders were aching as well as his back, and Roman decided to call it a day. He didn’t want to jeopardize his recovery by overworking his muscles.

Throwing on his black leather jacket, he locked the front door of the house to avoid any more unwanted visitors and headed downtown for some coffee. It was only about a mile and a half to the center of town, and he was happy for the walk.

As he neared Juliette's bakery, he deliberately crossed the street. While he might take her up on her offer of a free pastry one day, that day wouldn't be today. He'd spent far too much time already thinking about her. He needed a break before he saw her again.

Walking into Donavan's, he was immediately struck by the warm, charming atmosphere. With exposed brick walls, wooden tables, and an old piano in one corner, the coffeehouse felt more like someone's living room than a café.

A large chalkboard on one wall detailed the day's specials. A charming array of mugs sat on the counter and inside the display case he saw brownies, cookies, eclairs, and pastries from Sweet Somethings. Obviously, Donavan and Juliette had a business relationship as well as a friendship.

As he looked around the room, he saw his grandfather sitting at a table in the corner with his friend Max, an African-American man in a wheelchair. Vincent had his back to him and Max's gaze was focused on the chess board, so he left them alone and headed to the counter.

When he stepped up to order, a striking blonde, wearing a bright-red apron, came over to the counter, her blue eyes sparkling a familiar welcome. "Roman Prescott. It's about time you came in here. I heard you've been back almost two weeks, and this is the first time I've seen you."

"Hello, Donavan. Nice place you have here. My grandfather tells me this coffee shop is the best thing that ever happened to this town."

She smiled at the compliment. "It's certainly the best thing that ever happened to me. I'm glad he feels the same way."

As he drew in a breath, his senses were assailed with the scent of coffee. "Damn. It smells good in here."

She laughed. "It's our dark roast. It comes from a small town in Ethiopia." She tipped her head to the map on the wall where several colored tags showed where the different coffee beans were grown.

"You get your beans from Ethiopia?"

"I do. And a couple of times a year we hold fundraisers to send money to some of the poorest of the poor in the areas that grow our coffee. It seems only fair. We're actually having one of those next week. Maybe you can come."

Donavan Turner had always been the kind of person who looked out for other people; she'd looked out for him once. And he'd never forgotten that. Although, she was probably a little too optimistic, always wanting to believe that everyone had a good side, when some people were just bad all the way through.

"I will definitely try to come," he said.

"What can I get you?"

"I'll take the dark roast."

"I'm assuming you want it straight up—no whipped cream or sprinkles?"

"Definitely not."

A dark brunette came up behind Donavan, giving him a curious look.

"Sara," Donavan said. "This is Roman Prescott. We went to high school together."

"It's nice to meet you," Sara said. "I assume you're Vince's grandson?"

"That would be me. And it's nice to meet you, too."

"I'll get your coffee," Donavan said.

"And I'll take your money," Sara added.

"No, this one is on the house," Donavan told Sara.

"You don't have to do that," he replied, handing Sara a five-dollar bill.

"But it's your welcome-back coffee," Donavan said.

"Consider it my donation to the good people of Ethiopia."

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