Page 1 of The Kiss Countdown

Chapter One

Homeboy has ten seconds to divert his eyes from my ass before I lose it.

Ten... nine...

I face the pastry case filled with freshly baked donuts and scones, frowning at the reflection of the man behind me. I say homeboy, but in reality, he looks old enough to be my granddad, with his full gray mustache and a pair of reading glasses perched atop his shiny head. Like most patrons flooding Moon Bean this early, he wears a business suit with wide tan slacks and a black blazer that lends no credibility to his character. Not when he’s eyeing my backside like it’s one of the butter croissants on display.

One.

“This is my first time here. What do you suggest I get, sugar?” he says, close enough for his Brut aftershave to wrap me in a choke hold.

Nope. We are not playing this game. Not today, when I’m already on edge, anticipating the meeting that will help launch my new beginning—or see it fail at groundbreaking speed.

I whip my head around and glare, reaching deep into that ancestral pool of fortitude handed down from generations of resilient women who perfected themess with meand dielook. In two seconds he slides back to a respectable distance and raises his phone to his nose.

That’s more like it. Satisfied, I pivot to face the front of the line once more, but it isn’t long before another glance toward the glass case tells me he’s back to ogling.

As the person in front of me moves up, I’m distracted when my phone buzzes. It’s my best friend, Gina, texting that she’s leaving her apartment. I let her know I’m already in line so she can grab us a table when she gets here.

Gina rarely makes the three-minute walk it takes to get from our respective apartments to the coffee shop more than twice a week, and when she does, I can always count on her to be at least ten minutes late. The conversion from central standard time to Gina time works in my favor today. No doubt, if she’d witnessed the exchange between Pops and me just now, she’d be harping on me for not entertaining his nonsense and applauding his willingness to risk it all for someone half his age, all the while laughing her ass off.

“I can help the next person in line,” a barista with a hot-pink face mask says, and I move forward, dismissing the man behind me from my mind.

After ordering our drinks, I don’t dare approach the pickup counter yet. Against theburrof multiple grinders and blenders going at once, a blockade of thirsty patrons watch the baristas furiously topping off drinks with pumps of syrup or oat milk, silently praying their hit of caffeine comes next. The only other time you see a crowd this anxious to get their hands around something hot is when it involves turkey legs at the rodeo. You can never know what someone is liable to do when deprived of coffee or poultry, so I keep looking around the shop until I spot Gina.

She waves at me from a table by a large window decorated with hand-drawn candy canes and Christmas ornaments, and I head that way.

The heavy green chair scrapes against the floor as I pull it out and sit across from her. “Hey.”

“Good morning,” she sings, and it’s hard to believe she likely hopped out of bed five minutes before texting me.

Gina is one of those unnatural people who wake up with a good stretch and wide smile, ready to face the day. Not a drop of coffee in her system and she’s brighter than a ray of sunshine in her long-sleeve white shirt and knitted yellow scarf.

Technically, I’m a morning person too. After years spent waking up before the sun to prepare for large-scale events, my internal alarm rarely allows me to sleep past six in the morning. But it takes me a nice long walk, usually around the golf course behind my apartment complex, and a cup of coffee before I’m ready for human interaction. Add in a couple of slices of bacon, and it’s on.

“So, what’s on the agenda for today?” I ask, keeping an ear out for my name to be called.

“I’m going to Sugar Land for a bridal party,” Gina says. “The bride is seriously the sweetest. She’s getting an updo, and I’m doing blowouts for the bridesmaids.”

As Gina effortlessly uses the green silk scrunchie around her wrist to pull her curls into a low ponytail, I inwardly pout. My hair never goes up that easily. Certainly not without me feeling like I’ve just finished a full upper-body workout at the gym. I guess it’s one of the perks of her being a hairstylist.

I try not to visibly shudder at the thought of brides and weddings. If I never have to attend another wedding in my life, I’ll be just fine.

Gina’s eyes widen. “Oh, I almost forgot. Don’t you have that quinceañera consultation this morning? Look at my girl. Ready to take on her first client. How exciting! I take it after we’re done here, you’ll rush home to get camera-ready.” She gives my hairline a pointed glance.

Since all I did was throw on a headband to liven up my worn bun, I’m not offended by Gina’s blatant dig at my hair or at the concern evident in her brown eyes. I can’t blame her when it’s been only two months since I managed to claw my way out of a downward spiral that began when I almost lost my mom and worsened when my employer of eight years tossed me out like hot garbage. But being broken up with by my boyfriend was the exact push I needed to snap out of my despair and right my upended life. So I called Gina and told her I was going to start my own business.

Ever the queen to my bee, she didn’t question if I was having a midlife crisis at the age of twenty-eight. She was at my door within minutes to congratulate me, then said I couldn’t even think of starting a business until I’d swapped my sweat-stained sheets for new ones.

This morning I awoke to the sweet scent of lavender fields, knowing today was the day when, once and for all, I took control of my life. So, despite my current appearance, I’m ready.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell Gina. “When we’re done here, I’m marching to my apartment—and yes, fixing my hair—then sealing the deal with my first client.”

“You’ve got this, Mimi. And here’s some extra good luck coming your way.” Gina mimes throwing balls of glitter at me, and I indulge her by closing my eyes and basking in it.

“Medium roast and caramel latte for Amerie!” is shouted from the pickup counter, and I get up.

I maneuver around tables and furniture easily enough, but have to fight my way through two particular people who have zeroed in on the workers like their unmovable focus will make the baristas move any faster than they already are. It’s a miracle more elbows aren’t thrown in every coffee shop across America in the time between when customers place their orders and have to fight the masses to actually get them.

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