Page 4 of Forget Me Knot

Nodding at the folks around the table and sending another chipper smile in Jan’s direction, I hope I’ve done enough to charm them all. It would be so sweet to have a group of friends here in Honey Hill, especially after living nomadically for so long.

Jan shakes her head and frowns at the floral printed coffee cup in her hand as I turn away, and I swear I hear her mumblesomething about a playlist under her breath.

The speakers are shuffling my eclectic playlist right now—one I can’t picture anyone being bothered by—but I make a mental note to ask good ol’ Jan for her expertise and opinion later, thinking maybe that will earn me her good graces. I’ll win her over eventually.

Meandering my way through the small crowd, I find myself checking the door every time the bell chimes to see if it’s Emory and Molly. I’ve loved celebrating tonight but will feel so much more accomplished with them at my side. Emory and I have been together for every major milestone, the good and the bad.

When our parents passed away my senior year of high school, Emory and James made sure I finished school and started college. They sent me care packages and insisted I come home for the holidays. And when Emory lost James, I rarely left her side. The farm’s kickoff. My first dates. Breakups. Molly’s birth. Job hopping. My apprenticeship. The start of my food truck in Vermont. Emory has been there for it all. So I’m anxious to celebrate this night with her, too. It feels like a shared victory. One I wouldn’t have reached without her.

Just as I take another peek, hoping they’ll be next to walk in, the door swings open and a brawny, dark-haired Ken doll walks over the threshold of my store.

Cast in what can only be supernatural lighting from the heavens above, he’s a study in masculine beauty. Tan skin. Perfect jawline. Megawatt smile. And at least six feet tall. I don’t think I’ve ever been so instantly intrigued or attracted to a person in my life, but here I am, drooling at a complete stranger in broad daylight.

I have no idea who he is, but everyone in my store seems to know him. He nods his head, wavy brown hair falling just over an eye before he swoops it back with a large hand and, holy guacamole, this man’s forearms are simply delicious. He’s wearing a denim shirt rolled to his elbows—said skin gloriously exposed—army green cargo pants that look like they’re suited for the outdoors, and well-worn boots. I can’t help but zero in again on his smile, seemingly charming each person he greets, and the murmur of pleasantries he leaves in his wake. Even Jan is enchanted by him, smiling for the first time tonight as he offershugs, shakes hands, and accepts the occasional pretzel bite. All while holding the most beautiful bouquet of roses in one of his hands.

I’m only shaken back to reality when Chloe, a friend from culinary school helping me out for the day, announces, “That was the last of the Cinnamon Twists, y’all,” as she pushes her way through the swinging kitchen door and crosses the option off the chalkboard menu propped on the counter. A small groan of disappointment chimes from the patrons, and I experience a moment of pride and brief panic. I can’t believe they’re gone already.

The stranger, who I still haven’t managed to take my eyes off, is now staring back at me, paused just between Jan’s ornery corner and Charlie’s all-too-knowing eyes. To my absolute horror, Charlie waddles towards him in her three inch clogs, utters what I assume is a hello, and points her manicured finger at me.

His lips lift in a tilted smile, eyes squinted and playfully staring me down. For reasons I cannot begin to explain, but will surely haunt me until I die, I release the most hysterical giggle I’ve ever heard, slap a hand over the offensive sound, and run to the register—as far fromDreamboat Kenas possible.

Swiftly grabbing the mini megaphone Emory gifted me with last week for this very purpose, I click it on and sing-song in my most cheery voice, “Cinnamon Twists will be on the menu again tomorrow, y’all. Try a Salted Butterscotch Bun and the cinnamon coffee blend in the meantime.”

Chloe gives me a nod of approval, flicking her braid behind her back and repositioning herself at the register for orders. I can’t believe that between managing a coffee shop in Sugartree and working for an independent personal chef company in Atlanta, she agreed to help me today. I don’t know what I would’ve done without her. All at once, Chloe’s eyes grow wideas she wiggles her eyebrows at me then turns her attention back to a customer.

“It’s a shame,” a smooth, male voice says just over my shoulder. I twist around and seeKensmirking back at me.

Clearing my throat, I stall for all of two seconds, staring at those lucky shoes of mine before allowing myself to look him in the eye. “What’s a shame?”

“I only came in for two reasons.” He holds out the flowers between us. “To give you these and to get a taste of one of those famous Cinnamon Twists everyone’s been hollering about down Main Street for the last hour.”

“Oh,” I gasp, accepting his gorgeous floral offering and, hand-to-my-heart, I feel sparks as our fingers touch for the tiniest moment. My brain, heart and, yes, those pesky ovaries scream, “Him! We choose him!”and I briefly, and probably foolishly, think about asking if we can have a quick do-over just to test the magic wisping between us. Instead, I steady myself and take a large, loony whiff of the pale pink roses in my hand without taking my eyes off the man who gave them to me. “Thank you. These are beautiful.”

I’m beginning to think I’m crazy. Like I might finally have to admit to Emory that she’s been right all along, and all thoselovey booksof mine have finally caught up with me. Because I’m convinced this is one of those love-at-first-sight meet cutes I’ve been fantasizing about. Something—and I don’t want to be dramatic—life changing is happening.

Prince Charming takes a step towards me. One so close I can smell the perfect mixture of men’s body wash and cologne. It’s intoxicating.

I’d like him to come closer.

“Forgive me, ma’am,” he says, voice low and Southern drawl melt-worthy, “butyouare beautiful.”

A giggle bursts out of me again. I don’t even have time to feel embarrassed about my repeated faux pas, because he leans low, meeting my eyes, and I’m sure my heart skips a beat. “The others told me what to expect, but they grossly undersold the appeal of this establishment. What’s your name?”

“Di… Di… Dinah,” I stutter.

He stands straighter and stuffs his hands in his pockets, leaning back on his heel. “Dinah,” he repeats, testing it out. My name has never sounded sweeter on someone’s lips.

Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I remember that I am a strong, independent business woman. That this grand opening is everything I’ve been working towards for months, and that I shouldn’t be frozen in a lusty-bubble of insta-attraction with a stranger. That I should be checking refills, charming customers, listening out for the bell at the door—

A small body slams into me from behind, nearly toppling me into the man I’ve been making googly eyes at for who knows how long now.

“Aunt Dinah Belle!” Molly shrieks, jumping up and down with her hands still wrapped firmly around my waist, face plastered to my rear. “We brought you flowers!”

Mystery man smirks, tips his head, and backs away slowly. He’s so cool and confident, it’s like the crowd parts for him magically. Taylor Swift’s “Style” plays over the speakers like the universe knows this daydream of a man needs an exit track.

“I’ll be back for those Cinnamon Twists, Dinah Belle.”

Unable to hide my grin, I bite my lower lip and do my very best not to shut the whole place down here and now, devoting the rest of the night to a man whose name I don’t even know yet.

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