Page 14 of True North

“Louisa,” I rasp.

“Ha—” Her face breaks. She spins on the spot and hightails it behind the counter.

Fuck.

ChapterFour

LOUISA

“Your booth is up,” Cynthia calls.

Desperately trying to squash a short and very inappropriate conversation about television crew sex scandals with old Mrs. Hills, I punch in the amount on the till, pulling out her change and placing it in her hand. I glance at Cynthia. “Okay, thanks.”

A dark head of hair and shoulders in an old work shirt are visible over the booth divider. He sits in the last booth by the back wall. My area. I grab the fullest, hottest pot of coffee from the hot plate and round the counter. Passing the booths, I check in as I go.

“More coffee, Errol?”

The old man beams at me, toothy smile plastered on his face.

“Thank you, sweetheart. You’re a keeper.”

“You doin’ the keepin’?”

It’s amazing how the accent blooms back to life once you’re home. It helps that the customers expect it. Learned that on day one. The Cali accent wasn’t doing me any favors. So, I dug deep, and that old drawl was still in there. Lucky me.

I pour the old man some more coffee, and I’m pretty sure his eyes are not on my face. I chuckle and squeeze his shoulder, making my way to the last booth.

The dark head of hair leans back in the booth, sending a hand through those dark locks. Wow. Now I need to check out his face.

Shit, Louisa. Stop.

I so need to get laid.

I check my apron pocket. The slip of paper from earlier, when I met Brad, is still secure in there. I smile to myself. Dating again will be a breath of fresh air.

Bradley Connors. I vaguely remember him from high school. He’s quiet but seems nice. I ponder what to wear to our first date.

Closing in on the booth, I say, “Coffee, hon?”

The man mumbles something under his breath that sounds like “Why else would I be here,” not looking up. That voice...

When I don’t move the pot closer, he shifts on his seat.

“Yeah, please.” Now he turns his head, eyes drifting up. “And my regu?—”

Instantly, my stomach drops out, only to resurface as a bundle of knots on fire.

Air leaves my lungs and stays gone.

The coffee pot in my hand slips.

Heart flinging around my rib cage like a panicked, injured bird, I try to school the shock from my face.

Shock at seeing him again.

Shock at the sight of him. He’s grown into something breathtaking. All hard angles and kind face. Those dark blue eyes...

“Louisa,” he chokes.

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