Page 2 of A Perfect Match
“So not kicking me out,” I said slowly.
“Let’s hope not,” Hazel says in a firm voice.“I think you’ll be fine—you have a lease in place, right?That, at the very least, will ensure you have time to get your ducks in a row.If you even need to.You might be facing a change of ownership, but I think they would be stupid to uproot a successful business that will essentially be paying their mortgage.”
Something in her voice feels like a balm.Cool, collected Hazel is right.New owners don’t have to mean I’ll be kicked to the curb and forced to sell my business, move out of Bayshore, and stop selling marshmallows across all fifty United States per some ridiculous new legal agreement that somehow appeared out of thin air.That’s ludicrous, even though I’d been secretly thinking that as a doomsday possibility.
“Thanks for letting me know,” I finally say.
Hazel reaches across the countertop, squeezing my wrist.“You’re welcome.Wanted you to know ASAP.Let me know what else you find out and if there’s anything I can do, okay?”She winks and offers a reassuring smile.“I gotta run to a meeting, but I’ll swing by later this week.”
I watch her go, feeling both scared and oddly calm.This could either be completely fine or the beginning of an unimaginable nightmare.Who knows?Certainly not me.
Regulars begin to file in, either looking for their favorite coffees en route to the job or ready to settle in for a morning of remote work.Things are bustling for the first hour—one of my busiest times of day—and the hubbub helps me forget a little bit about the looming questions.Being forced to be on for my customers—bright smile at the ready, scripts on hand to describe today’s specials—helps me forget about the anxiety gnawing at my gut.
But the second business lulls, the questions are back.
Who bought the building, if not one of Mrs.Decker’s outrageously unappetizing sons?How did this mysterious new owner even find out it was for sale?What might they put in the other half of the building?Before I can even stop myself, I’m imagining the types of businesses that would want this lakeside proximity.A pool supply store.A yoga studio!Perhaps a boutique of some sort?
There are so many innocuous things it could be.Changing ownership doesn’t have to be dire.Surely Hazel will return next week and we’ll have a good laugh about how screechy I was for no reason at all.
I’m determined to not spend my day festering in uncertainty, so I move my attention to other aspects of my life.Between customers, I work on prepping more goodies for the rest of the week.I schedule a few posts on social media.I fantasize about a new business I’d like to start, even though the thought of sharing my hopes about this with anyone—especially my brothers—makes me feel sick.I reflect on the earth-shattering orgasms I had with a guy I met in a Cleveland club last month.
Oh, wait.I’m not supposed to be thinking aboutthateither.
I look around the shop, curious if anyone noticed that my mind had gone down such a naughty route.All of the customers here are either staring at their laptops or absorbed in conversation.Phew.
I annoy myself with how much I still think about that guy.We spent eighteen hours of bliss in a swanky hotel room, yet I never got his real name.I’m not in a phase of life that has room for dating or falling in love, so I’m not eager to find him again.But at the same time, I’m dying to find him again.
He’d be a lot easier to forget if he hadn’t dicked me down so good.Also if the only name he’d given me wasn’tUncle Lobster.That one night in Cleveland had been a pressure release valve for me, up to and including the amazing sex we experienced for hours and hours on top of all available surfaces in his hotel room.He’d slipped me his number—no legal name, unless his parents really did put Uncle Lobster on his birth certificate—but I let it float into the trash can at home the next day, even as a part of me was screaming not to let him disappear.
Do I regret ghosting Uncle Lobster?Absolutely.But that night had only been about releasing the pressure.Having a boyfriend is a non-option with my overprotective older brothers.I got Uncle Lobster out of my system—now I could continue with my regular life.
Except nothing feels very regular anymore with a mysterious new owner lurking next door.
I while the day away amid low-grade anxiety and sips of hot cocoa.It’s early September, so technically still summer, but I’m ushering in the fall specials here at Cloud Nine.S’mores and hot cocoa are my jam—and my cash cows—and I’ll be working overtime the next few weeks trying to get everyone stocked and ready for sweater weather.
Around two p.m., an unnaturally large cargo van pulls into the parking lot, followed by a few other vehicles.I only notice it because the van spends a lot of time backing into one spot, only to pull out, choose another spot, park again…and finally pull out and drive right up next to the sidewalk, completely blocking the sidewalk egress to the parking lot.
I’m not sure what’s going on, other than an extremely indecisive driver.I keep an eye on the scene beyond my huge front windows while also replenishing that day’s specialty marshmallows: caramel pumpkin.As I slice the block of marshmallow into small cubes, I notice a group of men standing on the sidewalk in front of the open side door of the van.A knot in my gut tells me this has to be related to the new owner.
These men don’t look like they’re here for s’mores and a latte.The equipment bursting out of the van tells me they’re here to work.
The man with his back to the building suddenly turns and walks down the sidewalk, leading to the empty half of the building.The trendy angles of his haircut snag my attention first: short on the sides with longer layers on top that catch the afternoon light.Then my gaze drops to the broad, muscled planes of his shoulders stretching a thin black T-shirt that's seen better days.He moves with a distinct stride—somewhere between the confident swagger of someone who owns the place and the distracted urgency of a man with too much on his mind.
The closer he gets to the building the more details I begin to recognize.Chestnut hair that I already know how it feels to run my fingers through.A barrel chest that tapers to a lean waist, the kind of build you'd find on a linebacker who also happens to spend his days lifting heavy pans and hauling fifty-pound sacks of flour.His forearms are a roadmap of thin scars—some precise as knife cuts, others jagged from kitchen mishaps.Understanding begins a slow, uncomfortable prickle through my gut.
He removes his sunglasses as he strides past the front door of Cloud Nine, heading for the shop next door.The movement exposes his bicep and the chaotic lobster tattoo there—all claws and curves in black ink that I remember tracing with my tongue.
I know this man.Not just his body, but the way he felt inside me.Including how many orgasms he gave me.
This is the man who told me with a wink:Do you like raisins?How about a date?
The man I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.
Uncle Lobster.
And if the way he’s pulling open the door of the shop next to me means anything, he might be my new landlord.
CHAPTER TWO
