‘Second visit today. But is it for the cakes or the cake baker?’ he murmured.
She didn’t need to look over her shoulder to know her café manager was waggling his eyebrows and doing a little shoulder shimmy. Graeme had missed his calling as a comedian; she’d laughed more this week since they’d opened the doors of The Billy Button Café than she had in months.
‘He’s all yours,’ she said.
‘Not this one, lovely. Had his eyes on you like gum on a shoe this morning.’
Her thumb slipped into the hazelnut crumb, and her eyes shot to the footpath they could see through the café windows. Surely not. Besides, it would be a dark day in hell before she’d be getting involved with a man again. A betrayed, bitter woman with a café business to build up and a prison sentence to face down did not chat up customers.
Not after the last disaster.
Graeme wasn’t wrong about the hot factor, however … even a people-challenged, down-on-her-luck café owner could see that. The man entering her café for the second time that day was hotter than her new six-burner commercial stovetop.
The vet was tanned and outdoorsy looking, as though he spent his weekends logging timber with his bare hands, or rock-climbing the famous escarpment on Old Regret. His tan didn’t go at all with his close-cropped hair, though. The trim style made her think of the big-city lawyers who’d spent the last year screwing her out of virtually every dollar she’d saved, and most of her dignity.
‘I’m the kitchen person; you’re the people person, Graeme. That’s why we make an awesome team. I’d rather peel potatoes than do the meet and greets.’
‘Vera. If you want The Billy Button to be a success, you’re going to have to play nice every now and then.’
Graeme was right, damn it. She lived in Hanrahan now, and this wasn’t the outskirts of Canberra, where residents and tourists outnumbered coffee shops a zillion to one. Her café would need regulars to thrive during the off-season, which meant she needed to stop hiding behind her pots and pans and engage with people. Gritting her teeth, she kept her place behind the counter. She could do this.
‘Hi,’ he said.
She worked up a smile and hoped it looked genuine. ‘Hi. I’m Vera. Would you like a table?’
‘No, thanks.’ He grinned, and she felt a little dizzy by the onslaught of all that handsome smileyness being directed straight at her. He was older than she’d first thought. Friendly eyes the colour of chocolate sauce, lashes the same hazelnut blond as his hair.
‘I’m Josh Cody, from the vet clinic across the park.’ He held his hand out over the counter.
She hesitated. She’d have thought nothing of shaking hands with strangers back when she worked at the newspaper. Executives, stay-at-home parents, small-business owners, sporting celebrities—she’d have shaken their hands, grilled them within an inch of their lives about whatever story she was pursuing, and marched on back to her desk to bash out an article without batting an eyelid.
But that was before.
She huffed out a breath, annoyed with herself. She was overthinking this. She reached out and gripped his hand, then gave it a firm shake. Definitely spent his weekends hefting man tools, she thought. His hand was warm, strong, steady. Like a stone hearth in a homey country cottage.
Her skin clung to his as she drew away, and she realised too late her fingers were covered in powdered sugar and hazelnuts. She really should have stayed in the kitchen. ‘Sorry. Sticky fingers … it’s an occupational hazard.’
He smiled, and her heart did that pit-a-pat thing she’d read about in novels.
‘No problem.’ He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a few sheets of paper. ‘We’ve a lost dog at the clinic. I wondered if we could post a flyer in your window?’
She smoothed the paper out on the counter. A photo of a dog, contact information and phone numbers, and—shouting out loud and clear from the bottom of the flyer—the wordsCody and Cody Vet Clinic. Oh, a husband-and-wife team, which was just as well … she had no time to be having hot thoughts about Snowy Mountain vets.
Pull yourself together, Vera, she chided herself. She was exhausted, what with running out of coffee beans on opening day, and having the grease trap in the kitchen blow a fuse, and baking late into the night all week. The drama of the café’s first week in business was clearly playing amuck with her brain function. She’d sold everything she owned and ditched Queanbeyan to work hard, find a new solitary life, and a place of peace and tranquillity for her aunt.
A clean slate.
Sizing up random married guys over cake crumbs and coffee grinds was an absolute no-no.
Taking a breath, she gave him the best customer relations smile she could muster. ‘Sure. I’ll put this straight up.’
‘Appreciate it.’
She pulled some sticky tape out of the cubbyhole beneath the till, and made to walk around the counter, thinking he’d leave, but he perched on a stool and fixed his eyes on hers.
‘How are you settling in?’
‘Er …’ She tried to think of a response. It had been so long since she’d engaged in small talk, she almost blurted out the truth: she was anxious, she wasn’t sleeping, she had to check her bank balance before every five-dollar purchase to make sure she didn’t go into the red. ‘So far so good,’ she managed. ‘This late September weather is a little chillier than I’m used to.’