Page 21 of Christmas in Watch Hill
“I’d like that.” I paused. “I’d like it a lot, actually.”
We stared at each other.
“Anyway, nice to see you in town.” She nodded at the large blackboard behind her, a jumble of scripty fonts and colorful chalk laying out the roadmap of specialty coffee drinks and prices. “Let’s get you that drink. What are you having?”
“Only a large black coffee, please. No cream or sugar.”
“Which roast?”
I surveyed the offerings by the machine. “The dark blend.”
I wanted something to push me through the next few hours; I wasn’t in the mood for a fancy drink with a made-up name and inflated price. Jessica murmured her approval about my choice and set about pouring my order. Moments later, I had it in my hand, the $2.56 bill paid.
“Well,” I said, trying to fill the awkward silence between us. “Now you know I’m in town for a couple of days.”
“Yep.” She drew out the reply, her mouth popping around the “P”. “Welcome to Watch Hill, Ian.”
“Pleased to be here.”
Soon enough, I was back in my car, my aunt’s house at the top of Cherry Grove Lane in my sights. And it was only after I parked in her driveway that I realized I was breathing hard.
TWO
JESSICA NORMAN
Ian Crawford.
Of all people to stumble into my coffee shop on the Friday night before Christmas, it had to be Ian Crawford. IanflippingCrawford. I slammed the lid onto the nearby jar of coffee beans. The force made it slip off the counter and clatter to the floor, spilling a mound of coffee at my feet.
I yelped. “Crap.”
Steve, the barista helping me close that night, rushed into the main dining room from the small service kitchen in the back. “What’s wrong?” Holding a dishcloth, his gaze fell to the tile. “Oh.That.”
“Yep.This.” With a long sigh, I knelt and began sweeping the coffee grounds with my hands. I hated being so clumsy and hated the loss of product. Plus, why did Ian Crawford have to show up here?
“Let me help.”
