Alright folks! Fort those of you interested, here’s Chapter One! Just a few inside notes. The Broughton Cafe is based loosely on the Savannah Coffee Roasters store in Savannah, on West Liberty. If you’re ever in Savannah, I highly recommend. I don’t like coffee, but I love it in there. This is a first draft of my story. It hasn’t been completely cleaned up yet, so please bear with me. Last note, I use AI for editing purposes and the character images ONLY. The text is entirely my own. I will not allow AI to tamper with the writing itself or the ideas. Here is Chapter One! Enjoy, and please leave comments. It will help build up my webpage and will benefit my writing 🙂

1

McKenzie

Vampires Love Garlic…

But we hate capers.

At least, I do.

I frown, staring down at my bagel with its lightly crisped edges. Toasted sesame seeds scattered along its sides. Thinly sliced tomatoes and a sliver of lettuce grace the cream-cheese slathered top, and then there are those capers.

What even are capers? Tiny green balls of tang that don’t have the decency to grow on trees.

As far as first impressions go, the Broughton Café is failing in the food department.

The atmosphere is lovely. It’s a small coffee shop, nestled between a honey shop and a clothing boutique in the heart of Savannah’s historic district. The walls are old brick, the fixtures are cast iron, and I’m sitting in a Chesterfield chair that’s seen better days but oozes comfort. I’ve got a newspaper open next to my plate of bagel and… a side of hideousness. I’m old-fashioned that way. Newspapers still give valuable information, and I’ll take what I can get in a business as rewarding and financially beneficial as mine.

The café smells like toast and coffee, which leaves me wondering.

Where is my coffee?

It’s been ten minutes, and I’ve got an appointment with a client in a little less than an hour.

I glance down at my Rolex and try not to drum my fingertips on the table. I wanted to enjoy my breakfast, not rush through it, and the capers have already soured my mood.

“Number Seventy-five? I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.”

A chipper voice draws me from my internal grumbling. I look up, and there stands the barista. She’s a charming young woman, with layered brown hair pulled back beneath a baseball cap with “Broughton” written across it. Her ponytail flows from a hole at the back, brunette interlaced with a few strands of violet and teal. Her eyes are a pleasing blue-green behind glasses, and she’s smiling as she sets my latte on the table next to my plate.

“I’m still learning how to make coffee art,” she explains, and good heavens, is that a smiley face? She formed a smiley face out of the foam in my latte?

My eyes catch hers, and there it is. That look I get from every woman, and some men, when they first see me. The startled “he-can’t-be-real” expression. Her eyes go wide, and she nearly knocks my coffee cup over in surprise.

Vampire rule number 1:

All vampires must be devastatingly handsome or breathtakingly beautiful.

I don’t know who made the rules. I only know that I follow them to the letter. I can’t help that I’m startlingly good-looking. By vampire standards, I’m almost mediocre. They prefer dark hair, pale skin bordering on the edge of anemic, and dark eyes. The standard “tall, dark, and handsome.” I match the tall and handsome, but my blonde hair and sun-kissed skin are in direct opposition to the expectations of a race that’s been around since Adam took the poisoned fruit from Eve.

Still.

It is rather satisfying to see “Heather,” as her small name tag states, floundering and over-correcting her near collision with the coffee cup.

“Gosh, I’m sorry,” she says, each word rapid-fire. “Your eyes.” She smiles weakly, her cheeks pink. “Your eyes are such a beautiful shade of green.”

Well, there’s a first.

I’m used to being told I’m gorgeous. A lot of my admirers recognize me from the cover of up-and-coming magazines as one of the South’s wealthiest and most successful real estate moguls. They remind me that I’m famous. They stammer and stutter when they realize I’m in their humble establishments. I get comments about my fit figure, my height, my dimple, but it’s been a hot minute since anyone’s been completely fascinated by my eyes.

And this girl is fascinated.

She can’t seem to tear her eyes away from mine.

“Thank you,” I say, a grin tugging at my lips.

My smile has the power to render people completely wordless. For half a second, I’m afraid I might have fried this girl’s brains. Vampires can’t kill someone with a smile, but I wouldn’t put it past mine to do some permanent damage.

“Heather, is it?” I ask, taking a sip of the latte.

“I am so, so sorry,” she stammers and takes a long step back. “I’ve just completely made myself look like an idiot. How is your breakfast? Is everything okay? Do you need anything else?”

“Yeah.” I push the capers off my bagel, watching them roll against the tines of my slightly-bent fork. “Why a smiley face? If you’re doing coffee art, don’t they start you off with a leaf or something?”

“I saw you when you came in. You looked like you could use a smile.”

Wow.

Two firsts in one morning.

Smiling isn’t my go-to expression. It doesn’t suit my line of work. I have contacts across the country and a few in several more, and as a tycoon, I don’t see the need to smile. I have to have a firm handshake, sure. I’ve mastered the no-nonsense voice and the power of being intimidating without speaking any words at all when the occasion calls for it. My business is run mostly on phone and video calls. I don’t have to smile.

In truth, I really don’t have much to smile about.

Vampire rule number 2:

Every vampire has to be wealthy.

That includes marrying into wealth and keeping that money flowing, sure as the blood in my tainted veins.

But how could this girl know I was up until three o’clock this morning on a phone call to a woman I’m engaged to marry but have no love for? I’ve had an arranged marriage to Narcissa Kline since we were both five years old. I’ve seen her every year, and last night was the first time in twenty-seven years that she started talking about an actual wedding.

Just the mention of a wedding made my temples burn.

By the time the conversation was over, I had a throbbing migraine and needed a second blood bag to quench my thirst. Pretty sure I mixed it in with a gallon or so of wine, because the rest of the morning was a bit hazy after that…

“Sir?”

I frown at my own distraction, then turn my attention back to Heather.

“Thank you for the coffee, Heather.”

“How…” She starts, then laughs, putting a hand to her name tag. “Right! Name tag! You’re welcome! Please let me know if you need anything else!”

She walks away, and I catch the faintest hint of her scent as she returns to her place behind the counter.

Coffee, spoiled milk, and just the barest touch of peach.

She must have had a peach for breakfast.

This latte is the best I’ve ever had.

Pretty sure it’s not because of the espresso and milk involved.

There’s something about that girl.

I watch her over the rim of my coffee as she goes about her business, doing her best to ignore that I’m sitting here. She makes an admirable effort. Most women can’t seem to tear their eyes away. She gives herself away with the faint blush that keeps creeping into her cheeks and neck.

She glows.

Every time she speaks with a customer, her smile lights up her entire face. She jokes with her coworkers and laughs at herself when cinnamon puffs into her face. Her nose wrinkles adorably when she laughs, and she has this habit of pushing her glasses back up her nose with her pinkie. She is calm in her work, her heart rate relaxed, and I almost envy her level of comfort.

Life would be much simpler if I could work an easy everyday job. I can’t envision myself wearing a hat and apron, but there’s something appealing about hands-on work and the contentment that must come with physically making drinks and pastries.

My phone rings, and I swallow a mouthful of bagel and answer it.

“McKenzie Bristol.”

And it’s back to business.