For those of you following this story, it will be progressing into an R-rating. Please be aware of that as we travel along! Remember, this is a first rough draft. Also, all the places in this second chapter are real (with the exception of Broughton Cafe). Check out Savannah! 🙂

2

Heather

Not all baristas like coffee.

I love the smell of it.

There is something grounding about the scent of roasting beans. I need all the grounding I can get.

McKenzie Bristol has been coming to the “Broughton Café” every morning for the past week. I haven’t been here every day, but Claire and Jen made sure to fill me in about the two days I was off. They knew who he was before I did. Apparently, he’s been on the cover of Georgia Design and Up and Coming. If his wealth wasn’t enough to get him there, his good looks could certainly land him on the front pages of any of those tabloids about hot celebrities and models.

I can see him now as I try to focus on slicing quiche and plating it.

It’s always hard to focus when he’s here.

Claire has told me, on more than one occasion, that “just looking at him makes her ovaries sing the ‘Hallelujah’ chorus.” Jen’s drooling as she taps buttons on the computer. Even Jack, who’s straight as they come, keeps looking in McKenzie’s direction. He has a presence to him, an air about him that calls for attention.

Those green eyes alone could make women swoon.

I mean, they almost made me spill coffee all over him.

Yesterday, I actually did spill a glass of ice water. Unfortunately, it felt like half the cup dumped onto his designer trousers. He was kind, making some joke about how he should have worn his Ralph Lauren’s instead of the Canali. I have no idea what that means, but I think it’s referring to the brand of his pants? I tried to wipe up the table, but before I could even start, he had a wad of napkins and was taking care of the mess himself.

I can see him waving at me.

I finish with the quiche and make my way to his table, wishing desperately that I would stop blushing, but I’m afraid I just can’t help it around him.

“Heather,” he greets me with that sexy voice of his.

The man could be an audio book narrator for smut.

Not that I listen to smut.

“Good morning, Mr. Bristol. How can I help you?” I ask, catching sight of his handwriting on a notepad.

Elegant and pristine, of course.

“What is this?” he asks, gesturing to his latte.

“It’s a mess,” I say with a sigh. “Unfortunately.”

One perfect eyebrow rises above his left eye.

“Oh?”

“I was attempting ivy,” I explain. “I love how delicate and pretty it is, but alas.” I laugh and shake my head. “I’m afraid you have a perfectly designed mess in your cup.”

“No smiley face today?”

“I thought you might prefer something more sophisticated.”

He chuckles, and his smile makes my insides melt. For a moment, I could swear I’m having an out-of-body experience. I haven’t noticed that dimple in his right cheek before. Has it always been there? Why is a man like this coming to my café every morning? Surely he has people waiting on their hands and knees to give him whatever he wants whenever he wants it.

“I liked the smiley face. It made me feel human.”

“You are human,” I say, coming back down to earth.

He grins, and I swear my knees have stopped functioning. I have to mentally will them to keep me upright.

“You work a lot,” he states as I turn to go. “Anything in particular you’re working for?”

“I’m attending online college.”

“Oh?” His interest is genuine. He leans forward, his fingers folding beneath his chin.

“I’m majoring in history.” I consider how much I should tell him. I could talk forever about my love for American history. My biggest dream is to give tours of historic Savannah or work in the Savannah Museum over on Martin Luther King Boulevard.

“I love the history in this city. Savannah’s seen so much. The Revolutionary War, the Civil War, pirates, Yellow Fever, and Prohibition… I work as a pirate at The Pirates’ House when I’m not working here.” I bite the inside of my cheek, knowing I’m starting to ramble. He’s not interested in what I do. He wasn’t expecting an info dump. I open my mouth to apologize, but he talks before I can.

“A pirate? What does that mean?”

“The Pirates’ House over on East Broad lets college kids come in and dress up like pirates. We give tours of the building. It’s been around since 1753. There’s so much history inside it. It contains the Herb House, the oldest building in Georgia. There are tunnels.” I stop and shake my head. “Anyway, I really enjoy history.”

“There are tunnels,” he continues gently.

“I could go on for a long time.” I smile and gather his empty dishes. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear me ramble about it. Have you been to The Pirates’ House?”

“I haven’t had the time. My fiancée is coming in tomorrow. It sounds like a good place to bring her.”

Fiancée.

With that one word comes a deep recollection of every word I’ve ever shared with this man. I hope I haven’t come across as flirty or bold. I enjoy talking with him. I don’t want him to think I’ve ever wanted anything more than a conversation.

“I highly recommend it,” I say, careful with my words. “It isn’t fancy. There isn’t much of a dress code.”

“So I’m overdressed.”

There’s that stunning smile again.

“A little bit,” I answer, pinching my thumb and index finger close together. “Your suit is very nice, though. I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just more of a jeans and polo shirt place. Do you like Southern food?”

“I’ve only been in Savannah for a few months. I’ve not had much of a chance to enjoy its food.”

“Then I think you’d like the lunch buffet.” I stop and tap a finger on my closed lips. “I have to get back to the kitchen. It was nice to see you, Mr. Bristol.”

“McKenzie,” he says softly. “I’d prefer McKenzie, Heather.”

“McKenzie,” I repeat with a smile. “I hope we’ll get to see you tomorrow. Enjoy your fiancée.”

I make my way back to the counter and take an order from a waiting customer. I do my best not to look at McKenzie as I work. Every customer and every food order deserves my complete attention, but it’s hard to focus with such a handsome man dominating the room. He doesn’t seem to notice all the stares directed his way. He’s probably used to it.

I wonder about his fiancée.

I don’t know McKenzie very well, but I can picture him with a stunning model on his arm. She’s probably gorgeously slender, looks great in heels, and has perfectly manicured nails.

I look at my nails.

I painted them dark purple three days ago, and already they’re chipped. They’re different lengths, and I have minor scars on my hands from coffee burns. There’s one scar on the inside of my right hand from getting a little too excited in Colonial Park Cemetery. I was running my hand over the headstones embedded in a brick wall and caught a jagged edge.

I consider it a badge of honor, blood drawn in the name of history.

I look down at my jeans, almost laughing at the idea of wearing expensive clothes.

I have thighs. There isn’t a three-inch gap between them, and the fabric has nearly worn down to holes in the denim. I’m not a stick figure, like I’m sure he’s used to seeing. I don’t know why I even care what he thinks about me.

“Does that man have a fault?” Jen asks as I toast a bagel.

“If he does, it’s that he’s too perfect,” Claire sings, pouring coffee.

“He’s engaged,” I say, skirting around them.

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

I laugh.

“That means everything!” I exclaim. “I’m not interested in a man who’s as good as married.”

“Ah, but he’s not!” Claire says, holding up a finger. “He doesn’t have a ring, so he’s still available.”

“That man has women falling over just from him looking their way. I think we can admire him from a distance, but that’s all we can hope for,” Jen says with a sigh.

“He’s taken a liking to Heather, though,” Claire teases.

“I don’t have time for a relationship. I’ve got a big paper due tomorrow, and I’m too busy working. Plus, he has not taken a liking to me. He just thinks my smiley face art is cute.”

I look over just in time to see McKenzie leaving, the bell jingling over the door as it shuts behind him. Claire trots over to his table, gathers his empty coffee cup, and hurries back to me, a brilliant smile on her face.

“He hasn’t taken a liking to you?” she asks, holding her hand out to me. “Then what’s this?”

A twenty-dollar tip rests in her hand and a small sliver of paper.

I recognize his gorgeous handwriting instantly, and my heart stutters in my chest.

“For your history fund.

Keep smiling.

-M.”