“I know. Tell them to come visit me and say hello themselves. No one wants a matchmaking parent,” I remind him for thehundredth time.
Tom Valley owns Devil’s River Ranch in Texas. He also owns a vacation escape thirty minutes away, up in the mountains. When his sexy-as-sin sons visit Colorado, they party at Silver Sky, the next town over. Everyone knows about the Valley boys—cocky, homeschooled Texas cowboys who mostly keep to themselves but always show up for pumpkin season.
I glance around the shop, and everyone seems happy, thrilled to be here. It’s one of the hottest hangouts in Cozy Creek, where most come to get their piping hot gossip after the sun rises.
Cozy Coffee is my second home, where I’m sure of myself, where everything works out for me. This is my family’s eighty-one-year-old business that runs like clockwork when I’m managing. Here, I know exactly who I am and what’s expected of me. Here, I’m the boss. I don’t ever question the future, and there’s no confusion about my career path. Now, my relationships? That’s a whole cluster of a conversation.
“Jules, honey, you won’t believe who I saw at the Maple Inn this morning when I stopped in to grab a newspaper.” Mrs. Patrick leans across the counter, eyes bright with gossip.
She’s part of the women’s group that I nicknamed the Fairy Godmothers over a decade ago. They play matchmaker and are always meddling in relationships around Cozy Creek under the guise of a romance book club.
“Oh?” While I don’t have time for this right now, I lean toward her with a smile to appease her.
I pour more roasted beans into the machine, knowing we’re getting low as orders print nonstop.
“Let me guess. A sexy pumpkin peeper who’s staying for the season that I should totally hook up with?”
Pumpkin peepers are what we call the tourists who have zero self-awareness, who show up just for the festivities.
“Craig Downing.” She drops my ex’s name like an atomic bomb. It’s been nearly a year since anyone has mentioned him to me.
“What?” It comes out louder than I meant.
Blaire clears her throat from the register, and I quickly turn back to the espresso machine, grateful for the grinding that’s drowning out the silence.
“He’s still in love with you,” Mrs. Patrick continues like it’s nothing. “I overheard him telling Jeanette at the front desk he had regrets. Said he missed home. Apparently, he moved back and broke it off with your replacement.”
I keep my voice flat. “That’s impossible. They were engaged.”
“People change their minds,” she offers. “But remember, a tiger never changes its stripes.”
The two of us have this toxic cycle. He returns to Cozy Creek, says sweet things, makes promises, and then we have sex.
But not this time. I promised myself never again.
Mrs. Patrick watches me with the intensity of a teacher who’s taught hormonal seventh-grade students for forty years—because she has. “Figured I’d give you a warning. Don’t be shocked if he strolls in here.”
“Mrs. P, it won’t matter. Trust me when I say, Craig and I are ancient history.” I flash my million-dollar smile, the one that says,I’m fine, while I force my hands to stay steady. “I want a real man.”
A college kid at the register counts out crumpled bills and loose change for a large latte. As Blaire waits for him, I wave him off, sliding an extra chocolate croissant into his bag.
“Student discount,” I lie.
We only have a senior discount, but he looks like he’s living on ramen and anxiety. I try to spread good vibes when I can.
“Thank you,” he says graciously. No way he’s a day older than nineteen.
“You’re too nice for your own good,” Mrs. Patrick says as the guy walks away, but she’s smiling. “You remind me so much of your grandmother.”
“Thank you. But don’t forget, Gran kept a metal baseball bat under the counter and wasn’t afraid to use it.” I wipe down the already-clean machine, needing something to do with my hands asBlaire rings in the following order. “I kill with kindness, caffeine, and croissants.”
The bell above the door chimes, and Mike Ashford stumbles in, nearly walking into a table and chair because he’s staring. At me. Again.
“Hi, Jules.” His face goes red as he fumbles with his debit card.
“Hi, Michael,” I say.
He’s adorable, but I’m eleven years older. At thirty-five years old, I do not want to date someone who could only recently order a drink at a bar.
