Kick Start: The Southern Oaks, #1

By Kallyn Jones

"The thing is… I'll be fine if friendship is what's best for us."

"What if you could be better than fine, Kick?"

 

After my world imploded eight years ago, I fought my way out of the darkness—opened a popular coffeehouse, raised three amazing kids, regained my health. But the pains of the past still haunt me.

 

Then Professor Thomas Harrison walks into my cafe. He's six feet of chiseled grumpiness in a suit. When a vandal threatens my livelihood, Thomas sticks around to give his statement while making sure I'm safe. He floors me by asking sincere questions about my life and health, attributing them to his career in genetic research. Except no one does this. Ever.

 

Despite our scorching chemistry, I keep him at arm's length. Thomas makes it clear his work is his priority. Then there are the secrets. I can tell he's hiding something huge, only I can't put my finger on what it is. It's clear he has as little time for "extracurricular activities" as I do.

Add to that my secret and how much I like it that he's unaware of the old me. I only know that when Thomas is around, my world makes sense again. He might be the key to helping me start over, but first I must put my past to rest.

 

Kick Start is book one in a slow-burn, seasoned, steamy romance trilogy bringing all the feels. The story ends with a Happy For Now with an overarching plot line.

• Language: English
• Publisher: My Creative Jones Press
• Release date: Nov 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781737709701

Book preview

1

HARD OUT HERE

KICK

Y ou’ve got to be fecking kidding, I muttered, staring at my doctor’s sharp jawline on the video screen as she quietly spoke to her assistant.

Morning sun streaming through the window warmed my left shoulder, promising a perfect September day. With the oppressive humidity finally gone, my customers were more likely to sit outside on the patio than inside. It made the ’80s girl in me want to belt out Walking on Sunshine. I made a mental note to play an eighties mix later.

I wished I could be outside, enjoying an iced Americano and a quick break. Instead, I was stuck in my office, dealing with my body’s shortcomings. Despite major victories in my decades-long battle with autoimmunity, this new flare was a doozie.

I absorbed the news from my test results as I waited for the doctor and eagerly let myself be distracted by a photo of me with my kids. We stood together, all smiles, at my coffeehouse’s ribbon-cutting. I hadn’t seen those proud smiles in months, and I missed them. These three were the reason I’d worked my butt off to get better. Bad news or not, I wouldn’t give up on them now.

Sorry for the interruption, Kick, Dr. Chaddha said, her face returning to the video chat window on my laptop.

No worries, I answered, hoping a soft smile could hide my anxiety. We were running five minutes behind with about fifteen minutes of appointment left.

So, she continued, did you receive the new dietary guidelines we sent through the portal?

I flipped through the pages I’d printed off. Yup. You really think restricting stuff like artichokes is necessary? I thought prebiotics were important for my microbiome.

Dr. Chaddha lifted her copy of one of my many recent tests. Given this lab panel, yes. A low-FODMAP plan will let your gut heal. Trust me. She dropped the papers. After six weeks, we can address it again, depending on how closely you follow the regimen.

What do you mean, how closely? I sighed, tucking a wayward curl behind my ear.

Well, did you see caffeine and chocolate on the list? She pressed.

Yes, I muttered. Or whined. A little.

I meant to have my assistant put decaf on there too.

My brow creased. Was she kidding? What? Why? I’d prepared myself to stay engaged and positive through our tele-appointment. Truth be told, I expected some heavy-handed advice. Bringing an autoimmune condition into submission was ridiculously hard. I’d done it already. But the good doctor stepped on my pride with this directive.

I sell only fair-trade, organic beans. And they’re third-party tested for mold. I felt my face dropping into a stubborn frown. The water is reverse-osmosis filtered. I don’t see the problem here, other than the ones inherent in caffeine. Also, I’ve already been limiting it.

Nice to hear. Dr. Chaddha scribbled on her tablet. I want to make sure you’re not reacting to the product itself.

You understand my business is called the Perked Cup, right? I said, hearing the sharp edge in my tone. How the hell does a barista abstain from her own product? How was I supposed to recommend a new flavor I couldn’t test? I didn’t think the good doctor would approve of the swish-and-spit routine either.

This leads to my next point. A nervous smile crept across her face as if she were bracing herself.

Holy hell, now what? I couldn’t imagine the news getting any worse. I gripped the edge of my chair, not sure I wanted to hear it.

You’ve had a hard year with your dad passing. Plus your business responsibilities. And family.

As if I needed reminding. Everyone has their issues, Dr. C. Everyone has bad years too.

Not everyone has autoimmune diseases, Dr. Chaddha continued firmly. If you want to avoid undoing all your past progress, I suggest you take three months off while you work my program.

If I had been drinking that Americano, I’d have done a spit take. As it was, the normal kaleidoscope of test-result butterflies in my stomach beat their wings into a frenzy. I was sure they were working up a tornado in there. I didn’t lead a take-three-months-for-yourself kind of life.

I’d heard about other patients doing this, but the ones I knew of were either kidless or retired. Maybe I could do it in a year once my youngest graduated high school. But the kids weren’t the only people who needed me. My employees did too. With the summer over and most part-timers off to college, we were already understaffed. Then there was Dad’s cigar shop.

Dr. Chaddha’s dark eyes narrowed. Perspective is the key, Kick. Remember, you’re lucky to be alive. You’ve been blessed to come this far. Don’t stop now.

My belly laugh after her comment sounded a tad hysterical to my own ears. Staying alive had already cost me a fecking fortune. Dr. C’s current set of recommendations had me staring down another path ending in a mountain of bills. Yet I should stop working for three months? Hire others to fill the gap? I bit my cheek to keep from snapping.

Sorry to interrupt, Kick, but I need you in bathroom number one. My morning manager’s strained voice over the intercom made me jump in my chair.

What happened now? I pressed the button and asked, ignoring my doctor’s frown. Didn’t she realize the interruption kept me from crossing full steam into Rudelandia and chewing her out? Was I solving world peace? No. I sold coffee to my neighbors. At best, it encouraged them and gave them a boost in their daily grind.

The tension in the discombobulated voice amped up. Something big that it requires us both.

Right. Deana wouldn’t bother me with a minor issue. Ever the eternal optimist, her anxious tone turned my internal tornado into an F4. Be right out, I told her.

I turned back to my webcam. Listen, Dr. Chaddha, I need to fix whatever is happening here. I’ll take your advice into consideration though.

Mrs. McKenna, you haven’t set up your IV schedule. Plus Audra needs to do your life coaching session. Give you her recipes.

JaysusMaryandJoseph. My arms phantom-ached at the thought of new bruises and collapsed veins. Time off was one thing, but I swear I had PTSD from the last round of intravenous therapy. I’ll think on the IVs, and Audra can upload the files to my portal.

Will you at least consider cutting back your hours? It’s critical to relieve stress somewhere. And if you can’t make our meditation sessions here, at least do it at home. Exasperation hovered in Dr. Chaddha’s normally steady inflection.

A tightness settled in my chest while the tornado switched to full-blown nausea. I nodded at the monitor. Thank you for your time, Doctor. I’ll be in touch soon. Promise.

We cut the tele-session, and my shoulders slumped. How the hell had I ended up feeling back at square one? And there lay my doctor’s point. Autoimmune patients sought management, not cures.

Even before this appointment, I monitored everything I ate, drank, how I worked out, slept, et cetera. It was all-consuming, though the real challenge lay in keeping it from being soul-consuming. Then there were years like this one when as soon as I thought my ducks were finally in a nice, neat row, life whacked me head-on and the little feckers waddled off again.

The rhythm of my footfalls in the hallway out to the dining room gave me some headspace to reflect. This flare was more evidence of my failure to do health. Moreover, I feared my body would continue to betray me, no matter how many hoops I jumped through to keep it in line.

Kill the pity party and find Deana.

I took the last few feet of tile to mourn the progress I’d lost in my recovery. Inhaled deep and shook it off. I might struggle, but hell if I’d let my thyroid run me over. Taking a cleansing breath, I turned the corner toward the serving counter and remembered Dee had told me to meet her in the bathroom.

Deana Douglas, the source of the earlier voice, paced the restroom hallway. An Out of Service sign stuck to the first door.

I groaned. Did someone flood the toilet again? You could’ve just called the plu—

Dee grabbed my arm and tugged. Get in here.

I jumped, expecting to get wet feet, but the floor looked dry.

She pointed at the sink. In there.

A large ziplock with smaller bags lay in the porcelain bowl. Is that—

Deana nodded vigorously. We used to call them dime bags.

I remember, I breathed, wondering if today’s kids still called them that. Did you look inside? Were they in the sink?

Yes. And no—they were taped to the side of the vanity. If I hadn’t changed the garbage, I might’ve missed them. Deana fanned her face. I think we need to call the police.

I bent over, sniffing, making sure they contained cannabis, but the little bags didn’t give themselves up without opening them. Since I didn’t have on gloves like Deana, I let it go. Did you notice who used the bathroom this morning? Also, shouldn’t we just throw this away?

Kick—Deana heaved a motherly sigh—"someone tried to use our café… your café as a drug drop. We can’t ignore it."

Shit.

Dee was right. She was also late.

Don’t you have to get out of here too? I asked.

Dee scrunched her button nose, reminding me of her doppelgänger, Gladys Knight, bracing to hit a big note. When she had walked into my café, responding to my ad for a barista, I immediately thought of the megastar from our hometown, Detroit. Dee possessed the same class, sparkling smile, and hint of an edge. It’s what initially bonded us—that and shared memories of growing up in Motown.

Deana untied her apron and folded it, tucking it under her arm. You sounded off when I buzzed. I texted Genesis, and she’s saving me a seat. Her granddaughter Geneva was about to play the Hungry Caterpillar in the first-grade fall play, and Dee was stepping out for an hour.

I waved her on. Go ahead. Take pics of little Geneva for me please. I’ll call this in.

But—

Go before you get stuck answering questions and miss the whole play. To distract her, I added, Maybe we can hang some of your recent work in the dining room again.

Dee chuckled. I see what you’re doing. Yeah, we can do that, especially with the senior portrait season underway. She turned for the door. You’re telling me about your appointment when I get back.

Not going anywhere, I murmured. Yet.

As a Bob Marley song later reminded me that everything would be all right, I swiped at a curl stuck to my sweaty cheek and pulled my elbows together to stretch my middle back. Then I donned a pair of gloves and looked around my café. Keeping it in order brought peace, especially during a crazy day like this one.

A senior officer from the Oakville PD had come and gone after questioning the staff and me forward and backward. There were only two other part-timers currently on the schedule. Officer Miller had shown me his sincere disapproval of my lack of security. Upgrading the system had been at the top of my list at the beginning of the year. He also complained about my letting Deana go to the play. I promised to have her give a statement at the station.

A quiet hum finally settled over the café as I swayed to Three Little Birds. I opened the display case and moved the leftover breakfast pastries to make room for lunch items. Next was the bar top—a raw-edged hickory counter that looked more like a piece of art—the centerpiece of the space. It made me smile when it shone and was something I could quickly set to rights.

I let my hand rhythmically glide over its smooth surface while I lengthened shallow breaths, letting my thoughts go. Since giving my statement, I’d racked my brain to remember every customer we’d served.

Inhale for four. Hold for four. Exhale for five… Again.

As the streaks of cleaner evaporated, I caught the dark hint of my reflection in the glossy finish. The silhouette of my big curls shadowed the warm browns in the wood. They were extra exuberant on washdays like this one and reminded me of the Irish dancing competitions I’d been dragged to as a kid. For years I’d fought to tame the curls with dryers, irons, and goo. We’d called a truce when I embraced their wild nature and found better products. Presently I didn’t have the heart to corral them in a scrunchie. Maybe later.

The distraction eased my mind and caused me to miss the woman sliding onto a stool at the end of the counter until she spoke, startling me.

I heard you talked to your so-called doctor, my mother commented, setting my heart pounding.

She’d been in a good mood when she arrived with her neighbor. Perhaps she sincerely wanted to know about my appointment. I’d almost rather talk about that than who had tried to use my bathroom as a drug drop. The logic there escaped me, but maybe expecting a drug dealer to use logic was my first mistake. It ended up not being a large amount of cannabis anyway, thank goodness.

I stopped wiping and gave it a shot. Dr. Chaddha confirmed the flare. She gave me a plan though. I scanned the dining room, hoping the subject would drop. I didn’t see her friend. Did Shirley leave?

Yes. My mother, Bobby Allen, lifted her cup to her lips, wearing a judgmental expression. One of her favorite forms of torture, it kept me always guessing, although it didn’t necessarily equal an impending temper. Did you lock your office door? My suitcases are in there, remember?

I don’t lock it during business hours. But the back door is secure, and your cases are tucked under my desk. They’ll be safe until Rachel’s ready to drive you to the airport.

Bobby clucked her tongue. We’re already cutting it close.

You’ll be fine to go as soon as Deana gets back. My daughter, Rachel, currently manned the drive-through.

I reached for Bobby’s cup. Let me refresh this. It’s probably cold. Still uncertain of her mood, I hoped a little kindness would allay her.

I handed her a new latte along with a nervous smile. She took a loud slurp and set the cup down.

When will you see a real doctor and fix your nonsense once and for all? She moved her forefinger up and down in my direction, further indicating I was the nonsense.

Annnd we’re off.

"Dr. Chaddha is an actual doctor. She trained here at Lord University. Her methods are cutting-edge. Besides, regular doctors spent twenty years telling me nothing was wrong." I didn’t dare say what they actually said since Bobby also thought my disease was in my head.

She shook her head, pushing button number one. If you’d handled yourself like a bloody grown-up all those years ago, you’d still live your fancy NFL life, retired husband or no. You certainly wouldn’t be working yourself to death in this backward town.

I rolled my head to stretch my neck. This was our game, our mother-daughter dance. In my head, I still waited for my dad to butt in with Now Bobby, let our Katie Girl be…

You’re the one who hates Oakville, Mother, not me. Moving to North Carolina and shortening the winters was the first step to feeling better. I sighed, shaking my head because an explanation was an exercise in futility. Plus you know I hated the spotlight. What little still pops up on occasion drives me batty.

She tsked my first comment and ignored the second while rubbing her knee. We all feel pain, Kick. Feeling pain means you’re alive.

Tension traveled south back to my stomach, reminding me of what my doctor had said about stress. I spelled stress B-O-B-B-Y. Definitely alive, Mother.

I spun on my heel to get away, looking out the window. It would be a welcomed relief to have her gone. Six blissful weeks of a seniors’ cruise.

Take care of her, Katie, my dad’s weak voice sounded in my head. Maybe she’ll finally find happiness.

I begged the universe to let this trip do the trick. The universe had been stubbornly silent though.

Another deep breath kept my pulse in control. The café emitted the best aromas—blends of coffee beans, obviously. Once I completed the tapering-off period, I’d have to settle for only the smell for a while. I knew I’d survive. I had already learned to live with the smell of fresh pastries I couldn’t eat anymore. For the first time that week, I reminded myself this was temporary pain for long-term gain.

I took a moment to gaze up at the mural of cats I’d painted near the ceiling, their colors done in the same warm latte-and-coffee-bean hues. Their playful curiosity represented the way I wanted to live life even when it seemed difficult. I waited for the peace of the dining room to fill me. Since opening the Perked Cup seven years earlier, I’d found my center within its walls. Relief came from the door chime, announcing a new customer.

A man strolled through the door. With the light streaming from behind him, the details were blurry from where I stood. Or Deana was probably right about needing stronger glasses. He was tall and lean with a familiar, immature swagger.

Hey, beautiful.

As I stepped to the register to meet the new arrival, the blur became a recognizable face. A local kid the same age as my oldest, Dylan, named Garrett. I cringed at his words, hoping it wouldn’t show, reminding myself to put the customer first.

The thing was, flirting would always be a part of my business. I knew this going in. I preferred friendly banter, but some men didn’t understand the difference. I accepted it. Usually. However, when an attractive young man came in, my internal thoughts generally gravitated toward who’s your daddy? never want a sugar mama? A twenty-nothing boy would always stay a boy for my intents and purposes.

With my body throwing its age in my face, it wasn’t even slightly humorous. Perhaps he’d get the hint if I ignored it. What can I get you?

He flashed a cocky grin. A large iced latte.

With an indifferent nod, I spun on my heel and filled his order. Remembering to upsell, I called over my shoulder, Interested in a snack?

Other than you?

I swear, the boy tried to make his pecs dance. It looked more like they spasmed. Garrett—

Rachel rescued me from making a serious mistake and rebuking him when she bounced around the corner from the drive-through. Without a word, she dipped her chin to me and stepped up to the glass case, her sapphire eyes showing the friendly patience I lacked. I gladly let my daughter take over for a moment.

Garrett pointed at a small case on top of the large food display. Why are these separate from what’s down here?

That’s our gluten-free Blarney Scone, Rachel informed him, pointing to the sign on the upper corner. It’s lavender-almond flavored, which is great. You don’t have to be gluten-free to choose it. She pointed to the larger case. This one is our traditional blueberry recipe. We keep them separate to avoid cross-contamination. Rachel fitted her hands with a pair of disposable gloves.

Guess I’ll do the blueberry one. Thanks.

I handed Garrett his cup and scone, and he winked. "And thank you, gorgeous."

It’s Mrs. Mack, or Kick, please. You can skip the sham flirting too.

His shoulders stiffened. Can’t I cheer you up? You were frowning when I walked in. You just… you know, should smile more. Especially considering…

Garrett piqued my curiosity. Bobby had needled under my skin, but I was sure he’d caught me squinting to figure out the mystery of his blurry form. Considering what, exactly? And why can’t women have all the facial expressions?

He lifted a shoulder as if he’d never considered my question before. You know, for your age. You should be proud you look good.

Boy, did I want to backhand the backhanded compliment right off his pretentious mug. I shook my head, wondering if he would ever get it, while dismissing it all the same. Have a good day, Garrett. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass.

He strutted out without another word.

I put my arm around Rachel and rested my head on her shoulder. I thought your generation was supposed to be woke.

Having three inches on me, Rachel kissed the top of my head and rubbed my free arm. Silly Mama. Even if some of us are woke, that one’s still dreaming of the fifties.

No kidding. I shook my head and grinned at Rachel, then grimaced when Bobby chimed in.

You’re such a chip off the old block. If you didn’t flirt so hard, they wouldn’t bother with you. She cackled from her perch at the counter. You asked for it.

Annnd there went another button, possibly the biggest one. Did I ask for it? Sometimes my mother could twist her arguments, making me think up was down and I was a complete lunatic. Hell, she was the one who had drilled into me to smile no matter what.

I turned to Rachel, looking to grab a minute alone. Can you cover for a few? My fat jeans were in the washer, and this pair squeezes so hard it’s making me nauseated. I’m going to change into the backup pair in my office.

Really, Kick? Fat pants? Bobby scoffed.

Yes. I bit back, saying no more because screw her. If I told her my current weight, she’d never let it go. Besides, every woman I knew had three sets of clothes. There were the ones you wore as a reward for working your ass off, the ones that fit on normal days, and the fat ones. Actual numbers didn’t matter. After achieving the impossible and losing a hundred pounds several years prior, watching thirty reappear practically overnight was as off-putting as the return of the bone-deep fatigue.

Sure, Mama. Rachel pity-laughed. I’ll be fine. Gran can help if we get a mini-rush.

I chuckled at my mother’s sputtering and hustled to the back. Bobby had been one of my first employees, along with my father, and my son, Dylan. But Bobby and Dad made better customers. He’d pushed me to open an authentic Irish pub, but I didn’t want my kids doing homework in the back of a bar. My body couldn’t handle the late hours either. So, I’d designed the Perked Cup with the rich woods of a pub combined with bright windows, coffee, pastries, and a patio.

As soon as I could afford it, Deana came on board, saving my butt and my spirit. And I had to find more people immediately.

Five minutes later, after digging through my bottom desk drawer and only finding a spare pair of shorts, I sheepishly returned to the front, wearing them. I’d worn low-cut cowboy boots with my jeans. They were comfy and helped my feet last a long day. I caught my reflection in the mirror hanging over the office door. I looked like an extra in a country video, not a respectable forty-six-year-old entrepreneur. At least my bloated belly found peace. Unfortunately, my daughter had lost hers.

Rachel stood at the register, leaning back as far as her waist and neck would allow, while another neighborhood boy leaned over the counter, leering.

Jonn, please, you know Cody and I are together. Rachel defended as I approached. She kept a polite smile on her face, though her fingers twitching at her thigh gave away nerves.

Isn’t it time you try out a real man? Dump him, babe, Jonn drawled. Everyone around here knows Cody’s a loser. I’ll treat you right.

Whoa. Thanks, but…

My daughter the peacemaker was terrible at standing up for herself unless her brothers were the ones annoying her. Jonn stretched out his fingers and stroked Rachel’s forearm. He tried to hold her hand, but she snapped it up to her chest, clasping her hands tightly together. The boy bled arrogance. The kind coming from money and too much spoiling, like he owned the town and everyone in it.

Perhaps the loss of his mother a few years prior contributed to his lack of manners. I decided it was a good day for me to educate the neighborhood boys after all.

It didn’t matter that my favorite Prince song filled the dining room. It muted in my ears as my daughter’s frantic gaze slashed to mine. All the stress, arguments, and annoyances of the morning scurried up my spine like steam ready to boil.

Screw with me, push my buttons, make me spend all my money on medicine and fancy grocery stores. Fine. Ask the impossible of me and poke me with needles. Whatever.

But don’t. Mess. With. My. Kid. I tucked a stubborn curl behind my ear, ready for battle.

Okay, Jonn boy, class is in session.

2

WICKED GAME

THOMAS

Resistance coming from the locked door didn’t register with Thomas Harrison’s brain. He simply pulled the handle again, with vigor. He was on a mission, and a closed cigar shop didn’t jibe with his schedule.

Then he saw the sign: Please inquire at the Perked Cup for assistance. So sorry for the inconvenience. ~ the staff at Mick & Hugh’s.

Inconvenience?

That had to be a joke. Thomas tried the door a third time. Not a joke. He didn’t have another thirty minutes to drive to a different shop and make it to the Durham Forest neighborhood on time.

He pivoted and found the Perked Cup’s signage, taking off at a brisk pace. He fully expected to deal with a pimply teenager ignorant of cigars. No matter. When he found out his new boss liked an occasional smoke, he knew exactly what to bring to the Welcome Back social in the dean’s garden.

Starting off on the right foot was paramount to making sure the man was an ally and as hands-off as the former dean had been. Thomas hoped a few thoughtful trinkets would help him build this rapport. Christ, the hoops he’d been jumping through to honor his contract with Lord University and keep his obligations to the other team in France wore on him. He could use a close friend at the university, and his initial conversation with the new boss suggested they shared some interests.

He reminded himself to nod and smile if someone brought up hurricanes at the party. It was September in North Carolina, what did they expect? They were lucky a quick shower was the only thing forecasted for the afternoon. He feared humanity might devolve, what with its reliance on small talk and the latest viral video. Then again, meaningless topics like the weather always irritated him.

Time spent locked away in his lab and at his property had an adverse effect on him. It affected his ability to people, as his lab assistant called it. He feared it might be killing his soul too. Plus the mantle of professor still didn’t feel comfortable on his shoulders. He wondered if it would ever fit.

As he opened the door to the coffeehouse, the blower nearly sent his fedora airborne. He grabbed at the hat to keep it in place. Thomas’s gaze lifted, and he was dumbstruck.

A barista with shoulder-length curls was giving what-for to a customer. She told the boy what he would order and how he should behave in her establishment if he wanted to continue being served. Her head bobbed in a pointed rhythm to the Prince song playing in the background, turning her brunette curls into physical exclamation points to her arguments.

She stepped back, her curvy hip leaning into the back counter, her brow furled and focused.

She let a girl hand the boy his order. Keeping her tone low and rational, like a professor schooling a disrespectful student, she said, Now, Jonn, thank Rachel for graciously making your iced mochaccino.

Th-thank you, Rachel. The young man touched his credit card to the reader while stammering, his brow pulled into an angry V.

The barista folded her arms and nodded to the girl. Thanks, Rachel. You can take the drive-through again. Her gaze shifted back to Jonn. I’m going to tell you to have a nice day, and it’s not BS. I really do wish you a better day, Mr. Graham. Then you’ll return the kindness and go.

Was it wrong how her don’t fuck with me air turned him on? Thomas considered doing something to piss her off—just to hear what she’d say to him—and ducked his head.

The boy took the cup and turned.

Jonn— she warned.

The kid grunted and murmured, Have a nice day, Mrs. Mack.

Thank you, son. I don’t mean offense. But I won’t tolerate any more of this behavior with my daughter, my employees, or another customer. We clear?

Jonn nodded again and left, silently stepping around Thomas.

A smile woke inside him, and it might have reached his eyes. Thomas didn’t smile much lately. The work didn’t allow it. He sure appreciated the woman’s lesson though. He liked the authority she held as she spoke, as much as her words.

She was fire.

Or was the spark igniting in him? Like glimpsing himself in a mirror, Thomas recognized his frustrations in her tight brow. A hint of sadness.

His attraction to her was instant, but he only had time for the occasional quick hookup. Something about this woman said she would consume him.

Like attracts like. Right. He saw his work in all areas of his life. Guess the Law of the Instrument applies to scientists as much as it does to carpenters, he thought.

Look at Nathan Detroit, a voice snapped beside him. A brief look around, along with a fast flip through his mental memory bank to the Guys and Dolls reference, suggested the senior citizen at the bar spoke about him. Did she have a problem with a man wearing a suit? If he had to be in academics, he’d be damned if he went the patched-elbow blazer route.

The barista wore a friendly smile, reaching her eyes, as she turned from the back counter and greeted him. Well, hey there, handsome. Is Maggie feeling better? Oh— Her eyes flashed wide as she took Thomas in. I’m sorry. You’re not Hugh.

Another smirk caught him off guard. Not according to my license.

The woman blushed, the light pink complementing her porcelain skin. I’m sorry. My Uncle…