Kick Start

First Five Chapters Ext. Preview 

One

Hard Out Here

Kick

“You’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.

Two

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…” The lady at the counter hissed, and the woman adjusted her words. “My father’s friend, Hugh, often wears a similar fedora. It’s dumb… Not the hat. Your hat is very handsome.” She gestured to her eyes. “I think I might need distance lenses. Anyway, what can I get you?” She raised her hands in a “stop” motion. “Wait, let me guess… A large Americano?”

“Good guess.” He nodded. “But I’m here for cigars, actually.” He pointed over his shoulder. “The sign said—”

“Oh right. One second.” She held up a finger and leaned around the corner. “Rachel, I have a smoke-shop customer. Tina’s due in five. You can cover for me again, eh?”

“Sure, Mama. Have Gran sit at the register. I’ll get the rest.”

The barista tucked a burnished curl behind her ear and took a long breath before addressing the scowling older woman. “Five minutes. I swear, I’ll be right back.”

Mother, daughter, and grandmother. Thomas took note. Neither looked too much like the other. The youngest wore her hair in long, raven curls, looser than her mother’s coils, while the eldest woman kept hers in a straight, blond bob. He supposed both younger women favored their fathers. Yeah, he spent way too much time contemplating genes and epigenetics.

The barista approached with her hand extended. “Kick McKenna. Is this your first time visiting us?”

Thomas shook the offered hand, noting her confident grip and kind eyes, the hint of sadness still there. They were hazel—deep and earthy with splashes of bright gold. They reminded him of walking in the woods on his property. A subtle, pleasant warmth bloomed from his fingers to his elbow.

“Thomas Harrison. Nice to meet you… Kick? I’ve been loyal to the Durham lounge near campus, but it closed last month.”

“Yup.” She sighed. “Frank mentored my dad with his shop. The man earned his retirement.” A somberness chased the smile away for a few beats. Kick shook herself and headed toward the door.

Thomas followed her across the parking lot, mesmerized by the sway in her purposeful stride. Out in the sun, Kick’s chestnut hair came to life as a light breeze danced through it. A few strands of mahogany and gold wrapped around the deep brown. The colors reminded him of the cabinet he’d built for his office over summer break.

An edginess crept through him. No time for this, Thomas scolded himself again. The side of his right hand still tingled from her touch. He flexed his fingers and grazed it on his suit jacket, his other hand carrying his briefcase.

Kick opened the door and swept her arm inside. “Welcome to Mick & Hugh’s. Again, I apologize for the staffing problem. It should be resolved soon. Are you interested in a particular brand?”

She looked up and frowned as if she were mad at the song that started when she tapped a row of switches. Tula’s “Wicked Game” filled the store, but it was near the end, so whatever bothered her about it wouldn’t last for long. “Fecking girl,” Kick muttered under her breath.

“Pardon?”

Kick turned and lifted the corner of her mouth. “Nothing, I’m sorry. What kind were you looking for?”

“Padrons. I assume they’re in the humidor?”

She nodded and pointed to the glassed-in space. “The line sits on the middle shelf. Help yourself.”

Thomas took a joyful inhale when he stepped into the enclosure. The aroma from the leaves set him at ease while brightening his thoughts. If he didn’t have to hustle to the luncheon, he’d consider chatting Kick up, welcoming a distraction from his stalled research.

He approached the register with an open box. “Mind if I take the whole thing?”

Her laugh bubbled, too husky for a giggle and… sexy. “Of Family Reserve? Anytime. A new shipment is due Wednesday anyway.” She lifted the lid. “We’ve already sold two. Are you okay with that?”

“Fine.”

“Is it safe to assume you have a humidor at home for these?”

Thomas patted his briefcase. “Most of them will be given away this afternoon, and there’s a travel one in here for the rest.”

“Perfect. Are you celebrating something then?” She glanced at him and added, “If you don’t mind my asking.”

Thomas liked her scrunched nose. He took it as a “hope I’m not offending” demeanor and liked it as much as her “take no bullshit” one from earlier, only this was cute. “I don’t mind. I run a genetics research lab at the university and am taking over a biology class for someone on sick leave. There’s a faculty social at the new dean’s house this afternoon.”

“Ooh, cigars are great for schmoozing. Nicely done. Are you at Raleigh State? My son—”

“No, no.” Thomas interrupted. “I meant Lord University in Durham.”

“I see.” They completed the transaction, and Kick said, “Please come back again. I’m still sorry about the inconvenience. One of the owners died this summer, and the other partner’s wife is dealing with a bad bout of pneumonia. I think Maggie’s almost back to normal though.”

Thomas furrowed his brow. Maybe he had a minute to spare. He tossed his thumb over his shoulder, toward Kick’s café. “Is that the Maggie you referenced earlier?”

“Yup,” she answered, blushing. “Sorry about that too.”

Thomas snapped his fingers. “You called me Hugh, and this is—”

“Mick and Hugh’s. Right.” Kick turned toward a tablet sitting on the counter and scoffed.

“Everything all right?” Thomas asked.

Kick shook her head, then nodded as if she hadn’t decided. “It’s fine.” She inhaled deep and lifted a corner of her mouth. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Thomas answered, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t mean to pry. It’s none of my business.”

Kick’s straightened and laughed. “No worries. It’s been a day already, but it’ll turn around. It’s early yet, right?”

“Sure.” A flier caught Thomas’s eye. It advertised an open-mic night at the Perked Cup. He lifted one. “This is tonight?”

“It is,” she said, shifting her back before straightening again.

“I see.” Thomas often relaxed by playing guitar, but it had been ages since he’d heard someone else live. He doubted he could make it back in time though. He turned back toward Kick. “Hey, do y’all ever—”

“Oh, hell no,” she muttered. Her hand fisted at her hip. “Maybe Bobby was right about me.”

Thomas tipped his head to the side, a crease in his brow. “Pardon?”

“Or there’s something in the water.” Her face contorted, looking a lot like anger. At what, he had no clue.

“Why do men think they’re the answer to my problems?” Kick’s eyes slowly surveyed every inch of him, leaving Thomas feeling like the scolded boy from earlier. He stood straighter, waiting for clarification.

“Let’s get one thing clear.” She tapped her finger on the counter for emphasis. “I. Am. Not. A. Cougar. I don’t need to get my groove back. I don’t want to be completed.” She leaned in slightly, dropping her voice to a growl. “Sure, I roar. Sometimes I purr. But prowl? Boy. I. Do. Not. I’ve never auditioned for the role of MILF, and man-cubs like you need to quit assuming I have.”

“MILF?” Thomas blinked.

“A mom I’d like to… Never mind.”

He raised his hands in surrender. “I didn’t mean to—”

Kick cut him off again, her voice growing louder. “Yeah, I know. You only wanted to compliment me. I’m not in the AARP yet, but I don’t do young men in any fashion. No one’s interested in your charity either.”

He suddenly couldn’t get away from the delusional woman fast enough.

With a quick shiver, her demeanor chilled. She strolled to the door, gestured for him to leave, then said, “Thank you for stopping by.”

Thomas’s tight grip on the steering wheel eased as his ’69 Camaro made its way west. Driving was another form of meditation to him, and it lightened his indignation at Kick McKenna’s rant. The engine’s roar, the machine bending to his will, relaxed Thomas’s clenched jaw, let him know he still had control. By the time he navigated the neighborhood on the edge of Durham Forest, he’d forgotten about the fiery woman and her wrong, knee-jerk assumptions.

Thomas’s mind was back in the game, focused on his job and making a new friend. Hopefully, this boss wouldn’t micromanage. He already had people doing that from France.

Roar, she’d said? Hot damn. His engine had revved at the sight of her flame. Well, too bad for Kick.

He found a perfect parking spot near the dean’s sprawling colonial and stepped out of the car. An ominous cloud formation appeared right on time. He reached for his beloved briefcase, and his shoulders dropped with renewed frustration.

Of course.

In his haste to leave the cigar store, he’d left it behind. Damn it all.

Three

Settle Down

Kick

“Great, you’re back.” I met Deana at the end of the display case, her warm smile the perfect prescription to help me jump into the lunch rush. After locking up Mick & Hugh’s, I’d stormed back to my café and chilled a minute in my office, finding calm after another unwanted come-on. I was three for three in a weird day that was only half-done. This Thomas guy should’ve been old enough to know better. I mean, he was handsome, with soulful gray-blue eyes, a chiseled jaw, and a sexy chin cleft. But he probably still lived with his mom. Or roommates.

No. Just no.

I spent the time examining my interactions with Garrett and Thomas. Then came Jonn Graham. He’d had a crush on Rachel for years, but he’d never been so brazen before. I didn’t know what had gotten into him. I hoped Jonn would take my scolding to heart and change his attitude.

If not for the stressful morning, I would’ve answered Thomas with a polite “no, thank you.” Most days, that was all it took. No harm, no foul. Unfortunately, Professor Harrison had stumbled upon my last nerve and set me off. I saw my mistake and let the embarrassment wash over me. At least it beat guilt.

Deana laughed at my greeting as I retied my apron. She held the bus bucket of dirty dishes. “I’ve been back, Kick. Long enough to see you charge past me like Satan’s hound had chomped on your heel.” She took a long glance out the window. “Still, you beat the rain. It’s about to open up.”

Well, hell. There went my last hope for a perfect September day. And lunch on the patio. I bent to look out the window. I hadn’t noticed anything looming earlier, but I’d been preoccupied. The dark cloud didn’t look too big. Maybe my day would brighten once it passed.

Deana tapped me on the shoulder. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

I shook my hair and pulled it back, using the scrunchie I kept in my apron pocket. “Just men. All morning. Men.”

“Another diehard fan find you?”

There was a frightening thought. Dee had found my silver lining. “Thankfully, no.”

She chuckled harder, then lowered her voice, leaning in closer, getting serious. “Are you sure your mama had nothing to do with it?”

“Probably.”

“I wasn’t here, but I know you’d have been fine if Miss Bobby weren’t hanging around. That woman has the passcode for pushing your grouch buttons.”

I looked up to see my mother bringing her cup to the bussing box; then she sat back down at the bar.

“What are you up to?” I asked her, trying to sound cheery and not suspicious.

“I sat in the sunny corner after serving those two women gossiping about their grandchildren.” She pointed to two locals who met here weekly. “It’s cold here by the door.” Her comment came out as an accusation, but I was tired of being baited.

“What I mean is, shouldn’t you and Rachel have left for the airport by now?”

“My flight is delayed. Some storm in the Midwest made the plane late. You’d think they’d have a better system by now, considering there’s always weather.”

The little girl in me strangely welcomed Bobby’s temporary animosity toward the airline. At nearly forty-seven, I still thought it was nice when someone else made it on her shit list. Except for when the attention turned to my youngest, her ultimate scapegoat.

Deana and I established ourselves at our stations, my part-time staff filling in where needed. I changed the topic and asked Dee, “How was your Hungry Caterpillar?”

Her face filled with pride and love. “Geneva’s a natural. I told Genesis to put her in an after-school theater class.”

I was about to recommend the camps Rachel attended when she continued, “But I want to hear about this doctor’s appointment. Is it as bad as we thought?”

We leaned against the counter, monitoring the house, but forgetting the conveniently silent lady sitting at the bar. The chill in the stainless steel of the work area moved through my braced arms. It cooled the last of my hot temper, helping me gather my thoughts. I raised my hands, my thumb and forefinger a smidge apart. “There are things to figure out, but I’ll get through it.”

“Don’t play coy, Kick,” Deana scolded, crossing her arms. “Some weeks I see more of you than my husband.”

I leaned into her for privacy. “You were right about stress. Dr. Chaddha said the loss of Dad, coupled with a hot summer and Liam’s last year in school, et cetera. It put me over the edge.” I shrugged. “It’s a decent-sized road bump.”

“I hadn’t thought about your impending empty nest,” Deana added. “I remember that year. It was terrifying and exciting. Gordon and I spent Maceo’s senior year planning the trip to London we took in September. But I was afraid of the quiet house when we returned.”

“Hey,” I said, tapping her arm, “don’t remind me.”

“Sorry. What’s the doctor want you to do about it?”

“Added therapies and food changes to stop inflammation. I can’t have any caffeine until the New Year. I’m still processing it up here and here.” I touched my head and my heart, knowing from experience these change-ups required their own version of the stages of grief. I had to let past progress go and accept this new starting point. It would be the Zen thing to do. I wanted to scream and punch a wall, which might have helped for a minute. I wouldn’t recommend making coffee with a broken hand though.

“We have great decaf.”

“Oh, that’s out too, for at least six weeks. And I have to meld something called a low-FODMAP food plan with my autoimmune Paleo one. I think it leaves chicken, green beans, and blueberries.”

A chuckle burst from Deana before she caught herself. “Tell me you’re joking.”

I grabbed a rag and wiped the counter. “I am. Mostly.”

“Cute.” She bumped my hip. “You’ve got this though.”

My nails tapped a rhythm on the stainless steel. “The doctor wants me to take three months off. Can you believe it? I can’t possibly, not when Hugh needs help too. But maybe I should cut back hours here?”

“Am I not here for you?” Deana spread her arms. “Let me hire some folks. Use me, boss lady.”

“You have enough going on yourself,” I countered. “I don’t want to dump my issues on you. Not when you watch the grands in the afternoon and your photography business is gaining traction.”

Dee’s hands moved over each other in a circular motion. “Spread it around. Give me some. Give Dylan some. You know.”

I shook my head. My oldest, Dylan, worked the counter at the cigar store. He’d done it primarily to spend time with his granddad. Now he worked to fill in the gap. But he was finishing up grad school and getting ready for big things in the tech world. “Dylan’s thesis project is ramping up. He should cut back at the smoke shop, not add more hours.” I tapped my chin. “What would you think about Jake taking over for me as night manager?”

Jake Quick was a young veteran who worked evening hours at the café while he finished his business degree. He’d already bumped up to full-time hours and did many of the things I’d require of a manager.

“There you go.” Dee nodded her head.

“You wouldn’t mind sharing the second office?”

“Not at all. I’m mornings; he’d be nights. Delegating would do you some good.”

“Thanks.” I wanted to hug and kiss Dee. I crossed my fingers Jake would be up for the promotion. I wasn’t certain what his postgraduation plans were.

Deana’s eyes warmed, the mother in her coming out full force. “This isn’t the end of your healing. You’ve come too far already. The staff and I’ll do what we can to help.”

A loud scoff broke our private bubble. “Isn’t your drama queen act exhausting? It sure tires me,” Bobby butt in. My shoulders fell. We should’ve waited until she left. Then again, she was already supposed to be gone. “No wonder you keep complaining about low energy.”

“Now, Miss Bobby,” Deana said, “Kick’s worked hard to get this—”

“The help’s defending you now?”

Deana walked off toward the drive-through, muttering, “One Mississippi, two Mississippi…”

I bit my cheek and let her go. She’d be back in a heartbeat anyway.

I whipped around and glared. “You will never speak to her like that again.”

Bobby waved me off with a flick of her wrist and a smirk. “Just admit defeat and convince Hugh to sell Mickey’s bloody smoke lounge. You know you’re looking for an excuse to get rid of all this. Quitting is what you do. Ever since you quit dancing, you’ve flitted from one thing to another like a drunken butterfly.” She cackled at her own joke, the master gaslighter on a roll. “Maybe then you’ll feel better and have time for a man again. You know if you hadn’t been so focused on yourself, you wouldn’t be in this shit now, right?”

“Hang on.” I threw my rag down. “Are you saying—?”

“If you had stopped whining about not feeling good, you wouldn’t be alone,” Bobby snapped. “It’s past time someone pointed out the obvious. Your father used to shut me up on this, but he’s not here anymore, is he?”

Ah, the mother of all buttons, right there. The source of my nightmares for eight years. Life’s biggest guilty verdict. I’d collected a lifetime of them. “There would’ve been an accident either way, Mother,” I protested.

“I wasn’t there, Miss Bobby, but even I know one thing isn’t the other. Nobody gets out of life without struggles. I don’t think you have.” Deana’s bravery knew no end.

I hustled over to the drive-through, my cheeks so hot I was certain they looked sunburned. “Tina, you have Rach’s spot now.” I pulled Rachel toward the back. “Take my AmEx card from my wallet and get your grandmother out of here. If her plane is still delayed, go to the airport and buy her lunch. Hell, shop for all I care, just git her awa. Please, sweetheart.” Though raised in the Midwest, my father’s Irish lilt found me when agitated. A memory flashed of him asking teenaged-me to take Bobby anywhere and give him peace.

Rachel gave me a quick hug. “Sorry, Mama. I heard some of that, but the drive-through was too lit to leave.”

Fortunately, the lunch rush kept us busier than a two-bit hooker on BOGO night. Putting smiles on customers’ faces soothed Bobby’s cruelty. Deana switched the music to my alt-rock playlist to kill my temper and keep me bouncing, even though it wasn’t her taste. By midafternoon, we had a break and took our lunch together. We shared a table in the sunny corner. Dee ate a Santa Fé chicken wrap and chips. I had a Cobb salad and apples with a dip from home. I noted how the lunch didn’t fit the new low-FODMAP plan. Well, hell.

I wore my reading glasses as I tinkered with the upcoming schedule, figuring out where I could take time off for appointments. I decided to give acupuncture a try, hoping it could work in lieu of IV therapy.

“Feeling better?” Deana asked between bites of her wrap.

“The momster’s gone, so… yeah.”

“Kick, your mama has more issues than People Magazine. I mean, where are you with all this?” Deana asked, waving her free hand toward my laptop screen.

“Still absorbing.”

“But you’ve done it before.”

“There’s the thing.” I sighed. “When my stomach went haywire and the pain amped up, I thought going back to the original regimen would fix it. It’s also why I joined the HIIT group. When I asked Dr. Chaddha why it didn’t work, she said it was courtesy of the dreaded P-word.”

“Which P we discussing?” Deana asked.

“Perimenopause,” I moaned. “Apparently the rules are different now. Doesn’t matter that it’s only been five years since the last big protocol and the weight loss. Something about estrogen and my metabolism being more stubborn now than before. Here I thought it was almost impossible then.”

“Oh, shug.” She patted my hand. “That’ll settle down.”

“I don’t know, Dee,” I said, a hitch catching my voice.

“What are you really afraid of?”

I set my pen down, along with the reading glasses. “Worst case?”

Dee’s eyes managed to show sympathy and say “duh?” at the same time.

“I’ve worked hard so my best years can be ahead of me. But what if this is as good as it gets? What if I spent my best years being sick and there’s nothing left? You know how the Psalm I like reminds me of the good stuff?”

She nodded. “Psalm Sixteen?”

“Yup. Right now I’m trying to believe ‘the boundary lines have fallen in pleasant places,’ but I can’t. The boundaries are choking me. I want more.”

Dee squeezed my hand. “There’s your stress talking. Have you tried meditating?”

I felt my own eyes flash with annoyance. “I’ve looked at some apps, but none seem right. I don’t know. It’s adding more stress when I think about it, like I can’t cut it there either.”

“I’d be happy to show you the app I use.” I didn’t know Deana had tried mindfulness. She piqued my curiosity. “Either way, everyone meets their fears now and then. Did you know my Maceo and his wife are having issues? It’s not his health, but he’s terrified his vision of the future is about to go bust.”

I shook my head. Poor guy. Dee had great kids.

“I’ll tell you what I told him: don’t cross bridges before you get to them. Let me help. Leave the hiring to me. Have Jake do scheduling. Shoot, he can help with staffing too. He’s a smart boy. He’s a wonderful choice, Kick.” She stretched her arms to their sides and began shaking her hands and flapping her arms. “Now, do like me and shake this off.”

I complied while laughing. “You do this with your grandkids?”

“Better believe it.” We took a deep breath and giggled some more. The action had a remarkable effect, and I honestly felt better.

“You got this. Plus we’ll be here to keep you in line and on track. Before you know it, this will be a memory and something else will bother you.”

If we’d lived in Ancient Greece, the woman would’ve been an oracle.

Four

Simple Man

Kick

“A peace offering, Kicky,” my best friend’s smoky voice said to my back. A plastic container squeaked across the counter as I turned around. It had to be yummy. She was a fantastic baker. I had watched Cyndi Sendaydiego walk in from the parking lot, and she’d accurately assessed my level of peeve. She had promised to help me set up for the open-mic night, and fatigue was setting in thanks to the crazy morning. I took a moment before greeting her.

I lifted the corner of the container and sniffed. “Lumpia,” I whispered in awe. Okay, this was a good apology. She’d been experimenting with gluten-free flours, claiming they made her tummy feel better too.

“Papa’s recipe, modified of course,” Cyndi confirmed. “These are the best so far.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her the rolls were probably off the menu for the foreseeable future. Besides, how much worse could a few goodies make me feel? I’d pop some activated charcoal and cross my fingers afterward.

I lifted my eyes and caught true repentance in hers. “Thank you, chica.” I grabbed two forks and two knives, handing her a set. We had time to catch up before the show.

Since she’d arrived late, I expected her to come in ragged or at least frazzled. Instead, Cyndi looked like a million bucks, from her silky black, chin-length wedged bob to her wedged flip-flops. Being tiny, she was into wedges.

Her tan skin glowed, and her beautiful gray eyes (one of the traits courtesy of her mother’s European ancestry) glowed.

A low-cut, V-neck tee couldn’t hide a tiny hickey. I instantly knew why she’d stood me up.

She lowered her sunglasses to the tip of her nose and flashed a smile. “Anytime. Sorry I missed helping. It looks great in here though.” She twisted uncomfortably in her seat as I studied her. “I accepted an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

“You got some.” I crossed my arms. “What’s his name?” Cyn didn’t cancel often, and between us, it was usually me asking for a hand. She’d been through a lot and fought her way back too. She worked hard and played harder, as they say. And possessed a metabolism I’d sell a kid for. If I were in her shoes, I’d also take a detour when given the opportunity.

A grin started at the right side of her mouth and slowly spread to the left. “Manu.”

“Seriously? You skipped out on me for tanned and exotic?”

Cyndi had the nerve to close her eyes, lick her top lip, tilt her head back, and squeal. The students studying on the far side of the dining room looked up from their books. “Make sure you add tall to the visual.” She smirked, picking off the lumpia wrapper.

I laughed at her antics while my stomach growled, and I dug into my plate. We had each other’s backs when it counted. We became close while rooming together at Michigan State University. Like any successful lengthy relationship, we’d learned which battles to pick and which to let go.

“You’re forgiven if you tell me about him,” I offered with a smile, cutting my rolls into pieces. “You know I live vicariously through you.” I swallowed my bite. “Oh, Cyn, these are heaven. Thanks, sweets.”

“You’re most welcome, Kicky.” Cyndi went full finger food with hers, speaking between bites. “Manu runs a food truck. I’m helping him with his books so he can get a permanent space next year. Anyway, I took him to lunch, as I do with all new clients. We started talking, and…”

“You liked his menu.”

She nodded her head and licked her upper lip again.

“Think this one will be serious?” I asked lightly, ever hopeful she’d take the plunge again.

“Pfft. Did I say relationship? It’s sex. We’re too busy for more.”

“Hey, fam.” My youngest, Liam, flew through the front door, eyed our food, and reached for one of my rolls.

Cyndi tapped his hand away. “Get your own food. These are Mama’s.” Yeah, we had each other’s back. Liam kissed his godmother on the cheek. “Fam?” she asked. “This is new. Do I count as a fam?”

“You’re Aunt Cyn,” Liam countered. “Of course you’re fam.”

“It’s not new,” I added. “Between your business and his after-school activities, you haven’t seen each other in a while.”

“Yeah, thanks for coming out tonight,” Liam said, rounding the counter to fix a drink and a snack. He lifted a cup toward Cyndi, asking if she wanted one. I’d been so caught up in myself I’d forgotten the first rule of running a coffeehouse—the blasted coffee.

“Yes, please, dimples. Are you nervous?” Cyndi used her pet name for him, but my kids were used to multiple nicknames. It was how my family showed both approval and disappointment.

“Naw,” he said with a sassy grin you find in a high school senior. Liam ruled his world. “This is my practice crowd.” He leaned down and kissed my head since he’d already grown nine inches taller than me. I liked how he’d never fully entered the “moms are idiots” stage. Then he flashed us his killer dimples, the reason for Cyn’s nickname. It was a habit the girls in his orbit encouraged. My baby was growing into a beautiful man regardless of my readiness for it.

Liam turned his attention to me. “Can I take this stuff to your office? Gonna bust on some homework before the show.”

“Definitely, weeman.” I nodded and shooed him away. “Want me to send the band members back as they arrive or keep them out here?”

“Send them back, please.” With the backpack still over his shoulder, a plate and cup in his hands, he shuffled to the office. I swore I heard a table of girls sigh.

It was our first open-mic night of the fall. My newly promoted night manager, Jake Quick, helped me set up the sizable pieces, then I gave him the night off to celebrate. The minute I’d offered, I regretted it. I still waded in denial regarding how much my health had backtracked.

A few minutes before the start time, my father’s business partner, Hugh Reynolds, entered and slid onto the stool next to Cyndi.

“Hugh!” She threw her arms wide and leaned into a hug.

“I should come in here more often if this is the greeting I get,” he answered with a smile in his eyes.

“You could come in more often, period,” I said, leaning across the bar, receiving and returning a kiss to the cheek. “Great to see you. Is Maggie well?” He nodded, eyes bright. We’d both been so distracted since Dad’s funeral, it felt like I’d lost both men over the summer.

“She gone?” he asked.

“Honestly, have you been staying away because of Bobby?”

Hugh raised his hands. “She’s been a bear since the funeral, plus taking care of Maggie… I’m sorry, Katie, but I didn’t want the missus around Queen Bobby’s temper.”

“Tell me about it,” I answered. “You’d think she might’ve liked Dad or something.” Hugh had been my father’s best friend since moving to North Carolina. Unfortunately, their wives didn’t feel the same. “It’s great to see you. Can I get you anything before I start this shindig?”

“Did I see a piece of the quiche I like?”

“We still have a couple, yes.”

“Add a decaf the way I like it, please.”

“Got it.” I set about making Hugh’s belly happy and fixed a cup of decaf for myself, following the dietary sheet’s recommendation to ease into the coffee abstinence.

As the after-school crowd headed home, the dining room buzzed with warmth and excitement. Customers settled in for a few hours of the unexpected. The sign-up sheet always held its share of singers and bands, but the number of poetry performances and even stand-up acts had been growing. I hoped the teens who performed saw the Perked Cup as a safe place to develop their talent.

Waning light from the sunset brought my focus to the amber illumination in the space. The coffeehouse was ready for the day’s third act.

I filled a small glass of water and popped an anti-inflammatory supplement, coaxing my body to hang in there, letting the smell of the roasted beans and hiss of the machines sustain me. This might have been my plan B, but the Perked Cup was intended to serve the community along with a fine cup of java. Whether people stopped by for a quick cup of “get you going” and a smile in the early hours, a story hour and social time for moms and their littles midmorning, a quick boost and to-go lunch, a safe place to study after school, or an evening gathering spot, I enjoyed putting smiles on people’s faces. I was still living the dream and hoped I could hang on to it.

While walking off the stage, having introduced Liam’s band, Metaphorical Chemistry, I noticed Professor Harrison lingering near the door. I knew he’d come for the attaché. A cardigan had replaced his suit jacket, and the fedora had disappeared.

I planned to approach him directly but ended up tossing him a shy wave from the safety of the service area. I didn’t know what to make of him now that I’d calmed down. Perhaps I’d read more into the formality of his suit and arrogant demeanor. Now he stared at my son’s band as if taken by them. He seemed more casual and yet—I don’t know—isolated. It was like he was unfamiliar with being in public. It seemed strange for a professor, even a young one.

My waving caught his eye, and Thomas moved to the counter. He leaned in to hear me as I asked, “You’re here for your briefcase, aren’t you?”

Relief flooded his face as his shoulders visibly relaxed. “Is it here?”

“In my office. I’ll go get it.” I gestured to an open spot next to Cyndi. “Have a seat.”

“Mind if I get a coffee too?”

I laughed at the question, tempted to shoot him my typical sarcastic response, but I didn’t know how he’d take it, given the way I’d yelled earlier. “Not at all.” I tapped the shoulder of one of the part-timers. “Madison can take your order, and I’ll be right back.”

Walking out with the heavy briefcase in hand, Liam’s words stopped me from the stage.

“Most of y’all know my mom runs the café. She’s worked her ass off”—I shot him a glare, which got me a dimpled smirk in return—“to make the coffeehouse something we could be proud of.” He looked over his shoulder and back to the small audience. “The band and I thank you, Mom, for letting us play.”

As far as I knew, no one had told him about my day, the diagnosis… any of it. His words were a reminder that while some people knew which buttons to push to bring you to your knees, others knew which ones could make you soar, make the bad days worth it.

My nose tingled as he settled his guitar and quickly added, “This is for you.” They proceeded to play Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Simple Man.” He’d tinkered with the song on his own for years, but I didn’t know his band had earnestly practiced it. When Liam was little, he took to the idea of a song about a mother and son. He’d belt it out from his car seat while we ran errands.

He changed the opening lyrics from “only son” to “youngest son.” I bit my lip to keep my emotions tight. The gleam in Liam’s eye said he knew he’d gotten to me. My memory flashed to the day he pranced into preschool without a second look back. That’s a funny thing about parenting teenagers; their toddler selves tended to hide in their growing bodies. They wait within shadowed memories, quickly jumping out when you didn’t expect it. The reminder he was the last of my children occasionally sucker-punched me too. It was easy to go about my daily routine, forgetting how the raising part of my job as a mother was ending. I was crazy about this kid with a heart bigger than the planet, and I didn’t know what I’d do after he left.

I returned to the service area and almost teared up again when I caught the emotion on Cyndi’s face. Family by choice could be better than blood. Then I saw the spread in front of the professor and laughed. It didn’t occur to me he’d settle in, though my reaction probably came more from a release of emotion.

I raised the briefcase. “Here you go. If you’re staying, I could keep it back here. It’s kind of heavy for the undermount hooks.” I gestured to an open space on a shelf at the end of the bar. “I promise it’s dry and safe down there.”

“If you wouldn’t mind, thank you.” He smiled and finished eating his… sandwich wrap, the last slice of quiche, and a piece of shortbread.

I gathered Thomas’s plates and wiped the counter when he finished. It was an excuse to take a big breath and humble myself. The band had finished, and the overall volume of the room had lowered for a poetry reading, so I didn’t have to yell. “I want to apologize for earlier. I’m sure you didn’t mean any offense in asking me out. I mean, of course you didn’t. And I don’t usually take offense when it happens.”

Nice going, Kick. How far down your throat will this foot go? “Anyway, you were kind of my last straw in a morning with tough diagnoses and rude customers, not to mention some eejit left weed in our bathroom. I think my pushed buttons were looking for a target and I overreacted… So yeah.”

His eyebrow popped up in question. “I didn’t… I meant to ask if there were other open-mic nights. Specifically on the weekends. I’m often busy at night.”

Cyndi and Uncle Hugh had watched our entire exchange, and they burst out laughing at my expense.

“Oh shi-it,” I stuttered. I didn’t have a stutter, but my brain had shorted out.

Please God, let me become invisible. Grant me this one little thing. Pleeaase. I looked down at my arm. Super pale. Still visible.

“Can we start over?” I extended my hand in greeting as I felt the blush rush up my chest to my hairline. “Kick McKenna. Chief coffee brewer. Also self-absorbed foot eater. Sorry, open-mic nights are always on Mondays. Weekends are for themed nights or single-act bookings.”

A sweet smile reached the corners of his eyes, making them crinkle without pulling at his lips. He took my offered hand and shook it once with purpose. “Thomas Harrison. I’m familiar with the foot-eating habit. Bad for digestion.”

“Great sweater, my dude,” Liam told Thomas before he asked me if the band could hang out in my office again. They wanted to review their set without groupie interference. Plus Liam’s best friend since first grade, Jacklyn Moore, was new to the band. That they had stayed friends through awkward years and ridicule from classmates made me proud.

“He’s not a dude, Lee. Dr. Harrison is a professor,” Cyndi said.

Thomas tipped his chin. “Thanks, pal. Thomas is fine though, unless you’re my student. I liked your music. Has the band played together long?”

Uncle Hugh added his compliments, and the three males put their heads together, talking about music and future school plans.

Cyndi pulled me in to whisper in my ear. “Is this the guy with the zoot suit you told me about?”

“Shh,” I scolded. “I never said zoot suit. Those are from the roaring twenties. See his pants? They’re more…”

“Mad Men.”

“Precisely.”

She nudged my shoulder. “What do you think though? He has potential.”

I laughed, caught the men looking, and bit my lip. I turned back to her. “The whole Mr. Rogers thing is a bit weird, don’t you think?”

Cyndi’s eyes shifted toward the fellas without turning her head. She studied Thomas for a moment, and I hoped she wouldn’t crack a joke at his expense. For some reason, I felt protective of him.

“Remember the semester you made me watch the classic movies with you for a class?”

I wrinkled my nose, wondering where Cyndi’s thoughts had turned. “Sure.”

“I had a mad crush on young Cary Grant. He was fiiine.” She drew out the word and sighed. Her eyes flashed to the side again. “Professor-man has the same vibe. And face.”

I ducked my head to look at Thomas without him noticing. Raven hair, cleft chin. The eyes were lighter, but she had a point. I nodded slightly.

Cyndi added, “I bet his female students swoon when he walks into a lecture hall.”

“Bringing back memories?” I teased her, then bit my lip, regretting the comment. “Sorry.”

“No worries.” She smiled as if remembering something. “Even if it was wrong, some of those memories are awesome.” Cyndi tucked some hair behind her ear, and her eyes dimmed. “It ended up being only half as bad of a bad habit as Joel was.”

I tried not to flinch at the mention of her ex-husband. I’d introduced them and felt the sting of his infidelities personally, but this day had been hard enough. I didn’t want to add more spilled milk to my guilty feelings. I stepped away from the counter. “Gotta introduce the next act.”

After a few minutes of clapping and talking, I was back across from my bestie while the men still conversed. The current topic involved the merits of Stevie Ray Vaughn. Liam excused himself, and Hugh and Thomas switched to cigar talk. There was only one more singer scheduled, and the crowd had thinned. I couldn’t wait for the performances to end so I could leave too. My pillow called to me.

I quickly tipped my head toward them to silently ask Cyndi if she’d noticed Hugh and Thomas still chatting away.

She scooted a stool away and leaned over so no one could hear. “Get in there and flirt with him.” She even swatted my hand.

“What? No.” I croaked, still embarrassed about my earlier behavior. The men glanced at us, then turned back to their tête-à-tête. I stage-whispered, “I meant… isn’t it weird how they’re getting along?”

“It’s cute,” Cyndi answered. Then she added, “So he’s a little odd with the clothes, and maybe there’s an air of a superiority complex. Come on, Kick, maybe the universe is sending you a message.”

“Funny,” I started, “I thought the universe gave me the silent treatment.”

“That’s because you keep declining its calls.” She squeezed my hand. “Life doesn’t wait around for you to feel like it.”

Fatigue influenced my snapped response. “So I should, what? Wrap my hand in his collar, drag him to the back, kick the kids out of my office, and bang his brains out?”

She sighed with her own pent-up frustration with me. “It would be a start. Come on, Kicky, there’s nothing wrong with a little fun.” She leaned in and kissed my cheek. “Whatever. Night, chica.” She pulled her purse strap over her shoulder and mouthed, “Think about it.”

I bobbed my head to agree while Hugh swallowed Cyndi in a goodbye hug. Then she shook Thomas’s hand and gave him a wink. They both watched her strut out the door, then turned to me.

“Well, Katie, time for me to get back to Maggie,” Hugh declared.

After giving him two carrot cakes in to-go boxes and receiving the same bear hug Cyndi had, I introduced the last performance. I’d left my reading glasses at the counter and had to do the trombone-arm stretch to read the scratch on the clipboard. Then the boy didn’t show. I gleefully wrapped up the evening while the dining room cleared out as if someone had yelled “fire!” I couldn’t wait to leave the clean-up to Madison and Liam. He was finally responsible enough to lock up for me.

They approached at the same time.

“There’s an aura in my vision, fam,” Liam said, his eyebrows knitted tightly together with the sign of an early migraine.

“Did you take your spray?” I asked, reaching up to brush his curls off his face. Of my three kids, Liam’s hair was most like mine.

“I forgot to put it in my backpack.”

“Lee,” I scolded, shaking my head. Jax offered to take him home, and I waved them on.

I turned to Madison, who looked a little peaked.

“You know how I’m supposed to close, Mrs. Mack?” she asked.

“There’s a rumor going around to that effect,” I responded.

“I have a sore throat.” Her eyes popped when she swallowed.

Annnd my pillow would have to wait a bit longer. I sent her home, rang up two more to-go cups, then noticed Thomas rising to leave. I walked to the end of the bar and held up his briefcase.

“Don’t want to forget this twice,” I said with what I hoped was a friendly smile and not a tired grimace on my face. It was an idiot move to let Jake have the night off and not arrange for another part-timer to close.

“Today was the first time I’d ever forgotten it,” Thomas said, looking down at the attaché. He gave me a shy smile. “You have a nice place.”

“I apologize again for earlier. And please come back.”

“I’ll try.” The smile grew as he dipped his chin good night. Cyndi’s voice in my head urged me to do more, be playful, be… hell, not me. But my body didn’t care. It took everything I had to follow out the last of the customers and lock the door. It was ten minutes before closing, and the day demanded it end.

I flipped over the chairs and swept the floor. Stevie Wonder encouraged me not to “worry ’bout a thing” while I danced a slow cha-cha with the broom, hoping it would give me enough of an energy burst to leave the café clean. The day’s earlier tension settled in my hip, making me limp. I had a cane in the office, though using it while straightening the dining room was impossible.

My mind distracted itself from the pain with can-do thoughts of recipes to experiment with when a vigorous knock at the door startled me.

Thomas Harrison stood on the other side.

Five

Crossroads

Thomas

He wanted to laugh at the misunderstanding between himself and Kick, but her assumption offended him. She received the benefit of the doubt because of the way she’d comported herself in the evening. Thanks to the people around her, including her customers, he figured their first encounter was a one-off.

Didn’t mean he held an interest in a friendship, though he did like talking to Hugh. The man had convinced him to visit Mick & Hugh’s over the weekend. He’d mentioned watching college football, and Lord University was playing an away game. As far as the Perked Cup went, Thomas could stop in now and then. Kick made a damn fine espresso, and the food beat the hell out of the small plates from the faculty party. He could push down any attraction and keep it to an eye-candy-only situation. He was friends with plenty of attractive people, and it never bothered him.

Thomas’s first mistake occurred when he looked up after placing his briefcase in the Camaro. If he’d kept his head down, he would’ve driven home perfectly ignorant and fine. On autopilot, he checked his surroundings, glimpsing the graffiti on the brick wall next to the Perked Cup. He did a double-take, hoping the foul words on the brick wall were an aberration due to being lost in his thoughts. But no.

Something told him to remove his gun from underneath the front seat, tuck it into his waistband, and walk the perimeter of the café, especially the back alley. If the so-called graffiti artist lingered, he’d hold the idiot until the police arrived. One lonely camera guarded the back alley, and who knew if it worked. No indicator light showed. Someone had damaged the back door lock. It held but would need replacing immediately. Kick had to get a security upgrade. Wasn’t it handy Thomas knew a guy?

Thomas froze when he turned toward the café’s door. Silhouetted by low lights, Kick danced with a broom. His heartbeat picked up as he observed her swaying with her pretend partner. She knew what she was doing. Despite favoring her right side, she moved with fluid and grace. Kick threw her head back and smiled at a private joke, loose curls falling into her face when they tipped forward. He wished he knew what was so funny.

She was stunning like this. Even in the shadow of her hair, her porcelain skin glowed. The delicate tone suited her. Thomas shook himself from his stupor and resumed walking. Give her the information and go home. No distractions.

Her startled smile upon unlocking the door surprised him. Their interactions had been awkward at best all evening.

“I know I handed you the briefcase this time,” she said.

He shook his head. “The case is fine, thanks. It’s…” He turned and pointed. “You should see this.”

“Oh hell. What now?” she asked around a yawn.

Thomas waited for her to lock the door, then stepped aside. A cane had leaned against the table with her purse. She used it as she traveled the sidewalk. He wondered where the limp came from. They both shined their phone lights on the wall in the unusually dark space. A streetlamp, which should’ve lit the area, sported a rock-sized hole he bet was new. The two sentences were still visible, thanks to neon yellow paint.

Your a drug sellin hoe

and

Jesus is cuming.

“JaysusMaryandJoseph.” Kick sighed, her disappointment and defeat settled into her features, pulling at his heart. Her fingers hovered over the letters in the second line.

“Don’t touch it. You could leave fingerprints if it’s still wet,” Thomas warned. “Not sure if it matters, but just in case.”

The hurt on her face broke his resolve, and a wave of anger washed over him. A few minutes earlier, and he might’ve been able to beat the little asshole for this. He couldn’t leave her to deal with the vandalism by herself. What if said asshole was watching and waiting? Something about the act seemed more violent than the words suggested. It had Thomas’s hackles raised.

On that thought, he scanned the parking lot one more time.

Kick kept staring at the paint and said, “I’m too tired to laugh about the grammar, but seriously? Is this a U?”

He gestured toward the wall as the humor in the words hit him too. “Maybe the overspray suggests closing the O?”

“Nope,” Kick answered and pointed again. “There’s a downstroke with a terminal, here. It’s almost a serif. I think the overspray is chalked up to lack of paint skills. This genius thinks ‘coming’ is spelled with a U. That’s like a second-grade spelling word.”

She took a breath and yelled, her body shaking with each word, “I hope Jesus enjoys it!” Then she muttered, “I am too through with today.”

A chuckle sputtered from Thomas. He bit his lip to hold it in. “I didn’t realize y’all had a garden tool display either.” He cringed at the dumb pun. Why did this woman have him on edge?

As she turned the key in the door, her hands shook and she grumbled, “I know, right? I should’ve guessed this shitty day would end weird—vandalized by the Chick-fil-A cow.”

Another snicker escaped from Thomas as he nearly lost his composure. Fortunately, Kick didn’t notice his puff, like that of a kid hitting their first note on a trumpet.

Thomas could’ve kicked himself for sticking around while she gave a statement to the police and arranged to have the paint cleaned. It didn’t take long for him to do his part, but he felt bad about leaving her alone. Her features were a mix of anger and exhaustion—utterly spent. Thomas hoped Kick didn’t play poker. From what he’d read of her pretty visage, she’d lose big.

He did not understand what was wrong with him unless the late hour affected him too. It wasn’t like his current situation was new. He’d been laser-focused for a while. Women stayed low on his priority list since he’d moved to North Carolina. When one occasionally landed in a slot on the list, she learned the deal up front: no attachments, no commitments, and an expiration date was imminent.

He sat in a chair in the corner where the stage had been and found his thoughts mulling over the song her son, Liam, played earlier. The lyrics of “Simple Man” running on a loop in his head became an indictment of the way he lived.

When had it happened? The problem was, he remembered each time his life had taken a turn toward more complication. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d followed his heart for the sheer joy of it. He’d locked it up tight in a box, keeping emotions at bay and helping him stay the course. But the song reminded him of other things. Things that used to be important. Life shouldn’t be so complicated for one man; then again, maybe it should. From another angle, he carried enough baggage to fill a cargo plane.

The song looped through his head another time, and he found a speck of encouragement in the words. Maybe it would help to have more people in his life. Yeah, he could stop back here once in a while, remember what it was like to be normal.

“You don’t have to wait with me for the… the guy… Steve? Seth? You know, with the key thing.”

“You mean the locksmith?” Thomas asked.

Kick offered him a bottled water, which he gladly took.

“Yes,” she gasped, falling into the chair next to him. Her cane dropped to the floor. “Brain fog is the most annoying part.” She rubbed her eyes and continued, “What’s with the broken lock though? The officer thinks whoever did it used the music as cover.”

“I’m not leaving you here with a bum lock. What if they come back?”

They sat in a shy silence, sipping their water. Kick hummed to Don McLean’s “Crossroads” playing over the speakers. It gripped him in the chest more than anything she’d done so far. To say this woman differed from most of the women in his life would’ve been a gross understatement.

“Did you know your logo makes a double helix?” Thomas blurted, uncomfortable with his thoughts.

Kick smiled. Despite the exhaustion showing all over her face, the smile lit her up. “I do know, yes. Few people notice because I meant it to be subtle. Good eye.”

Thomas shrugged his shoulders. “I’m a geneticist. What’s it mean?”

She took a pull from the water bottle. “I go out of my way to provide a different cup of coffee. Sure, we have syrups and such, but most of our customers appreciate our effort to make the base product as healthy as possible.” Kick clicked her tongue. “Not that it’s helping me now.”

“Can I ask you something?” The double helix reminded Thomas of an earlier conversation. He suppressed the voice in his head, telling him to mind his own damn business.

“Stephon,” she answered, leaning back into the perfectly worn leather chair, her eyes closed. Between the dark circles there and the slight tremor in her hands, he assessed Kick to be at her breaking point physically, if not emotionally.

“Pardon?”

“Stephon’s my locksmith. Sorry. Go ahead and ask.”

“No need to apologize.” Thomas sat in silence while he gathered his words. “I’m having trouble reconciling who you’ve been this evening and—”

“The card-carrying member of the bitchy cliterotti who chewed your ass up this morning? Yeah, me too.”

Thomas burst out laughing. It started as a quiet snort and grew into a hardcore belly laugh. His hands and core warmed and hummed with an old sensation. He concentrated on it, certain it had nothing to do with attraction. Then he spotted the confusion on Kick’s face and quickly pulled himself together.

“It wasn’t a joke,” she deadpanned.

And the laughing fit resumed. Lord, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed, let alone split a gut. Her words tricked his self-control into dissolving, but it had been looking for a release. His day was stressful too. Maybe not equally, but close.

He sat up and found Kick staring, nonplussed, her arms crossed at her chest. The pink Perked Cup T-shirt she wore complemented her ivory skin. The neckline scooped without being too tight or too low. Now, what her arms were doing to her cleavage? He looked away to keep from ogling. It was rude. Plus he’d be damned if he’d let a great rack bend his focus. Or his will.

Thomas pulled himself together. “Bitchy what?” He raised his hands. “Never mind. Anyway, I wouldn’t say that… All right, maybe you were… a bit.” One last deep sigh and he was back to his proper self. “Earlier, you mentioned a diagnosis and weed?”

“You don’t want to chalk my behavior up to an irrational, female, Irish-American temper?”

“Should I?” Thomas looked around the open area. Large, rustic tables anchored one corner. This comfortable leather lounge area offered a different experience, as did the industrial bistro sets scattered throughout. Kick had thought hard about appealing to each type of customer. You didn’t get this kind of insight by being a selfish hothead. No, it wasn’t a foul temperament he’d run into earlier. Something had her off her game.

Kick sighed, sat upright, toed off her boots, and pulled a heel onto the seat, resting her elbow on her knee. “It’s nothing that won’t work itself out. I’ve seen some dumb shit in my café, but I’ve never had a customer tape a bag of weed to the bathroom vanity before.”

“Is that what the graffiti was about?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Maybe? Except how would a vandal with bad grammar know about it?”

“Unless both criminals are the same person. Maybe he’s mad you took it from him,” Thomas added, rubbing his chin.

Kick yawned, making her jaw pop. “Ooh, good idea. When I check in with the OPD tomorrow, I’ll see if they’ve thought of it.”

“And the diagnosis?” Thomas asked.

Flicking her wrist, Kick answered, “Just a setback.”

Thomas raised a hand. “I didn’t mean to pry. Really. It’s my research. My brain’s always thinking about genetics. The way it contributes to illnesses fascinates me.”

“Okay.” She studied him intensely, then muttered, “You asked for it.” Kick straightened her back and began. “I have two autoimmune issues: Hashimoto’s thyroiditis and celiac disease. I was close to remission, but it’s been a rough summer.” Thomas’s bouncing foot filled the silence until she continued. “My dad was Hugh’s business partner. He’s the one who died in June.”

“My deepest condolences. How awful.”

Thomas wondered why Kick did a double take. Then her spine appeared to collapse over her knee. “Thank you. My son and I are trying to help Hugh keep things going until he’s back full time, but he never liked working the front of the store. He needs time to figure out what to do next.” Kick sat up, lifting her hair off her neck. “Anyway, big surprise, I hadn’t been feeling well. This morning my doctor confirmed the flare and a possible third autoimmune attack, blaming all the stress.”

“I see.”

“Can’t begin to explain the mountain of garbage between my mother and me. With Dad gone…”

“It’s worse?”

“I’m getting buried by it.”

Thomas thought back to the morning. “The lady sitting at the counter this morning.”

“Yup.” Kick removed her hairband and redid her ponytail while Thomas’s gaze rested on the pointed tip of her ears. Something about them made him soften to her plight even more. They held a correlation to an old spirit—and suffering.

“My mother says I’m a hypochondriac, seeking attention by pretending to be sick. At least she’s out of my hair for now.”

Thomas lifted an eyebrow and smirked. “Tell me you didn’t hire out an assassin.”

The question brought a sly, delightful smile to her face. “You did get the correct first impression. No, she’s on an extended cruise. I hope doing something for herself will soften her somehow.” Kick put her foot back down and sat straight. “Now you know. And again, I apologize for earlier.”

Thomas didn’t want to be moved. He couldn’t care less about the plight of sick working mothers who didn’t understand the concept of balance. Yet he found himself probing. “Is there a plan? For your flare.”

Kick collapsed back into the chair, and Thomas watched the weight of her world grow heavier. “Yup. There are temporary dietary changes. It’s like a detox thing.” She let out a low sarcastic laugh. “And I have to change the way I work out.” Her hands flew to her head in a brief, upset burst. “Shoot, I forgot to tell Cyn I can’t do boot camp anymore. She’s going to kill me since I talked her into joining the class.”

Thomas rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling the effects of his long day. She didn’t make any sense, and his own tiredness tested his patience. “I thought exercise is paramount to improving your health. What are you supposed to do?”

“This part I remember without notes. Since my workouts have been wearing me out more than they should, for the foreseeable future, an hour-long moderate walk is better than squeezing in a hard workout for a short amount of time. It’s been stressing my adrenals, causing cortisol levels to rise.” Kick turned her head and gave him a small smile. “My dog will like the slower pace anyway. Still, the group was fun and supportive.”

“Will Cyndi be your walking partner then?”

Kick shook her head. “She prefers machines to nature and must have bodies to ogle. My dog is my little nature buddy.”

Thomas’s brows pulled together. “How little are we talking?”

“Research, huh?” She shrugged and lowered her hand to knee height. “Koosh is tougher than she looks if that’s what you’re asking. Anyway, I’ll be fine once I process everything.” Kick tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “Lately it seems like every few months everything I know to be true flips on its head… annnd now I’m whining.” She turned her gaze to Thomas. “Sorry. Life truly is good. ‘The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places.’” She bobbed her head as she recited the words.

He turned to her, surprised by their familiarity. “Psalms?”

“Yes. You know it?” Kick’s face perked up.

“Certain things in life imprint themselves so deep they never leave.”

She nodded.

Thomas settled uneasily into the club chair. He didn’t like to think of Kick walking alone, even though he knew women managed fine on their own every day. Still, he’d bet money the dog wouldn’t matter if trouble came their way. He quietly sipped his water, keeping his thoughts to himself. He didn’t want to risk stumbling into another argument with her. Besides, since she meant nothing to him, it didn’t matter.

Wasn’t there an uptick in attacks on women on local greenways though? The news reports made it sound like the victims were at fault for running alone. Hell, one of the reasons he ran at all was for the peace to get away and sort through his thoughts. It would suck to have to stay constantly on guard.

The locksmith came and went, leaving the Perked Cup secure again. Not to Thomas’s standards, but it would do for now. Thomas couldn’t get over how much their security lacked. He turned to Kick as she relocked the front door, pulling a business card out of his pocket. “First thing tomorrow morning, call this guy. Please.”

She dropped the key in her purse and took the card. “Excuse me?”

He tipped his head toward her hand. “This man is like a brother to me. He’s also a security expert. Promise me you’ll call him and bring your business into the twenty-first century. I promise he’ll take care of y’all and won’t overcharge.”

She looked up toward the streetlight, the broken one. “Jaysus, more money. Some days I’d swear if you cut me, I’d bleed Benjamins.”

Thomas placed his hand on her foreman. The contact buzzed, and she quickly withdrew. He mirrored her action, though more from the shock of the feeling than the sensation itself. If he’d slowed his thoughts, he’d admit he liked it.

“Promise me you’ll listen to his advice. There’s too much invested in here to risk a successful break-in.”

Kick admitted, “It’s been on my list for a while.”

Thomas fought a relieved grin. “Now you know who to call. Banger’s the best.”

“Banger?” Kick shook her head. “Never mind. It’s too late to consider where he got the name.” She hooked the cane over her arm before placing the card in the same pocket as the keys. “Thanks for this. For keeping me company too.” A huge yawn shook her body. “I probably would’ve slept through the knocking when Stephon finally arrived.”

“You did,” Thomas said, keeping his smile shaded. He took a step backward and nodded his head. “Have a good night then.”

“You too. Thanks again.”

Kick leaned against the wall and began scrolling through her phone.

Why wasn’t she walking toward a car?

He planned to wait and make sure she pulled away safely. Isolation didn’t trump being a gentleman after all. He unlocked his door, opened it, and froze. She’s capable, asshole. Just slide in.

Thomas turned around. “Why aren’t you moving?”

Kick looked up from her phone. “I’m too tired and in too much pain to bike home.”

He tipped his head. “Bike?”

Her eyes had returned to the screen. “Yeah, car’s in the shop.” She gave her phone a waggle. “I ordered a ride.”

“I should go.”

“Yes, you should.”

It was a challenge more than agreement. Yet he couldn’t leave her there. She’d given him an out, letting loose her problems earlier. And she’d set them straight. Eventually.

She’ll be fine. Slide in and go. Damnit. He set his chin and called out, “Get in.”

She waved him off. “Seriously, Thomas, you’ve done enough. I owe you a month’s worth of free coffee at least. Go.”

Thomas shook his head with purpose. “I’m taking you home. You’re not riding with a stranger.”

She approached the car, her eyes narrowed and lips pressed into a similar thin line. “Like I know much about you?”

“Have I hurt you? I’m here. It’s no problem. Get in.” He nearly growled, his last ounce of patience slipping away. He reached across the front seat and unlocked the passenger door. Thomas watched her notice the classic Camaro.

Despite her weary gait, her eyes brightened, and she gasped the way most women fawned over babies. “It’s mint,” she stated, not questioned.

Thomas nodded his head, and her smile placed another crack in his dried-up soul. Simply a fellow muscle-car lover. But this felt different from the occasional gear-head chatter. It meant something to have Kick notice the car, like appreciating the vehicle meant she appreciated him.

As she passed the hood, her hand slid over it, first the tops of her fingers, then her hand flipped, and she glided her whole hand over the surface—a genuine caress. Thomas lost his breath. His eyes tracked each finger’s exploration, nearly at eye level from his vantage in the driver’s seat, swearing he felt them on his body, on his— He cleared his throat and swallowed.

“Beautiful,” she whispered.

Agreed, he thought.

Kick opened the door. “Well done, professor. I have a newer Camaro. I love it to bits.” She slid in, shut the door, and buckled the belt. The corner of her mouth ticked up. “I bet the rideshare driver wouldn’t be so grumpy.” Had their shared taste in rides energized her some?

Through his foggy head, he wanted to bite back that he should be in bed. But it would’ve been cruel, considering how thoroughly exhaustion showed in the way she carried herself despite her car enthusiasm.

To confirm, she collapsed into the leather seat and declared, “Jayz, even my hair feels tired.” She was right. It didn’t have the same wild bounce it showed off in the morning.

Thomas stole glances at Kick as he drove. Her eyes closed, so he relaxed the leash he kept on his desires, watching her almost continuously thanks to empty streets. She looked perfect in his car. The leather seemed to embrace her like it didn’t want her to leave, like the seat was made specifically for her.

“One thing I don’t understand.”

“Shoot,” Kick answered without opening her eyes.

“You thought I was asking you out, but you wear a wedding ring.”

From the corner of his eye, Thomas observed Kick’s thumb turning said ring on her third finger. “It’s a mother’s ring. My daughter’s birthstone is a diamond, so a jeweler friend repurposed my grandmother’s wedding ring and added the boys’ stones to either side.”

“So you’re not married.”

“What?” Her brows furrowed into a deep V.

He cringed. Of course she was single. She would’ve called her husband instead of letting Thomas wait around and help her otherwise. “I’m sorry. Dumb question.”

Kick chuckled, her eyes still closed, her voice gravelly when she answered. “No worries. I’m too spent to judge. And no. I was married.” She raised her left hand. “My hand felt bare after, so…”

“I see.” Thomas shut his mouth to keep from further embarrassment. He couldn’t shake how much he hated the idea of this woman being alone. He didn’t know why he cared.

GPS did its job, and he pulled into Kick’s driveway. Thomas touched her hand to wake her and caught the peaked flush on her face. Hoping he wasn’t overstepping, he lightly placed the backs of his fingers on her forehead and damned if she wasn’t warm.

“Shit, Kick, I think you’re sick.”

She started, patting around her face. “Oh. It’s nothing.” She gave him a shy smile. “Par for the course for pushing so hard today. No worries.”

He stared at her for a beat before saying, “Want me to see you to the door?”

Kick silently waved off the question. Well, fine. She was a grown woman.

She opened the door, stepped her right leg out, then turned back with a sweet smile. “Thank you for going way above and beyond. I hope you stop in again sometime. I’m serious about the free coffee too.”

Thomas’s eyes tracked Kick limping around the car, and the pull grew. In the headlights, the sheen on her face was more pronounced. He saw the graying of her pale skin, the slowness of her steps. Seeing this side of her really did anger him. Not at her, but for her. She shouldn’t have to put up with it.

Christ, one minute you’re fighting lust, the next you want to protect her from the world. But he couldn’t protect her from her own body, could he? There wasn’t anything Thomas could do for that. Put it in reverse and drive. Let it go, man.

He rolled his window down. “Hey, Kick?” She turned back to him without approaching the window. “When are y’all planning to go walking?”

She tapped her temple and whispered. “Argh. Stop making me use my brain.” Her eyes tipped up to the sky, tongue rolling in her cheek like she was scanning a mental calendar. “Wednesday, Friday, and at least once over the weekend. Why?”

What time on Wednesday?”

“Seven-thirty. After Liam leaves for school.”

He had a faculty meeting not long after. “I’ll come with you.”

“It’s fine, Thomas. I don’t need a—”

“I’ll be there,” he declared, using the tone he used with an obstinate student.

She narrowed her eyes and parked her hand on her hip. He suddenly felt like the student waiting for a correction. Thomas popped his head back into the car to add some distance. She wasn’t a young girl to be handled. Kick was an experienced mother—a fascinating woman—but he wouldn’t admit it.

“Fine. Do what you’d like, professor. Meet me here, but I’ll only wait ten minutes. I have a lot to take care of before I settle into the new schedule.” Kick turned toward the house and wobbled, then stopped and looked back. “I promise I won’t be mad if something comes up.”

He thought he heard Kick say, “I’m used to it,” but she’d already resumed her stagger to the house.

Thomas put the car in gear and cranked up his Blues station.

No big deal, he thought. He liked to exercise anyway.

What harm could it do?

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