A Very Perry Wedding by Marie Landry
CHAPTER ONE
I’m having one of those days.
The kind where everything seems to go wrong from the moment your feet hit the floor after waking up. First, my ancient bathroom pipes did a death sputter that resulted in the hot water cutting out halfway through my shower, leaving me to shiver my way through rinsing the conditioner from my hair. The way my auburn curls are hanging like limp noodles tells me I didn’t quite manage to get it all out. By the time I went to make coffee, there had been an emergency water shutdown in the whole building, which meant I missed out on a much-needed caffeine fix.
To add insult to uncaffeinated injury, I got stuck in a traffic jam caused by a family of Canadian geese who decided the middle of the road was a good place to convene for ten or fifteen minutes. The guy who got out of his car to try to shoo them along was hissed and honked at so loudly I could hear it from my position four cars back. Once I arrived at Bellevue Family Village, the huge entertainment complex where my café is located, I had to circle the parking lot half a dozen times because some jackass had parked in my designated spot. When I finally started my workday, I had to deal with a wrong shipment—still not sure how they mixed up almond flour with cornmeal—and a massive overcharge from my coffee supplier.
After spending most of the morning on the phone getting orders and invoices sorted, I decided a little art therapy was in order to clear my mind. The result is a Pump Up the Flavor menu, listing all the pumpkin-infused goodies on offer at Cravings, the café I co-own with one of my best friends, complete with a doodled pumpkin and leaf border.
“This will cheer you up, Willow. Look what just arrived.”
I cap the orange dry-erase marker in my hand and swivel on my stool to face my friend-slash-business partner, Marisol, whose face is mostly obscured by the giant bouquet of flowers in her hands.
“Where did those come from?” I ask, scrambling to move my markers and assorted papers so she can set the vase on the counter. As she does, I admire the stunning autumn-colored blossoms. This arrangement must have cost a fortune.
“It was just delivered.” Marisol plucks a card from between two cabbage roses and hands it to me. “Let it be known I wasn’t nosy and didn’t peek at the card.”
I give her a wry smile as I take the tiny sealed envelope from her. My stomach drops the second I open it and recognize the handwriting on the card.
Willow,
I know you have absolutely no reason to trust me and you don’t want to see me, but please give me a chance to at least clear the air. Go to dinner with me next week—you name the time and place, and I’ll be there.
Love,TJ
“Oh, honestly.” I pass the card to Marisol while eyeing the flowers. I should have known only TJ Lewis would send something so ostentatious. If the flowers weren’t so damn beautiful and didn’t fit the café’s autumn decor perfectly, I’d hand them to the next customer who came in.
“He never gives up, does he?” Marisol tosses the card onto the counter with an exaggerated roll of her big brown eyes.
“No, but I sure wish he would.”
TJ is my ex-boyfriend. The man who, at one point, I considered the love of my life, the person I wanted to marry and grow old with. He had other ideas, though; ones that involved another woman and a pack of lies.
After he broke my heart three years ago, I left our hometown of Bellevue, a small city in Ontario, and headed for the big city about two hours away. Life in Toronto was fast-paced and often chaotic, but I needed to stay busy. I needed the fresh start and new scenery I never would have had in Bellevue, where everything and everyone reminded me of TJ and how he’d smashed my heart to smithereens.
I knew I would return to Bellevue someday—my mom is here and we’re close—I just didn’t think it would be so soon. But when my friend Ivy Sima-MacKinnon, who co-owns Bellevue Family Village with her husband, told me the Village’s café was up for sale, I had to make my move. Owning my own café was always my ultimate dream, and there was no way I’d be able to swing it in Toronto, where real estate prices are as sky-high as many of its buildings.
“Maybe you should meet with him and get it over with,” Marisol says.
“Or maybe I should get a restraining order against him.” My statement is met with a raised eyebrow from Marisol. “Okay, fine, that might be a bit much.”
I’ve known Marisol since ninth grade when her family moved to Bellevue from Venezuela. The two of us spent countless evenings and weekends turning our parents’ kitchens into our own personal culinary experiment labs, all while dreaming up ideas for the day we’d own our own bakery. A lot has changed over the years, including the desire to incorporate our mutual caffeine addiction into our plans, but Marisol and I are as close as ever. It still feels surreal to have our teenage dreams become a reality.
“Even though you have every reason to despise him, you did love him at one point, right?” Marisol says. “So you could meet him and let him say what he needs to say. It’d give you a chance to get some things off your chest, and then you can tell him to leave you alone.”
I make a non-committal sound. I hate to admit she might be right. It’s possible I have unintentionally been sending TJ mixed messages the last few months. In my defense, the fact I’d been back in Bellevue for all of two days before running into him at the grocery store left me completely flustered. I had managed to avoid him on my regular visits home over the last three years, but it was as if officially changing my address back to Bellevue was a beacon, and there he was, as handsome and charming as ever.
With those beautiful honey-colored eyes searching my face eagerly and the signature dimple flirting with his left cheek, he’d told me how happy he was to see me, and how he’d love a chance to catch up. In my haste to get away from him, I’d chirped, “Yeah, sure, let’s get together soon!” I mentally berated myself the moment I walked away, and yet every time I’ve seen him since, I’ve given similar responses, despite telling myself to firmly decline. What can I say, I’ve never been good at dealing with confrontation.
“The thing is, I already know what he’s going to say,” I tell Marisol as I set about making myself a pumpkin spice latte. Despite the two coffees I’ve already inhaled, I need caffeine, sugar, and pumpkiny goodness if I’m going to make it through the rest of the morning. “He’s given me a preview every time we’ve seen each other. He’s sorry for hurting me. He’s done a lot of reflecting, he was stupid, he has regrets, he’s changed. He claims he doesn’t want anything from me other than to talk, but I know him. He always has ulterior motives.”
“What if he has changed, though? You’ve changed. You’re not the same person you were when you left three years ago.”
“Why are you defending him?” The words come out much more snappish than intended.
Marisol holds up both hands in a placating gesture before reaching forward to briefly cup my face. “I’m not, I promise. Just playing devil’s advocate.”
“Emphasis on the devil,” I mutter, although now I’m smiling.
She laughs and takes over making my drink, telling me to go sit down. I return to my stool at the front counter. Even though Marisol and I share an office in the back, I usually prefer working out front when it’s not too busy. I love watching people come and go, friends meeting for coffee, couples having dates. The chatter and laughter fills me with joy, as does watching people savor our culinary creations.
The café is quiet right now, as it usually is during the hour or so between mid-morning and the early lunch rush. A few people are seated at tables, lingering over coffee and pastries. I snap a picture of my Pump Up the Flavor sign and post it to Cravings’ Instagram feed, then add pictures of some of this morning’s selection of baked goods to our stories.
Marisol sets my latte on the counter in front of me. I don’t usually add any extras to my own drinks, but she’s topped it with whipped cream, a drizzle of caramel, and a sprinkling of pumpkin pie spice. Before I can say anything, she leans in and kisses my forehead.
“You know I love you, right? And I’m always, always on your side. Team Willow forever. I just want to see you happy and I think you’ll be happier—or at least feel lighter—if you deal with TJ once and for all, one way or the other. Now…” She picks up the latte again and hands it to me before taking my phone and stepping back a few feet. When she aims the camera at me, I smile and lift the drink while she snaps a few pictures. “Post that on Insta. Apparently the algorithm likes faces, and I happen to love your face.”
“I happen to love your face too,” I tell her. “And thank you. I never doubted you had my back, it’s just—”
“TJ is a touchy subject, I know. Enjoy your drink and a few minutes of solitude. I’m going to take a quick break before the next rush. Cami should be here in about ten minutes for her shift.” She gives me a cheeky little wave as she disappears into the back of the café.
I take Marisol’s advice and post the picture on Instagram, urging people to come in for a pumpkin spice latte of their own, and promising a discount to anyone who mentions seeing the post. I also contemplate Marisol’s other bit of advice about dealing with TJ. Intellectually, I know she’s right and it’s the mature thing to do. My heart is a different matter, though. It’s still bruised, even all these years later, and seeing TJ is like poking at a wound that’s not quite healed.
My attention drifts to the front window. A tall, dark-haired man is standing outside, frowning up at the café’s sign. He glances at the phone in his hand and then hurriedly reaches for the door when a woman exits the café. She smiles and says something to him, and he nods before entering Cravings. His gaze returns to his phone as he approaches the counter, giving me a chance to take in his hunter-green pullover and dark slacks. On closer inspection, I realize his pants are actually jeans with a sharp crease down the front of the legs.
“Morning,” I say brightly.
“Good morning.” He looks at me briefly before returning his gaze to his phone.
“Are you on our Instagram page? Were you lured in by the promise of pumpkin spice?”
His eyes meet mine again, this time long enough for me to see they’re a rich brown. “I—sorry? I don’t have Instagram. And I’ll pass on the latte; I prefer my pumpkin in pie form at Thanksgiving, thank you.” The words are spoken mildly in a matter-of-fact tone, despite their snobbishness. He looks around the café, taking in the fall decor. “You do realize autumn doesn’t officially begin until next week?”
Ugh, he’s one of those people. “I know, but fall is my favorite season and I like to get a jump start. And you can’t deny there’s been a nip in the air the last few days.” I gesture toward his pullover as evidence, then something compels me to add, “At least I left the Halloween decorations packed away.”
He makes a face like he swallowed a lemon. Or maybe the stick up his ass shifted and he’s uncomfortable. It’s too bad because he’s handsome in a stuffy, perfectly pressed way, especially with the threads of silver woven into his dark hair around the temples. He looks familiar, although I can’t put my finger on who he reminds me of or where I might know him from.
Looking at his phone, he asks, “What kind of milk alternatives do you offer?”
I list them off. Having worked in Toronto for years, I got used to people’s desire for dairy substitutes, so I try to carry a variety at Cravings, even though there’s less need for them. From my experience, if people want something fussy or fancy, they’ll go to a place like Starbucks, not a tiny café inside an entertainment village.
“And do you offer decaffeinated coffee?” he asks.
“Of course. I don’t have any on right now, but it would only take a minute to brew a fresh pot.”
“If it’s not too much trouble,” he says. I assure him it’s not and head for the row of coffee makers. “Oh, one last thing. Is it truly decaffeinated? Or is it regular coffee disguised as decaffeinated? That likely sounds like an obnoxious question, but I’ve heard from people that they’ve ordered decaf and were certain it was regular. Not here, of course, but…”
I’m not sure if the tickle in my throat is a laugh or a scoff. Either way, I swallow it down and paste on a smile. I dealt with customers like this every day in Toronto, but this is a first since returning to Bellevue. I have not missed people like him. “I guarantee you it’s real decaf. I can show you the container if you’d like.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” His gaze drifts to his phone, then snaps back up to mine. He hasn’t smiled once since entering Cravings, but his lips twitch the tiniest bit now as if he just caught on to my sarcasm.
“Can I get you anything else while you wait?” I ask as I add decaf grounds and water to our smallest coffee maker.
He eyes the glass-fronted shelves of baked goods. “Just a regular coffee, please. Black. And for the decaf, almond milk and one sugar, with a shot of caramel.” He glances at his phone again and says, “Actually, make that a shot of vanilla.”
A few minutes later as he turns to leave, to-go cups in hand, I say, “Thanks for stopping by Cravings. I hope to see you again.”
“Oh, I doubt we’ll cross paths again. I’m only visiting.”
I give my head a bewildered shake as he walks away. It’s something I say to everyone—that, or the standard ‘Have a nice day’—and most people simply smile and thank me or tell me they’ll be back. I should have known this guy with his ramrod posture and ironed jeans would take me literally.
It’s a shame his personality doesn’t match his looks. Then again, that’s often the case, at least from my experience. Still, I could use a distraction from thoughts of TJ and, while Mr. Anti-Autumn isn’t my usual type, I can’t say I’d mind mussing up that perfect hair and getting a peek at what’s under those pressed jeans. Especially since those jeans happen to show off a mighty fine ass.
Too bad he’s only visiting and I’ll never see him again.