Seeking Single Male. Stephanie Bond
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“I thought I said I didn’t want my office decorated.”
Her eyes bugged wider. “Do you want me to have it taken down, sir?”
He dragged a hand down his face and sighed. “No, never mind.” He gestured to the slips of paper in her hand. “Do I have messages?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Payton wants you to call him as soon as possible, sir. And a woman called about an ad, sir. Someone named…Coffee Girl?”
Heat flooded his face. “In the future, please don’t answer my personal phone line.”
“It rings so rarely—I thought it might be an emergency.”
A nice way of saying he had no social life. “Did you say you took a message?”
“Yes, sir. Here it is, sir.”
“Thank you,” he chirped, then took the note and stuffed it into his pants pocket without looking at it. “That will be all.”
Peg trotted out and closed the door.
Greg closed his eyes and counted to ten, willing away this restless, frustrated feeling that seemed to have escalated recently. He knew he needed to reduce the stress in his life, to simplify his obligations, but for the time being, things were what they were.
Glad for a reason to postpone contacting the woman from the singles ad, he phoned his general manager, Art Payton, convinced another problem was afoot. “Art, this is Greg. What’s up?”
“Great news, Greg. The interest from developers is snowballing on the Hyde Parkland parcels.” Art’s hearty laugh rumbled over the line. “If the rezoning goes through, you could be sitting on the most valuable property in central Kentucky.”
Greg refrained from reminding Art of his opposition to the acquisition of Regal Properties that Greg had targeted two years ago specifically for the Hyde Parkland property under its ownership. “Cut to the chase, Art. How valuable?”
“I’m talking about serious money. You could retire.”
He managed a small laugh. “You’re exaggerating.” But he paced in front of the window to expend a burst of nervous energy.
“No, I’m not. If the rezoning goes through, you’ll be set for life. Will, too, of course.”
His feet stopped moving. Will was the sole reason he hadn’t left the company when their father died. When he discovered the financial disaster they’d inherited, Greg had been thrust nearer to panic than he’d ever been in his life. He had to be certain that if something happened to him, Will would always be taken care of. If what Art was saying was true, the Hyde Parkland project would be the parachute he’d been hoping for.
“I’m telling you, Greg, this time next year you could be doing anything your heart desires.”
Greg walked to the tinsel bedecked window, zeroed in on the courthouse roof, and smiled—actually smiled. Maybe this Christmas wouldn’t be so bad, after all. Still, anything that sounded too good to be true…“I need more details, Art. Can we get together this afternoon?”
“How about three-thirty?”
“I’ll see you then.”
He slowly returned the handset, while hope thrashed in his chest. Was this deal the light at the end of a long tunnel? Greg shoved a fidgety hand into his pocket, and his fingers brushed the note Peg had given him. A groan welled in his chest, but a promise made to Will was a promise kept, so he pulled out the piece of paper.
Meet me at The Best Cuppa Joe tomorrow morning at eleven. Coffee Girl
Greg scowled and wadded the note into a ball. Romance—bah! As if he didn’t have enough on his mind.
2
The next morning
LANA MARTINA CONJURED UP a beaming smile for Miss Half-Caf-Nonfat-Whip-Extra-Mocha. Secretly Lana thought that without the fat, why bother with whipped cream at all. But then again, she didn’t even drink coffee—an admitted peculiarity for the owner of a coffee shop—so she offered no comment. Especially since her customers were usually a bit testy before they had their first jolt of caffeine.
Ringing up the three hundred and fifty-sixth sale of the morning, she instead thanked her lucky stars for the large number of Lexington, Kentucky downtowners who relied on the ritual of sucking down coffee before facing their respective daily grinds. Addictions were profitable for the supplier, and Lana prided herself on supplying the best cup of Joe in the city. Ergo, the name of her shop: The Best Cuppa Joe. Okay, she couldn’t take credit for the name since the shop had been located at 145 Hunt Street for thirty years—as long as she’d been alive—but she was proud to carry on the tradition as owner and manager for going on six months now.
The woman exited, and with the morning rush officially over, Lana slumped into the counter and willed away the anxiety roiling in her stomach. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t turn into a workaholic entrepreneur, but lately one circumstance after another had made long hours unavoidable. Her pastry chef Annette had arrived at four-thirty a.m. with her regular supply of decadent muffins, bagels and baklava, but had sprained her ankle in the parking lot. Lana had sent her home, knowing she’d be shorthanded until Wesley clocked in before lunch.
Oh well, at least she’d be spared Annette’s monologue about her ongoing manhunt. The girl was convinced her life was incomplete without the perfect man, and she never ran out of inventive ways to extend her search. Lana, on the other hand, had already found the perfect man. His name was Harry and his maintenance consisted of an occasional puff of air into the valve on the top of his rubber head. Harry never questioned her decisions, never wrestled for the remote, never criticized her hairstyle or clothing.
On the other hand, the only release Harry’s anatomically correct body offered her was an occasional burst of laughter.
The bell on the door rang, and Lana straightened automatically until she recognized her friend Alexandria Stillman. “Oh, it’s only you.”
Alexandria glided toward the counter, sleek and catlike in a cobalt designer suit from her family’s upscale department store across town. “Nice to see you, too.”
Lana waved off Alex’s comment and rubbed her aching pouring arm. “You know what I mean.”
“Business is good, huh?”
Lana surveyed the space she’d come to love so fiercely, from the ancient brick walls to the whorled wood floors, to the slightly sagging stage where talented and not-so-talented hopefuls put their pride on the line during open-mike nights. A far cry from the claustrophobic accounting office where she’d spent seven years of her life after college—holy humdrum.
“I can’t complain,” Lana said with a satisfied sigh, pouring a mug of the almond-flavored coffee Alex liked. “Do you have time to visit for a while?”
“That’s why I came.” Alex took the proffered cup.
Lana quirked an eyebrow. “Is Jack out of town?”
A blush stained Alex’s cheeks. “Have I been neglecting you? I’m sorry.”
“Since you’ve never looked better, Mrs. Stillman, I’ll let you off the hook this time.”
“Marriage does seem to agree with me,” her friend gushed uncharacteristically. At least, the gushing had been uncharacteristic before she’d been swept off her feet by “Jack the Attack” Stillman.
“Yeah, yeah,” Lana said with a grin. “Just don’t turn into one of those marriage evangelists, okay?”
“I can’t promise anything. Hey, do you have plans for Christmas Eve?”
A smile claimed her lips that for once, Alex didn’t have to share her family for yet another holiday. “As a matter of fact, Janet is coming up.”
“Great.