Galeana
This is probablymy new favorite place. The Honey Drop feels comforting, like a warm hug wrapped in the smell of fresh pastries and coffee. The low murmur of conversation blends with the rhythmic hiss of the espresso machine, a gentle backdrop to small-town life. I sink into my usual corner seat, a lavender latte steaming in front of me, and try to relax.
Today, I have a call with Mr. Greyson, the lawyer-slash-family advisor-slash-annoying question asker. I already know what he’s going to bring up. My fiancé. You know, the one who doesn’t exist. Yet.
Okay, maybe telling him I was engaged was a little . . . premature. In my defense, I panicked. You try inheriting a mansion and a maple syrup empire and tell me you wouldn’t lie so you can figure out your next move. Find a husband—or lose it all. I’m a resourceful woman. I figured it would buy me time.
But time is running out, and my so-called fiancé has yet to appear. It’s not like I can hire someone from Husbands ‘R’ Us.
I sigh into my latte, the aroma of lavender and espresso swirling as I take a careful sip. At least here, surrounded by chattering locals, rustic tables, and warm buttery light filtering through the big windows, I can pretend for an hour or two that I have my life together. It’s the little victories.
The bell above the door jingles, and I glance up out of habit. A guy steps inside, and the first thing I notice is that he’s not the usual Birchwood Springs fare. He’s handsome—like, big-city corporate sexy handsome. Light brown hair swept back like it just naturally does that, a jawline that could probably cut glass, and a coat that looks like it costs more than my entire winter wardrobe.
Definitely not local.
He scans the room for a second, his sharp eyes finally landing on me. I look away minding my own business when suddenly, he’s standing right there. Up close, he’s even better looking—like someone plucked him straight out of a cologne ad and dropped him in this too-charming coffee shop.
Perfectly tousled hair, a sharp jawline, and a smile that probably works on everyone but me. His dark eyes flicker with faint amusement, as if he’s already guessed what I’m thinking.
I should be flustered. Any sane person would be flustered. But instead, all I feel is . . . meh. Not the fluttering pulse or the heat curling low in my stomach like it does when Ledger so much as looks my way.
What is wrong with me?
“Is this seat taken?” he asks again, his voice low, smooth, and far too confident for someone who’s just met me.
“It’s empty,” I reply, gesturing at the chair across from me. “You can take it.”
I’m surprised when instead of taking the chair, he pulls it out and sits, the movement somehow both casual and practiced, like he’s used to being noticed. I sip my latte and focus on the foam art—still holding out hope that my heart will catch up to what my brain is telling me. Objectively speaking, he’s gorgeous. Objectively speaking, I should be swooning.
But I’m not.
Ledger’s face flashes through my mind, uninvited and entirely unnecessary, and I have to fight the urge to groan.
Of course,I think bitterly, my hormones choose now to have standards. Very weird standards.
“Not from around here, are you?” I ask before I can stop myself.
His lips tug into a smile. “That obvious?”
I arch a brow. “You look like you belong somewhere with boardrooms and rooftop bars, not small-town coffee shops.”
He chuckles, a low, rich sound. “Fair observation. But I could say the same about you.”
I blink. “Me?”
He gestures vaguely at me with one hand. “You don’t exactly blend in. Something about you says you don’t plan to stay long.”
Is that a compliment? An insult? I can’t tell. Either way, it feels like he’s peeling back a layer I didn’t invite him to touch.
“I . . . you’re wrong. I do plan on calling this home,” I reply, trying to sound breezy as I sip my latte. “So what brings you here?”
He leans back in his chair, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “Business.”
Of course. What else would it be? But it’s the way he says it—vague, nonchalant, like it’s not worth explaining—that makes me narrow my eyes.
“What kind of business?”
He doesn’t answer right away, just watches me with those dark, unreadable eyes, like he’s sizing me up. “Maple syrup, I hear, is the pride and joy of Birchwood Springs. Maybe I’m in the market for some.”
