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It was a large, open space with brick walls and lots of high windows that let in sunlight from above. I’d spent a small fortune to add windows and a retail-style door at the street level, and to build out a small commercial kitchen.

I’d finished the floors myself, spending hours unearthing the natural beauty that had been hidden by concrete tiles and years of dirt. A friend who was a woodworker had designed a lovely display case for baked goods and a countertop area for the cash register and coffee machines. The café tables and chairs had arrived last week and were currently stacked up on one side of the space along with boxes of dishes and cutlery.

In anticipation of a soft opening in mid-December, I’d put up a huge Christmas tree and hung Christmas decorations throughout the space. Even though we weren’t open yet, people in town had been stopping by to grab a coffee or sample the baked goods.

To start with, the café would have just a small menu, consisting of mostly artisan sandwiches, special quiches, soups, salads, and baked goods. I was planning to expand the menu later as the business grew. I’d purchased a high-end espresso machine so we could offer specialty coffees and had sourced beans from a Colorado coffee roaster.

The café was going to be open from seven a.m. until two p.m. during the week, with longer hours on weekends. At night we’d offer specialty cocktails along with nighttime musical performances and art shows highlighting local artists. I also planned to rent the space out for events. It was going to be great. But I needed a liquor license for my nighttime offerings.

Liz’s Café was beautiful, and I was proud of the space I created. It was a dream come true, me making lemonade out of the lemons of my divorce. I just needed to get this county guy to see my vision.

“You must be Nathan Holly,” I said, extending a hand to the man. “I’m Liz Delaney, the owner of Liz’s Café.”

The man nodded, and when our eyes met again he looked almost dazed. As he shook my hand, his expression turned into a frown. He released my hand quickly as if I’d burned him. I wondered if he’d felt that odd little jolt when we touched, the same as I did.

He cleared his throat. “Yes, I’m Nathan Holly. This place is very...Christmassy.”

It didn’t sound like a compliment. By his tone “Christmassy” seemed to be one step above “a rat-infested hovel”.

“Christmas is a big holiday here in Pine Bluff,” I told him. “We celebrate all month.”

The look of distaste crossed his face so quickly I thought I might have imagined it.

“Shall we get down to business?”

His voice was deep, but his tone was formal and stiff and almost...fussy. Or maybe judgmental was more accurate. Since the small talk part of our meeting was apparently over, I pointed to a table and chairs I’d assembled and set up for the meeting.

“Let’s have a seat. Can I get you a drink?” I asked politely.

His eyes widened, the frown back firmly in place. I had the impression it was his default expression.

“Are you seriously offering me a drink when you’re not licensed to serve alcohol on-site?” he asked incredulously.

Nathan

The woman’s eyes flashed with irritation. They were beautiful eyes. I couldn’t decide whether they were blue or green, but I could happily stare into their depths for hours trying to figure it out.

“I don’t know if you are aware of this, Mr. Holly, but the word ‘drink’ actually covers more than just alcohol.” Her voice dripped with condescension. “For example, some people consider things like coffee, tea, or water to be a drink. Most people understand the word ‘drink’ to be synonymous with beverage.”

I could feel a flush rising up my cheeks. I wasn’t sure why I’d jumped to conclusions like that. Something about the woman was totally throwing me off.

I knew from the state background check she’d submitted as part of her liquor license application that she was forty-five, five years older than me. She looked like she was in her mid to late thirties though, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes the only indication that she was older than she looked.

Her dark brown hair was cut into some kind of a pixie cut, the spikey edges sticking up a bit as if she’d been running her fingers through her hair. Her skin was pale, even by Colorado standards, making her unusual eyes stand out even more, and she had a tiny birthmark on the side of her jaw.

Liz was petite, probably about five four to my five eleven, with small breasts, a narrow waist, and curvy hips and thighs. Dressed in black leggings, knee-high boots, and a thin blue sweater that was covered in large white snowflakes, she looked like she would have been as comfortable lunching in Denver as she was working in this little town she called home. I tore my eyes away as I realized I was checking her out. It wasn’t like me to get distracted.

“I’d love some coffee please, if you have it,” I responded, making a decision to gloss over my faux pas. “Black.”

She muttered something as she walked away, and I was pretty sure it was “Like your heart”. I almost cracked a smile, something I didn’t do very often. There was something fascinating about this woman.

I glanced out the front windows as she went behind the gleaming wood counter to get us coffee from the large urn she had set up back there. It had been snowing like crazy the entire drive up here, and just in the short time I’d been inside the café I could see that my car, which I’d parked right in front of the window, was already covered in snow.

The roads had already been pretty slippery on the way up, so I resolved to take care of business as quickly as possible so I could get back down the mountain before the road conditions got worse. As it was, I’d probably have to put on the tire chains to get back down to a lower elevation. What a pain. I should have come up here earlier in the day.

Liz came back with two cups of coffee. Sliding one towards me, she sat down on the other side of the table, then reached down into a laptop bag that I hadn’t noticed underneath the table. I took a sip of my steaming cup of coffee and was pleasantly surprised. It was great, strong and smooth, just like I liked it.

“Thank you for coming today Mr. Holly,” Liz started as she handed me a packet of papers, neatly stapled in the top left corner. Her tone was icy but polite. Our fingers brushed and I felt that same feeling that I’d felt when we shook hands...like I was touching something electric.