Chapter One

“Well, what do we have here?”

Matt Allegro spied the colorful brochures I’d been frowning over. Before I could stop my ex-husband, he snatched the bundle off the café table.

“Honeymoon destinations?” He flipped through the glossy pile. “So, you and the flatfoot have finally agreed on a getaway? It looks like more than birds and bees will be busy next spring.”

“Very funny, Allegro. Now give them back.”

Instead, Matt shook his shaggy dark head and grinned, white teeth gleaming behind his bush of a beard, crow’s-feet crinkling in his deeply tanned skin—a rugged shade acquired not in a Manhattan tanning booth but under the tropical sun of a Costa Rican finca, where he’d also obtained an outstanding microlot of honey-processed Arabica beans. For that alone I should have forgiven him, but I wasn’t in the mood.

With a quick swipe, I tried to reclaim my happy-honeymoon dream, but Matt pulled the pamphlets out of reach and skidded away, ducking behind one of the overstuffed easy chairs in our second-floor lounge.

Straightening my Village Blend apron, I strode across the room and stuck my hand out.

Matt viewed my open palm with amusement. “What will you trade me for them?”

Really? “How about three insults and an elbow to the ribs?”

He tapped his foot. “I’m waiting.”

“Hmm . . .” Pretending to think it over, I studied the embossed design in our antique tin ceiling. Then I made my move. With a sudden lunge, I attempted to reach around his hard body, but his annoyingly muscular arm easily blocked me, and he was off again.

Okay, it’s on!

As I chased my ex-husband and lunatic business partner around café tables, standing lamps, and intentionally mismatched bohemian living room furniture, my baristas scattered. So much for our staff meeting!

For a moment, a rush of nostalgia swept me back two decades: Matt and I in our twenties, happily racing our toddler daughter around this same Village Blend lounge.

But Joy was all grown-up now, and (allegedly) so was Matt.

I attempted a second grab, my chestnut ponytail bobbing, but once again my slippery ex slipped out of reach. He made a show of flipping through the brochures.

“Aruba, Bermuda, Bahamas. What is this, a Beach Boys song?”

“It’s none of your business, that’s what it is.” Abandoning pursuit, I placed my hands on my hips and produced my sternest stare. I should have known better. Not even Joy fell for that anymore—but apparently my youngest barista did.

“You shouldn’t tease her!” Nancy scolded.

A wide-eyed transplant from upstate, Nancy Kelly liked to embrace her inner farm-girl with a fondness for wheat-colored braids and blue gingham mini-skirts. She also made a habit of crushing too easily on cute guys. Her Matt-crush was inevitable (we all fall for Matt), but I shut that down fast since he was her boss, not to mention twice her age. The crush on her coworker Dante, however, nearly killed him (but that’s another story).

Hearing the disapproval in Nancy’s voice, Matt turned to face her. “Go on, I’m listening,” he said with the tone of a patient father. “You have something more to say?”

“Yes, I do! I don’t know why you’re giving our Boss Lady such a hard time. She’s just looking for the perfect getaway after she and Lieutenant Quinn become husband and wife. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” Matt replied, sending me a glance. “I just didn’t understand why she looked so unhappy. Now I see. She’s searching for the perfect getaway. A nice getaway or a fun getaway just won’t cut it. For the Boy Scout in blue, it has to be perfect.”

“If you ask me, they deserve perfect,” Tucker Burton said with a theatrical sigh. Dedicated thespian and darling of the downtown cabaret scene, my lanky, floppy-haired Tuck was my oldest and most loyal staff member. “If I were planning their honeymoon, I’d send the newlyweds to Paris for a stay at the Hôtel Ritz!”

Esther rolled her eyes. “It’s a honeymoon, not a money-moon.”

A former NYU grad student, Esther Best had the kind of prickly attitude that was challenging to manage but extremely handy in Manhattan retail, where aggressive demands of New York customers (especially those forced to wait more than five seconds for re-caffeination) would typically scare a more timid part-timer off her Crocs.

Our zaftig, raven-haired resident poet was also a proud urban rapper, which is how she met her boyfriend—a Russian-born baker who dreamed of becoming the next Eminem. But Esther’s true passion, other than Boris (and coffee), was her dedicated work with poetry-slam outreach, a non-profit program for at-risk kids.

Adjusting her black-framed glasses, she stared Tucker down with her trademark scowl. “The Paris Ritz is for bougies with bank accounts. Two weeks in those perfumed digs cost more than an Elon Musk space launch.”

“Esther’s right,” Matt said scratching his unruly beard. “On a New York cop’s salary, the Motel 6 in New Orleans is about as close to France as these newlyweds will ever get.”

“Why go to Europe, anyway?” Dante Silva complained, folding his tattooed arms. The comment surprised me. Most young artists dreamed of European studies. Then again, Dante had moved to New York from a little town in Rhode Island to paint quirky scenes of urban life—and he’d encountered plenty working behind my counter.

“New England is a great place for a honeymoon,” he said. “There’s an amazing bed-and-breakfast where I grew up in Quindicott. It’s a restored Queen Anne called the Finch Inn—”

“Paaa-leeeeze,” Esther scoffed. “Any honeymooners serious about their self-titled mission would want more privacy than the paper-thin walls of an old Victorian B&B. If Boris and I ever go on a honeymoon, we’ll either rent a cabin in the woods or make sure our hotel room is soundproofed.”

“Too much information!” Dante cried, squeezing his eyes shut.

Tucker opened his wide. “Why, Esther, I didn’t realize you were such an incurable romantic.”

“It’s not romance,” she said, pushing up her glasses. “It’s sex.”

Matt snapped his fingers. “Speaking of great se—” He cleared his throat. “—romance, why not go to Hawaii, Clare? That’s where we had our honeymoon. Remember those starry nights on the beach?”

I could not believe my ex-husband said that with a straight face.

“Matt, some of my wedding plans may still be up in the air, but I can tell you one thing: whatever they are, they will not be repeating the same pattern.”

“Pattern?” Bafflement crossed his bushy face. “What pattern?”

“I’ll make it simple—” I raised an index finger. “Number one. This is my second wedding. This time around, I’m a mature, independent woman marrying a man I deeply love, not an infatuated, very pregnant teenager with no means of support.

“Number two—” I made a peace sign. “I’m marrying Detective Lieutenant Michael Ryan Francis Quinn in a chapel surrounded by friends and family, not at City Hall in front of a bored clerk.

“Number three—” I waved my old Girl Scout salute. “Mike and I are going to have a lovely reception at a beautiful venue on the river with those same friends and family as our guests.”

“And finally, on our honeymoon, Mike and I are going somewhere—anywhere—that does not remind me of my first failed marriage.” I stepped up to my ex-husband until we were standing toe-to-toe, if not face-to-face (at my height it was more like my face and his sternum).

Matt looked down and grinned again. “Can’t handle the memories of me, huh?”

I (barely) suppressed a groan. “I simply want this wedding to be the opposite of my first one in every respect. Get it now?”

“Oh, I get it.” Matt handed back the brochures. “You’re honeymooning in the Arctic Circle.”

“Well, if we do, I’m sure Mike Quinn will find plenty of creative ways to keep us warm.”

With a snort, Matt scanned the room. “Speaking of cold fish, where is our friendly neighborhood apple-swiping flatfoot? Shouldn’t your precious groom-in-waiting be here to help pick your perfect honeymoon package?”

The lounge suddenly got very quiet, and everyone turned to stare at me. My staff had grown used to seeing Quinn at our after-hours meetings. He clearly enjoyed the banter between my baristas—along with samples of my new roasts and the leftover treats in our pastry case. In turn, they appreciated quizzing him about police activity in the city in general and our neighborhood in particular, especially patterns of crimes, from more serious events like muggings and assaults to misdemeanor infractions like bike thefts and graffiti.

The last two weeks, however, my fiancé had been notably absent.

“Mike is working, okay?” I told them all. “Which is what we are supposed to be doing, remember?”

I tried to keep my tone light, but the words came out way more defensive than I meant them to be. I might as well have been wearing a neon sign that flashed Trouble in Paradise.

With a frown, Matt studied my unhappy expression. That’s when I realized what all of the teasing and chasing was really about.

My ex had noticed my anxiety over those honeymoon brochures. His impromptu “playtime” had been his way of trying to lighten my mood. Now he saw the truth. My worries could not be chased away by a few jokey remarks and an adult version of Romper Room.

Matt stepped close, his brow knitting with unspoken questions. But this was not the time to answer intimate queries about my relationship with Mike Quinn.

DING! The smartphone timer went off in the pocket of my Village Blend apron. The French presses were ready.

“Let me finish the coffee,” I said.

As I pushed past Matt to press down the plungers, his low whisper told me he was not letting this subject die.

“You’re not saved by the bell, Clare. I want to know what’s going on—”

To my relief, his words stopped there. Remembering we had an audience, he faced the staff and clapped his hands.

“The Boss Lady’s right! Fun time’s over. Everyone, grab a cup and let’s get down to business.”