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Aggie stepped up on the corner sidewalk and glanced up. The sign for Cupid’s Café jutted out from the building on a metal rack, lit up in hues of blue and cream. The windows were clear with white shutters on either side, capable of being shut at closing time. From her position outside, she could tell sheer panels hung from the ceilings, draped between pillars. The place wasn’t crowded but contained a fair amount of patrons, and she took a step forward, working up the courage to go inside.
Her viewings with potential apartments had turned into a big bust and she’d taken the day off, shuffling her clients around and re-arranging appointments by trading a few folks with another nutritionist. Something she’d most likely regret later, but she needed extra time to search for an apartment and work up to the meeting with her admirer scheduled to happen in minutes.
Admirer. The word gave her goosebumps and did strange things to her stomach. Would, could this be Jordan? Or some man she’d never met who stalked her? There were too many possibilities and thinking of them made her gut churn like a smoothie blender.
Before she could get any closer, the front door to the café opened, and there stood a tall, gorgeous man in a three-piece suit, collar open. His face reflected Nordic qualities, and he had blond hair, light blue eyes, and an angular nose. Those eyes, in particular, pierced her, honed her focus, and then he beckoned her to him.
“Agatha?” he asked, extending his hand out, waiting for hers. Was he her admirer? She’d never seen him before.
She placed her hand in his extremely warm one. “Aggie. And you are?”
“Angel, I manage the café. We were expecting you. Come inside and let me guide you.” The smile he gave revealed perfect teeth, and for a fraction of a second, she got a little disappointed. A gorgeous man like this deserved a date as much as she did.
Following his lead, she stepped through the door, and her mood shifted. Before entering, awkwardness had bubbled up within her, a typical reaction she experienced toward social situations. Now, a wave of calm washed over her, relaxing her muscles, and the room possessed the perfect ambient temperature.
People sat on couches, around tall tables, and in small booths, absorbed in conversation, trading smiles and laughs. The patrons didn’t even seem to notice her and she was gifted with disregard instead of typical curiosity or pity-filled gazes. Music played in the background, harp and guitar mingling with one another. The scent of coffee and bread blended in the air, and maybe a hint of chocolate. Angel tugged gently on her coat sleeve, directing her farther into the café.
“We serve a variety of beverages, from alcohol to any coffee, house treat. There’s also food selections, including barbecue lamb bites. I highly recommend.”
“Sounds delicious,” she murmured, still glancing around at her surroundings. The small stage in the corner sat bare for the moment but was equipped with a stool and microphone for the budding poet or musician. An area separate from the tables and booths was filled with bean bags and a small group of folks sat cross-legged on several, smoking from a hookah.
“Yes, they are and here is the bar. Order whatever you like.”
She looked past the manager to the wooden bar decorated with the faces and bodies of mermaids similar to the ones seen on the bows of ships. A man leaned against the counter at the far end. His ash-blond hair was a bit longer than Jordan’s black locks. He wore a faded-green, long-sleeved coat, jeans, and a pair of boots.
Angel pointed at the barista conversing with the man and snapped his fingers. “Thalia will help you.” The barista smiled and drew her hand down the patron’s arm before ending the connection abruptly, a helpful, flirty woman. “Help this young lady with her selection, please.”
“What will let go of your inhibitions?” Thalia asked with a saucy half-grin and only then did her previous customer turn to glance at Aggie.
His face she remembered but couldn’t quite place. Though the smile that lit his features told her they’d met before.
“I’ll have an Americano, please,” Aggie replied.
“Agatha?” The voice did it, throwing her back to two years prior and her therapy group. It was the tall, skinny dude with the face scruff, whom she’d always thought attractive, but she’d kept things polite because of where they’d been. He was clean-shaven now, with gray starting to come in at his temples, making his blond hair appear lighter.
“Murphy O’Shea, right?”
His grin grew wider and the barista appeared forgotten as he twisted his body to face her. “You remember.”
“I did when you spoke. You look different without the facial hair.”
A chuckle burst from him. “I can’t believe you remember my poor attempt at a beard, too. I gave up trying to grow it out. A lost cause and it made me look a little too hipster. So, what brings you here?”
Interesting question and she waffled between lying and telling the truth. Would she look desperate to be seeking an admirer in a random coffeehouse café? Then she decided to go with her gut. “Received an invitation to meet an admirer. I got it a couple days ago.”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything, and Thalia appeared again with her order. “One Americano.”
“What do I owe you?”
The gal shook her head, black curls bouncing in the air. “Nothing. It’s on the house, courtesy of Mr. Heart. May you two enjoy your chance to reconnect.”
Aggie stepped up and grabbed the paper coffee cup. A pair of hearts entwined on the side caught her eye as a warm cup met her cold hands.
“Well, I guess I should confess to getting a letter, too.”
“You did?” She pivoted her body to lean against the bar, enjoying the idea she wasn’t alone. Showing up here hadn’t been a lost cause. “You admire me?”
His cheeks went a little pink. She’d made him blush. How adorable.
He cleared his throat. “Yes...uh, I did. I mean, I do admire you. In group, you always played cheerleader for the rest of us and provided a good example.” Another pause as he took a gulp of his own drink. Then, “Want to grab a table?”
“Yes.” She might have responded too quickly or been a bit eager, but if he noticed, then he acted the perfect gentleman by not commenting. No, his reaction was to slide off the too-tall bar seat and head toward a booth against the café window. They could watch passersby or focus on each other.
When he slid into one side, she sat opposite. “This is perfect.”
“You think so?” He sounded genuinely concerned about her opinion, glancing anywhere but at her. Murph always came off a little insecure in the group and from his action, the insecurities were still present.
So, she reached out and let her fingertips touch the back of his hand. A spark occurred. The warmth of his hand tingling through the connection made her want to latch on and link their fingertips. A strange sensation since she’d never experienced a lot of personal displays of affection or closeness growing up. No, her mother didn’t believe touching an essential part of daily interactions.
Murph’s focus went to their point of joining.
“The booth is great. Don’t doubt your decision.” She gave a soft, no-teeth smile aimed to inspire good energy. The effort and her reaction to him made her realize she trusted him on a small level, even when she rarely trusted anyone with anything. Jordan was a perfect example of why she shouldn’t.
“Thanks. You always know how to lift my ego.”
Egos. She’d had enough of guys super inflated by them. This man had never shown such signs.
“Well, yours is a lot smaller than the ones I’ve dealt with.” The bitterness in her voice crept in again, as it seemed to with more frequency since her breakup, and she found it difficult to hide those emotions.
“Speaking from experience?”
“A bad breakup, and my ex owned a huge ego.”
“Is this the same guy you started dating right before you left the group?”
Yes, a stupid mistake. She’d believed Jordan could be as therapeutic as a whole circle of folks discussing their problems and lifting each other.
She nodded in response. “I’d love to say I woke up one morning and figured out I needed to move on, but not the case in this particular situation.”
She’d remember this moment for a while when Murph encased her hand with his. A reverse-hand grasp, increasing the amount of contact and she relaxed into it, his comfort. Normally, she’d have pulled away, a knee-jerk reaction to being embraced. But in this instance, she wanted the offering Murph gave her, similar to what he’d done for her in group before. This wasn’t the first time he’d been a comfort to her.
When she flexed her hand within his, he flexed back. “Sorry this guy acted like such a douche.”
“You have no idea.”
“Tell me,” he replied after taking a quick sip of his drink with his free hand. She finally took a pull of hers, loving the taste of semi-hot coffee, dark and deep, working its way down her throat. The beverage acting as a soothing, welcome taste in her mouth before she let loose the ugly nastiness of her once-upon-a-time.
“Sure you’re up to it?” No sense in putting someone else through her hell. Especially when this failed to make her list of planned conversation. No, she’d rather bottle up her ex’s memory and toss him into the Ohio River.
He shook his head. “With my issues, I’m never up for anything, but if there’s one thing I learned in group, it was how to be a good listener. Lay it on me.”
She inhaled deeply and on the exhale, let the words pour out. “We dated for the last two years. At first, he acted like a dream come true—attentive, caring, kind, and so good at helping me work through my problems. He also took his time, no rushing things, which without dragging this out longer, is huge for me. Then we made plans this year to move in together.
“We found a duplex, put down a down payment, and I turned in my notice at my current place. Right after, he started to grow distant, canceling plans because of work...all this insane stuff, the complete opposite of the man I’d come to know.”
She paused, taking a break to gulp a big swallow of coffee. As if the beverage would stave off the moisture starting to pool in her eyes. Crying never played a big role in her life. At least, she kept the tears private when she experienced the urge to let them out.
“A couple weeks ago, he told me he needed a break, which I...it was fine. I can imagine it’s a bit nerve-wracking to move in with someone when you’re used to being on your own.” The first tear leaked out, trailing a path down her cheek. Near the bursting point, the urge to yell in frustration at her weakness seemed acute. Strong women never cry. “But when I went over a few days ago to talk...to discuss where we were heading, another woman answered the door.”
A second tear escaped from the other eye and Murph reached out to make contact. One finger to her tear. A secondary spark, the connection she wanted to hold on to. Grab his hand and put it against my cheek. Steal his warmth. Rogue, dumb thoughts, the exact opposite of what a strong woman needed.
“Sorry.” He gave a sheepish smile, almost a guilty one. He pulled back, disconnecting from her, taking his hands away.
“What for?”
“I didn’t ask permission. The second time I’ve put my hands on you today, and all I can say is sorry. I’m a bit impulsive sometimes.” Another thing to find attractive about him: his polite and gentlemanly attitude, which other men of her acquaintance—including her ex—failed to possess at all times. She’d never seen Murph without it.
She laughed at the awkwardness of the situation and how comfortable his touch made things; it wasn’t the first time she found herself thankful for him. “Would you think it weird if I said I’m okay with it?”
Her answer seemed to surprise him as he dropped his jaw and then quickly scratched it, but without the scruff of yesteryear, the movement looked clumsy. “No, not at all. So, where does this whole thing leave you?”
“Hunting for an apartment, at least somewhere else to live, since I already turned in my notice at my current place, and it’s not like I’m getting the duplex from Jordan. We put everything in his name, much to my regret.”
They both went silent and the noise of the room intruded. Murph looked thoughtful, and she reached up to wipe her lips, then tucked loose strands of hair behind each ear. Here she sat, telling everything to someone she’d known years ago in a therapy group, one she’d only been in as a way to help enforce her commitment to not binge. He probably thought she let some cats loose near a bowl of cucumbers.
“I’m going to head to the ladies’ room for a minute.”
“Sounds good. Want a refill?” He pointed at her empty coffee cup.
Aggie shook her head. “No, that’s all right.”
After pushing back her chair, she stood and left, feeling his eyes watch her go. A small part of her wanted to glance back like the high school girl she’d once been, checking to see if the boy she admired looked her way. But she schooled herself and kept on moving without turning her head. Strong women survived this way, by never showing weakness. After the tears she’d shed, she needed to regain strength.
#
Murphy watched her walk away. The sway of her hips, the sweetheart shape of her ass, and the way her jeans hugged those curves. He’d dreamt about them. Not only them but the woman herself and her smile. A smile she no longer allowed to reach her eyes. She’d once radiated hope and optimism.
Such high spirits raised the entire group, and they fed off the energy. Those emotions got him through many days when the world seemed too dark to keep on going. Now, the irony of running into her, the one woman who helped him stage a comeback she’d no idea of. And already new images, new inspiration came to him.
He could paint her right there, across from him in this very booth, with two tears, each trailing a path of woe down her creamy skin. The skin he’d always imagined as soft, and with his muse right in front of him, he’d reached out and touched the smooth expanse of her hand. Silky was another adjective he’d use to describe those hands.
Damn. He shouldn’t have acted so impulsively. Nope, his touch hurt everything but canvas and paint.
Signaling the barista behind the counter, he asked for a couple of glasses of water. She gave him a wink in response and returned with the glasses as Aggie slipped into her seat.
“What’s this for?” she asked, sweeping her hair over her shoulder. The black tresses featured in some of his daydreams as well.
“I was thirsty for water, so I figured I wouldn’t be rude and at least get you one, too.”
Her smile came back, more genuine than the ones from earlier, the mood lightening once more. “You’re too sweet. So enough about my sad story. Tell me all about you. What’s life been like over the last two years?”
It’d be easy to bring up the struggle, the daily battles, and the two hospital stints when the medicine failed to work, but who wanted to hear about more sad things? At the same time, his latest troubles involved sadness as well.
“I’ve been working toward my first show.”
“Show? Like theater?”
He wouldn’t blame her for not remembering. They’d only talked about his painting once. The day he really noticed her and started paying attention to the words, the stories she shared with the group. When he’d mentioned how the light reflected off her hair, casting her in an angelic glow. “Painting. I’m a tempera painter, and finally, after too many years to count, I have a show coming up.”
“Yes, that’s right. You’re a starving artist. I remember you discussing this a little bit during group, but what is tempera?”
“Tempera painting is like creating art with quick-drying paint, that’s the easiest way to describe it, and the process is lengthier than other mediums like oils or water-based colors.”
“The whole thing sounds fascinating. When is the show?”
He grinned at the idea she remembered his passion. “In about twelve weeks. Only hiccup is all my paintings were destroyed last night.”
The joy in her face fell away, and he found himself thankful for another person to share in his woes. Patrick and Trix, they tried, but they couldn’t understand.
“Absolutely heartbreaking. What happened?”
“Someone broke in, but I’m getting a security company to install a system. No more risk taking here.” He winked, hoping to give her confidence in him, in his coping skills, even if they were virtually nonexistent outside of this one step. “That’s what I was doing before coming here, talking to a security company.”
“Sounds a lot more interesting than apartment hunting. Can you recover the paintings?”
“No, they’re destroyed. I have to paint new ones. Twelve to be exact.”
She took a drink of the water. “Sounds like a lot of work.”
“It will be.” When had the conversation become stilted again? They were going through the motions, playing a game of general conversation. “Would it be weird if I offered you an apartment at my complex? I know we’ve never talked about it, but I own two buildings, two apartments in each. I’ve got one open right now. Rent would be minimal. A great way to get out of the place with all the memories and give you time to save up. Housing isn’t cheap anywhere in this town anymore.”
She laughed, a low sound sending a bolt of desire straight to his groin. “You’re sweet, just like the water, but I could be a serial killer.”
“If you are, then you’re the prettiest one I’ve ever met.” He doubted she could hurt a butterfly. No, this woman wouldn’t harm anyone, not with what she’d been through.
Silence reigned once more and she raised an eyebrow at him. He snorted, realizing the joke was crap. “I guess it’s a pretty morbid pick-up line.”
Aggie shook her head and chuckled. “Yep, I’d look for new material.”
Her reaction dispelled the insanity but didn’t obliterate the fear that he’d never get to see her after today. He wanted to see her again.
“I’ll add ‘search for new pick-up lines’ to my to-do list along with my twelve paintings and paying the bills.” He grabbed the extra napkin on the table, a white paper with Cupid’s Café in a beautiful script, and then reached into his pocket for the pen he always carried.
Ideas sometimes came to him at a moment’s notice and he’d draw sketches with anything he could find, even his own skin became a canvas for the initial idea. Instead of drawing, like he wanted to do, he wrote his number on the paper, traced over it twice to make it easy to read, and the black ink bled into the soft paper, inking its permanent way to the sheet. “So, before I forget, here’s my number. You won’t let me give you a place to sleep, at least take this so if you ever want to talk.”
“Do you still go to group?”
He shook his head, but he kept silent on the subject. Better left for another day. “No, I stopped over a year ago.”
“Oh.” Her single word spoke volumes. Maybe she planned to go back; he’d do the same if it meant he could see her.
“But if you want an intro back into the group, a friendly face to go with you—”
“No, not at all. I don’t think group is for me anymore, but thanks.” She glanced at her phone, a sure sign their date would come to an end. He noticed the napkin with his number still sat there, hovering between them and ominous. Would she take it?
Please. He prayed silently in his head, the same word, over and over, along with the physical thought she’d grab the napkin and stuff it in her pocket.
Aggie reached for it, folded it neatly, and stuck it in her coat pocket. He held fast to the intense urge to whoop for joy and also to stay calm. Insane how one gesture inspired the manic part of him. Then the elation ebbed and relief rushed in. Now would be the worst time to experience an episode.
“I understand completely. Sometimes you need to move on, and things. Damn, I’m not good at small talk.”
“I think you did great, Murphy. Let’s do this again sometime, okay?”
He grinned. “Yes, let’s. When?”
“I’ll call you.” She slid out of the booth and he followed suit. He’d forgotten the protocol—handshake or hug? Not wanting to bungle things or appear creepy, he settled for extending his hand, and then she surprised him again, throwing her arms around his shoulders and giving him a brief squeeze.
“I think we’re beyond handshakes at this point,” she said once she pulled back.
The sweet smell of her shampoo or perfume, a coconut scent, still lingered in his nostrils, paired with all the moments of their time today, would carry his muse for a while. “Good to know.”
Her response was a shake of a head, a laugh, and then a quick, “I’ll call you.”
He stood there for minutes after she’d walked away and out the door. Until, finally, he went his own way. He waited so he wouldn’t be tempted to run after her, to invite her to dinner, or anything else. No, he’d settle for a quick grocery store stop for more eggs. It’d be a long night.