by Farlow, LK
Needless to say, I got the damn dog. Named him Oscar—God rest his little doggy soul.
That same tenacity and dedication followed me all throughout grade school and into high school. Don’t misunderstand me, I still went out and partied with the best of them, and I definitely had my fair share of dates and hookups, but I also knew when to rein it in and dial it down.
Served me well, too. Got me into my dream school on a full ride, where I studied business. Extra perk, my childhood best friend, Nate, got in there, too, and he’s every bit as driven as me. Since then we may have lost touch—thanks to him staying local and heading off to the police academy, where he learned to be a professional badass, and me shipping off to Europe to study under the bests in the culinary world—but that doesn’t mean I don’t have his back still, and Lord knows he has mine.
We pretty much lived at each other’s houses in high school, and we roomed together in college. We may not talk every day like we did growing up, but we still text sporadically and comment on social media shit. And I know when we eventually hit the bar, we’ll pick back up right where we left off, like we always do, distance and time be dammed.
My plan was always for me to end up back here in Bay Ridge, Alabama. Sounds insane, I’m sure. But like I said, goals. And I’m so damn close to achieving the grandest of them all that I can hardly stand it. Even though my parents have long since retired to Florida, all of my best childhood memories are here. Not to mention Nate and his family too—but I try not to think of his family too much. I love them, but thinking about them always leads me to think of his sister…his once annoying but blossomed overnight and now hot as fuck little sister. Thank God for social media for allowing me to creep.
Sure, there were some bumps and detours along the way, but fate is smiling down on me, and I’m fucking here and ready to take back what should have never left my family in the first place—Bayside Café.
7
Natalie
In the week following my date with Kevin, every time my phone rang, I’ve In the week following my non-date with Kevin-Phil, I’ve decided to call it quits. I’m hanging up my dating hat—and by that, I mean deleting my online profile. I waffled on the decision, but a girl can only stand so many bad dates.
But you know what? I’m okay with that. Truly, I am. Any of the potential suitors I might have met on there would have been nothing more than a stand-in for the only man who’s ever made my heart race.
For a while, I convinced myself that I didn’t want passion and belly flutters—I fooled myself into believing lukewarm was the way to go…but I know that isn’t true.
Deep down, if it isn’t red hot and consuming, I’m not interested. Though, I’m pretty sure that kind of love only comes around once in a lifetime, and if that’s the case, that’s just fine too, because I’ll always have my Tater Tot. Which is fine by me, because she’s all the best parts of him anyway.
“Mama!” I hear, followed by the sound of Tatum’s little feet stomping down the hall toward my room. “Mama! Wake up! It’s Us Day!” Tatum barrels into my room and up onto my bed where she burrows down under the covers next to me. “You up?”
“I’m up! Are you ready for our big day?” I ask, already knowing her answer.
On the third Saturday of every month, I’m off. Guaranteed, no matter what—and on that day, Tatum and I have a Us Day where we spend the entire day together, uninterrupted, doing whatever we damn well please.
“Wes have waffles?”
“We can absolutely have waffles. And maybe then we can go to the park.”
Tatum nods her head furiously. “And to lunch and for ice cream and for shopping and for—”
I gently dig the tips of my fingers into her ribs, tickling her. “Slow your roll, Tater Tot. Let’s tackle today one step at a time, okay?”
“Okay, Mama,” she replies through peals of laughter.
Tatum begs and pleads to help with the batter, and as usual when letting a three-year-old work in the kitchen, more ends up on the counter and the floor than in the waffle maker. All the same, we end up with four perfect, fluffy waffles that we top with whipped cream, strawberries, and sweet, sticky syrup.
I send my little girl to wash her hands and brush her teeth while I quickly clean up the kitchen. Once I’m finished, I lay out her clothes before quickly working through my morning routine of washing my face, brushing my teeth and tossing my hair up into a messy-mom-bun—I call it a mom bun because it so isn’t one of those cute buns you see girls on Instagram and Pinterest rocking—before throwing on a pair of drawstring linen shorts and a loose-fitting tank.
We exit our bedrooms simultaneously, only Tatum is not dressed in the outfit I laid out for her. Nope. Not by a long shot. My little girl is decked out in her frilliest dress-up dress, rain boots, and a tiara—with a smear of pink, glittery lipstick from cheek to cheek to finish her look.
“Don’t I wook like a pwincess, Mama?”
“You absolutely do.” I do my best to stifle my grin. I swear, this kid…she marches to the beat of her own bongo—because Lord knows, a drum would be too basic. “But do you really want to risk getting your royally beautiful outfit all dirty?”
Tatum taps her chin thoughtfully. “I guess not.” Her little shoulders slump.
“I’ll tell you what, you go change into the outfit I laid out for you. You can still wear your rain boots, and I’ll do your hair up all pretty with your tiara. Bonus points if you wipe off the lipstick.”
“But Mama! It’s sooooo pretty!”
“You’re right, it is very pretty. But I think I have a color that would match better, okay?” She nods and dashes back to her bedroom, and I do the same in hunt of my barely pink lip gloss.
We once again meet in the hall. “Dis better?” she asks, pouting slightly.
“Much better. C’mon and I’ll braid your hair.”
Tatum bounces on her toes. “Like Elsa?”
“Yup, just like Elsa.”
Ten minutes later, Tatum is admiring her braid in the little entryway mirror. Finally, after checking it from every possible angle, she shoots me a thumbs-up and what I can only assume is a wink. It’s all I can do to suppress a laugh, because the expression on her face makes her look like a hokey used-car salesman you’d see on a billboard somewhere.
* * *
We decide to take advantage of the good weather and walk to the park. Well, I walk. Tatum gallops, hops, and twirls her way down the sidewalk. Her enthusiasm garners us a few stares, coupled with friendly waves from others milling about outside. Being the little ham she is, Tatum eats up the attention.
At the park, Tatum goes straight for the big slide, climbing the rungs of the ladder fearlessly and then launching herself down the shoot. My sweet, brave girl. After about ten minutes she tires of the slide and sets off for the merry-go-round.
“Mama! Come spin me!”
Five spins later, she says she is too dizzy to keep going and we make our way to the swings. When she sees the tandem swing is open, she shouts with glee. “We swing togedder?”
“Sure thing, Tater Tot.”
About an hour later, we have made our rounds through all of the playground equipment. “You ready for lunch?”
“Hmm.” Tatum taps the little dimple in her chin. “I stapose.”
“You suppose? Well, what sounds yummy?”
“Ice cream,” she deadpans.
“Try again kid.”
“Fine. Grilled cheeses?”
“Now that sounds like a plan.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, we’re both stuffed from our grilled cheeses. Tatum opted for the kid-friendly American cheese and white bread classic while I went with Gouda on sourdough accompanied by bacon, tomatoes, and garlic aioli.
“I eated it all.” Tatum looks at me expectantly while patting her little belly.
“I see that,” I say through a smile.
“So, do I gets ice cream?”
“That depends.”
“On what, Mama? I’ll do anyfing!”
“Anything? Oh, my…” I steeple my fingers under my chin, rubbing the tips against one another like a movie villain. Tatum looks at me with her beautiful green eyes. “How about you help me pick up your toys when we get home and no complaining at bath time?”
My girl nods her head furiously, almost to the point of looking like a bobblehead. “Yes! Yes! I can do that!”
I beam and hold my hand out to her, helping her down from her chair. “Then let’s get to it, pretty girl.”
We hop over to Scoops, which is conveniently located right next door. After placing our orders, Tatum skips over to our usual table near the door while I linger at the counter, waiting for our order. I keep my eyes on her while listening out for our number to be called. By the time I have our sweet treats in hand, she’s all but drooling.
Two bites in and my phone starts buzzing in my purse. I fish it out and check the screen, finding two new texts from Jenny, my work bestie. She and I started at Bayside around the same time, and being the new girls, we stuck together like glue. The fact that she’s ballsy as all get-out, fun, and an all-around good person certainly doesn’t hurt.
I press my right index finger to the sensor and unlock my phone before opening her message.
Jenny: Staff meeting Monday morning. 8 AM. Hiss, boo!
Ugh. Great.
Me: Thanks for letting me know. Any idea what’s up?
Jenny: I’ve heard a few rumors about us getting new owners.
Ugh. Double great.
Bayside Café is a local institution and so much more than your average café. Or at least it was. The food used to be over-the-top small plates that were busting with flavors from all over the globe.
Growing up, it was owned by my longtime crush’s—a.k.a. my brother’s best friend—grandparents. From about age ten to fifteen, I imagined Alden and me getting married and running it together. From sixteen to seventeen, I became determined to make him see me. And he did. Through beer goggles. Our one and only hook-up ended with me knocked up and him with no memory of us even sleeping together, much less that he was my first…so no happy ending for us—obviously.
Even though there’ll never be an Alden and me, my dreams of running Bayside persisted. Especially after his grandma passed away and his pops was moved to an assisted living community. The café was handed down to his uncle, who sold it—the rat bastard. Now, we serve deli sandwiches and soups of the day and fruit cups. And if we’re getting sold again…well, there go my dreams of working my way up to running the place one day. Hell, I’ll be lucky if the alleged new owner evens keeps the staff.
I tuck my phone back into my purse just as Tatum hops down from her chair. “All done! You ready?”
I scoop up the last bite of my mint chip and swallow it down. “Totally ready,” I say with much more bravado than I’m feeling, and together we set off back toward the house.
8
Natalie
It’s once again one of those days.
Even though I was in bed by eight, I overslept and had to rush through getting ready.
Tatum also wasn’t feeling it this morning. She hated every outfit I picked out. She wanted her pink juice cup, but we couldn’t find it. She wanted to bring her Troll doll to school, but it isn’t show-and-tell day. It was one thing after another. All trivial things, mind you. But all together, they had my pulse racing.
By the time I got her dropped off at daycare, I was a hot, frazzled mess.
But, it’s a Monday, so I’m cutting myself some slack. Plus, I still have fifteen minutes before the stupid staff meeting, and it’s only a five-minute drive from Tatum’s daycare.
So, yeah, totally winning.
I breeze through the employee entrance at seven fifty-five on the dot—thanks to hitting two red lights. Jenny immediately rushes over to me, practically bouncing on the toes of her black, restaurant standard, non-slip sneakers.
“Oh. My. Good. God. Girl!”
Grinning at her early morning enthusiasm, I arch a brow at her. “What’s got you all excited?”
“Word in the kitchen is the sale is as good as done, and we get to meet the new owner today. I overheard Giselle saying she saw him and that he is fiiiiine.” Mind you, her name is actually Jess Elle, but she says it isn’t sophisticated enough and insists we all call her Giselle. Whatevs.
“Yeah, well…” I trail off. “I guess we’ll see soon enough.”
“Girl. You could at least pretend to be excited about some new eye candy.”
I shrug my shoulders. As pathetic as it sounds, there’s only one guy who has ever truly caught my eye, and last I heard he was in France and engaged to fucking Mia. Even now, after all these years, thoughts of her make me stabby.
At promptly eight o’clock, our daytime manager, Carlos, ushers us all into the dining room. Jenny and I snag a two-top near the back—that way we’ll be able to whisper back and forth as this meeting drones on.
Before everyone even has a chance to sit down, Carlos starts. “Thanks for being here today guys.”
“Like we had a choice,” someone near the front mumbles.
Carlos pinches the bridge of his nose and continues. “As I was saying, I know it’s early and a lot of y’all don’t even work today, so I appreciate it. Before we get into the heavy stuff, I want to thank everyone who worked on-site at the Benson wedding shower last weekend. I know it was hot, but y’all killed it.”
Don, our owner, who is every bit as lackluster as his name, steps up behind Carlos. He taps his foot impatiently as Carlos continues. Finally, Don taps his shoulder. “All right guys—guess I’m going to turn it over to head honcho.”
Don takes the mic and taps it three times, testing it as if Carlos wasn’t just speaking into it. “I know there have been rumors about me wanting to sell this place. Well, they were true, and after noon today, I’ll no longer be the owner of this dump.”
His careless words spark a hot fury in my veins. This place wouldn’t be a dump if it weren’t for him and his apathetic, absent ownership. The only thing that jackass does is scrawl his name across our paychecks.
“Now then, let me introduce y’all to the new owner, Alden Warner.”
At the sound of his name, I gasp, sucking air down the wrong pipe, causing me to choke so hard that I’m sure it looks like I’m sobbing. Hell, maybe I am. I’m certain my face is beet red, and I sound like a barking baby seal. My vision is blurred by my salty tears, but I can feel everyone looking at me. I cover my face with my hands in a paltry attempt to hide.
Right when I think my humiliation couldn’t possibly get any worse, the universe decides to prove me wrong.
“Here, take a sip.” Four words. That’s it, and even though his voice is deeper—rougher—I’d know it anywhere. Alden Warner is right in front of me. Talking to me. Offering me a drink. Except I’m pretty sure he’s the only thing that can quench my thirst. And the kicker—he probably doesn’t even know who he’s talking to. I’m just some nameless waitress he inherited when he bought the café.
Ignoring him, I continue choking and wheezing into my palms. There’s no way in hell I can face him right now.
Undeterred, Alden pushes the cool glass against my knuckles. “Seriously, take a sip. Please.”
There’s something about the way he says ‘please.’ His voice dropped deeper and sounded so imploring, like his life depended on me drinking that water. Then again, he probably didn’t want a waitress to die before the ink on the deed was even dry.
Slowly, I pull my hands from my face and take the glass from him. Bringing it to my lips, I take one small sip. And then another. Feeling brave, I sneak a peek up at him, but he’s like the sun and looking at him dead-on hurts. So, I quickly revert back to staring at my lap. He probably doesn’t even recognize me.
Except, judging by the, “No way,” he murmurs, I know he did. He runs his index and middle finger down my jaw and under my chin, using them to tilt my fa
ce up toward him. “You work here?”
My words fail me, so I settle on a nod. A stiff, impersonal, awkward as hell nod.
“Holy shit, Small Fry! Get your ass up and give me a hug!”
I open my mouth to reply, but with catlike reflexes, Alden yanks me up from my chair and into his arms. Deciding to make the best of this unexpected but oh-so-welcome physical contact, I breathe him in. He stills smells the same—like spicy citrus and pure, unfiltered sex appeal. It’s fucking deadly.
He holds me tight to his body—so close I can feel the lean muscles beneath his shirt. So close I might lose my mind and never let go if don’t move away from him, pronto.
Finally, yet all too soon, Alden steps away from me taking his blessed body heat with him.
“Jesus, girl, it’s been too long. How the hell are you?” he asks, sounding genuinely happy to see me.
However, instead of responding with a polite and rational reply like a normal fucking adult, my inner-teenager answers for me, sounding petulant and snotty. “Just dandy. How’s Mia, your fiancée?” Even after all these years her name still tastes like poison
9
Alden
For a few seconds, the entire café is silent as if they’re waiting with bated breath for my answer. I smirk at her, even though I know it’s the wrong thing to do. I up the ante with a quirked brow, and I swear she’s ready to spit fire.
“You think she’d appreciate you having me in your arms?”
“Honestly, I don’t think she’d care one way or another.” I let my words settle and then drop the hammer. “Seeing as we’re not together any longer.”
At that Natalie sputters, but she still hasn’t pulled away. Interesting. “Wha…you’re not? Since when? Nate didn’t…”
