S.E.C.R.E.T. (Secret 1)

“What guy?” I asked, perplexed.

“The guy from Halo.”

“Oh that guy,” I said, my heart speeding up. It’d been weeks since that night and neither he nor Tracina had brought it up, Tracina because she was probably too drunk to remember and Will because he never pried. Had he seen something after all?

“That guy was just a one-time date. There was no real chemistry.”

Will squinted as though he remembered things a little differently. “No chemistry?” He turned back to his adding machine and punched in more numbers. “Could have fooled me.”

When I asked Matilda what to do if I ever ran into someone I knew while out on a S.E.C.R.E.T. date, she told me that the truth was always better than a lie. And yet, here I was, lying.

“Will, Tracina’s here, so I’m off. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, making ready to bolt.

“Cassie!” Will said, startling me.

Please don’t ask me any more questions, I prayed silently.

Will met my eye. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said.

I saluted and left.

“Cassie!”

What did he want this time? I turned and walked back to poke my head through the doorway.

“You looked really … good that night. Great, even.”

“Oh. Well. Thanks,” I said, no doubt blushing like a teen. Oh, Will. Poor Will. Poor Café Rose. Something had to be done soon.

It was inevitable. That evening Tracina got the heel of one of her neon pumps caught in a crack in the sidewalk. Her toes moved forward, but the heel stayed put, wrenching one of her bird-like ankles. She had warned—and had been warned—about the cracks in the pavement and the perils of wearing those pumps at work. But such is a woman’s vanity, and such was my life, since I was the one who had to absorb a few of her night shifts until her puffed-up ankle returned to its normal dainty size. I complained to Matilda, who had asked me to keep her aware of my work schedule. I was hoping my next fantasy would take place in the Mansion, and I was also hoping it would happen soon. But it was looking more and more like this month might be fantasy-free. “Not a problem,” she said. “We will just schedule two events next month.” But still, memories of that interlude in the jazz bar were fading and the truth was, I was longing for more.

Thank goodness for Spring Fling was all I could think, while wiping down the tables. I couldn’t have made it through a week of double shifts if we’d been busy. The days stayed dead quiet, but the early evenings cast an even sadder mood over our part of the city. There were so few customers to absorb the glow off the streetlights, it just bounced around the walls and glass, giving the Café the feel of a lonely painting. Will was staying at Tracina’s to help her get around, so his reassuring presence wasn’t felt upstairs. I didn’t mind. I had a couple of good books on the go, and was even boldly using my free time to scribble some thoughts into my fantasy journal, which was the only homework S.E.C.R.E.T. had asked me to do.

That’s actually what I was doing at the bar when the door chimes alerted me to what I thought was a late-night customer. But it was the pastry delivery man, odd because normally those guys made their drop at the crack of dawn, when Dell was around to sign off on the waybill. I had sent the cook home hours before, since the only things I’d serve after 7 p.m. were coffee and dessert, and only to people who were wrapping up their meal. I turned to watch as a young man in a gray hoodie pushing a dolly stacked with pastry boxes walked right up to me without saying a word.

“I’m sorry,” I said, sliding off my stool and hiding my journal behind my back, “but aren’t you a little late? Don’t you normally come in the mor—”

He moved past me, removed his hoodie and shot me a smile over his shoulder. He had close-cropped hair, a chiseled face with dark blue eyes and forearms covered in tattoos. In my mind I saw a freeze-frame of every high school bad boy who’d made my heart ache.

“I’ll just put these in the kitchen. Meet you there?” he said, holding up his clipboard.

I had a feeling I was going to receive a lot more than two-dozen beignets and a tray of Key lime tarts. Seconds after he punched open the doors to the darkened kitchen, I heard a crash that made me glad Will wasn’t upstairs. And the cacophony didn’t happen just once. It was in stages. First a crash, then a series of bangs, then another metallic nightmare.

“Oh my God!” I yelled, inching my way to the kitchen door, behind which I could hear groaning. “Are you okay?”

I shoved the door open and felt a body, his body, move a little. I felt along the inside wall and hit the fluorescent overheads, and there he was lying on the floor, clutching his ribs. Pastries of various pastel hues were smeared across the floor, leading to the walk-in fridge.

“I seriously screwed this up,” he grunted.

I would have laughed, but my heart hadn’t calmed down enough.

“Are you okay?” I asked again, gingerly approaching him like he was a dog that had been hit by a car and might run away if I moved too fast.

“I think so, yeah. Wow, sorry about the mess.”

“Are you one of the guys from … you know?”

“Yeah. I’m supposed to ‘take you by surprise.’ Ta-da! Ow,” he said, grabbing his elbow and collapsing back on the floor, a box of pecan pie his accidental pillow.