Starlee's Heart (The Wayward Sons 1)

My mother looks up from her computer, where she’s been confirming her itinerary for the rest of the day. She’s heading to the coast to catch a plane back home. “I can do that,” she says, shutting the laptop.

“Star, I’m trying to establish a routine with my new employee and she needs to learn my coffee and pastry order immediately.”

I look between the women. I wonder if Leelee truly understands the iron grip her daughter has over me. Sure, I’ve been to restaurants, to the coffee shop. I can order. My mother didn’t raise me to be completely helpless, but just asking me to go to a new place and perform a task…it’s a lot.

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sp; “I can do it,” I declare, wanting out of the room. “Tell me what you want.”

“Several of the shops have coffee, but the place next door has great coffee and even more amazing pastries. I’d like a chocolate croissant. Get yourself whatever you and your mother want. Tell them to add it to my tab.”

I raise my eyebrows at Mom but she shakes her head. “I’m fine. Nothing for me.”

Leelee rolls her eyes, more aware of my mother’s behaviors than I suspected. “I’ll be right back.”

“Meet me at the office.”

I nod and head out the door.

I have to walk down a long path lined with wildflowers to get to the road. From there I see a gas station and a diner, then a pizza place with a wide patio to the right. Across the street, on the edge of the cliff over the lake, is a large store selling camping and outdoor gear. I turn to the left and see the property next to Leelee’s. It’s a two-story house with a large sign out front that says, “Wayward Sun.” A cut-out cup of coffee hangs below.

My eyes shift to the second floor, where I saw the person this morning. The window is still open, white curtains hanging in the gap. I walk up the old stone steps past the small tables and seats in the front yard and up to the porch.

The front door is open and faint music along with the scent of coffee wafts through the screened door. Despite my basic apprehension for new places I climb the steps, feeling caffeine-deprived on my old schedule.

I pull back the door and the springs screech, louder than any bell. The music is hippie stuff, folksy and soothing. Hand-painted lyrics decorate one wall—the words to the song Wayward Son. They’re surrounding a mural of a large black vehicle—an old car from the ‘70s or something. There’s a heart painted on the back panel along with the words ‘Baby.’

I have no idea what I’m looking at, but I can tell the artwork is good, great even, and I see an unreadable, scribbled signature at the bottom.

I feel like I’ve stepped into bizarre world. A small counter splits what used to probably be an old living or dining room—a door leads to the kitchen, where I hear rushing water and the sound of clanking pots.

“Be out in a second!” a man calls, followed by an even louder clang as a pot or pan or something falls to the ground. “Goddammit.”

I feel bad all of a sudden for being here. For interrupting this person’s morning. Except, don’t they want customers? He wants me here, right? That’s why he’s open, or at least I try to convince myself that going into a coffee shop wasn’t the worst decision I’d ever made. I finger my money and eye the chalkboard on the wall, shifting on my feet anxiously, wondering if I should just leave.

Another slam ricochets through the shop and I take a step back, ready to bolt, but before I get up the courage, footsteps cross the kitchen.

“Sorry about that.” The guy comes through the door, wiping his hands on his apron. “What can I get…” his eyes connect with mine. Familiar. Gray. “You?”

There’s a silver hoop in his lip and a tattoo down his forearm, but what I recognize is the tight set of his jaw and the flash in his gray eyes.

One of the boys from the museum.

“I’ll uh,” I glance at him, incredulous that I’ve crossed paths with him again. He raises his eyebrows impatiently, waiting for my order. I repeat my grandmother’s odd order, “I’ll have a Sam’s Special and a uh,” I skim the board, unable to discern the names with the drink. Crowley’s Cocoa? Salt Gun Caramel? “Whatever is closest to a mocha, please.” My eyes land on a basket, something called Moose’s Muffins, on the counter. These are next to a glass-domed covered plate with a sign titled ‘Cakeholes.’

Cakehole. Where have I heard that before?

“I’ll take a muffin.”

“Sure.”

Heat rushes up my neck; nerves from being around someone my own age, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s already making my coffee, his back to me. I stare at the lean lines of his shoulders, the way his shirt fits snug across the expanse. His hair is long on top, curly, but the back is neat and tidy.

He looks back at me but I glance away, terrified of being noticed. Did he notice me? Did he remember? I feel like he did, but what did it matter? A million trivial thoughts run through my mind as he makes my coffee and the door opens and two more customers came in, chatting over the music.

Finished, he slides my coffee across the counter top and I say, “My grandmother told me to have it put on her tab.”

“Your grandmother?” His eyebrow raises in question.