Pierced Hearts (Southern Charmers 1)

The reminder on my phone dings, and at the same time, an older man appears at the window of the storefront, unlocking the door and propping it open for the few customers waiting outside.

I’d hoped to be in the store alone so I could question the owner, but it looks like that’s not going to happen. The combination of curious energy and caffeine overload has my nerves jacked up when I walk in.

Connie asked me to meet her here once for lunch at the deli tucked in the corner. That’s a small portion of the interior. The rest is floor to ceiling shelves displaying local merchandise. Anything from handmade glassware to local artwork can be found here—not my kind of place.

It’s impossible to miss the large display cooler next to the register. Candies and treats of all kinds line the top with samples set out in front of them. My heart hammers in my chest, setting my blood rushing faster at the items in the cooler. Small, delicate, beautifully decorated petit fours are stacked thick across an entire shelf.

My hands tingle with phantom cramps, thinking about the night Darby insisted I help her make those fucking petit fours for my mom’s fiftieth birthday party. They were a pain in my ass, and I swore I’d never do that again.

“Can I help you?” A perky, upbeat voice slices through my thoughts, and I find a woman peering through the display at me.

“Just browsing. My kids mentioned your new selection of chocolate. We gave them to their teachers last week.”

“We started carrying them ten days ago. The manager cleared out this whole display after last week’s popularity. By Friday morning, we had a line out the door. It was crazy!”

“Must be good stuff.”

“Would you like a sample?”

“Nah, I’m not a huge chocolate person.”

Her eyes bulge at my statement, and it’s a full two seconds before she shakes her head in disbelief. “That’s too bad. It’s not like regular chocolate. The baker has a specialty truffle that is flying off the shelves. We got a new delivery this morning.”

At the mention of truffle, my heart actually stops beating. The words feel like sandpaper on my throat when I force myself to ask, “Does it have a name?”

“Funny you should ask. I figure it’s something to do with the dark chocolate. It’s Darose.”

“Darose,” I repeat.

Darby Rose… the name I chose the night she created it.

“Yes, if you ever change your mind, you should try a sample. We keep them back here.”

“I’ll remember that. How about a few of these cookies for my kids.” I don’t even know what I point to, but she nods and gets to work.

“You can check out at the end of the counter.” She gestures to where the man who opened the door is working a register.

“Great choice,” he says cheerfully, taking my money.

“Can you tell me more about the baker?” The words slip past my lips before I can stop them.

“I’ve known her family for years. She’s quite the amazing baker, and having her back—” The statement dies when he glances up, recognition dawning in his eyes. He knows who I am. His movements become flustered as he shoves the box in a bag and hands me my change. “Her website tells all you need to know.” He gazes over my shoulder to the next customer, effectively dismissing me.

When I get to my truck, I toss the bag in the passenger seat and slam my hand to my steering wheel. Anger builds from the bottom of my soul. I dissected every section and every word on her website at least a dozen times last night. DB Creations.com caters to the business owner interested in carrying the products and the consumer interested in learning more about how to request goods. There are a few snippets of information about Darby’s background and training, never mentioning her by name. There is no personal information and specifically no mention of her leaving Charlotte and relocating her business to Charleston.

I glared at the ‘contact DB creations’ link for an hour, stewing over sending a message. What would I say? The last time we saw each other, we tore each other apart. It was brutal and savage, her cutting me so deep I couldn’t stop myself from lashing out until we were both broken beyond repair. Then I walked away.

When I realized my mistake and went back to grovel at her feet, ready to take any form of punishment she could dish out, she was gone.

I’ll never forget the way her parents looked at me the day I showed up at their house. Pity, sympathy, rage, confusion—all wrapped up together. They told me she’d gone to Charlotte. She left everything—her dreams, her land, her family. More importantly, she left me.

My pride was shattered, my heart broken, and the anger set in. Instead of going after her, I stayed. Then I fucked up, hurting a lot of people in the process, but was left with no choice but to take responsibility for my actions.