Chapter One
Dani
Four, seven, eight, thirteen, thirteen, fifteen.
Four, seven, eight, thirteen, thirteen, fifteen.
I rounded the corner and pushed through the coffee shop door, the numbers on repeat in my brain. Four, seven, eight, thirteen, thirteen, fifteen.
“Hey, Dani,” Chloe, the barista at the counter, said. “What’ll it be today?”
I smiled. “I’ll take a number four, a seven, an eight, two thirteens, and a fourteen.” There. Done. God bless the owner of Java Jean’s for numbering their coffee shop menu. “Wait. Did I say fourteen? I meant fifteen. Four, seven, eight, thirteen, thirteen, fifteen.”
Chloe grinned. “Are you sure?”
“Don’t question me! If I have to repeat them again, I’ll definitely forget.”
“The fifteen’s for Sasha?” Chloe asked. “The coconut milk macchiato?”
Of course it was for Sasha. My boss lived on air and coffee and little else. “How’d you guess?”
“It’s her second one today. She stopped by on her way in this morning.”
“And it probably won’t be her last.” I leaned against the counter and waited for Chloe to make up the drinks. A basket of peaches sat next to the register and I reached for one, lifting the fruit to my nose. I frowned and put it back in the basket. The fruit smelled less like a fresh peach than the scented lotion my roommate slathered onto her legs every night. But then, my standards for fresh peaches were high. I was spoiled by my childhood in South Carolina, roaming my grandma’s orchards, eating peaches seconds after I’d pulled them from the tree.
A swell of emotion rose in my chest. It had been years since my grandmother had died, but I couldn’t think of home without remembering her.
Granny wouldn’t have liked Java Jeans, with its endless options and ridiculous names. “There’s only one way to drink coffee, sugar,” she’d said to me countless times, the r so soft, it all but completely fell off her words. “With lots of cream.” The same rule also applied to peaches. I didn’t disagree with her on that point. Fresh peaches and cream was a part of my Southern heritage I’d never surrender.
But I did love Java Jean’s. It made me feel like a New Yorker, like I truly belonged in the city. I mean, I had the entire menu memorized. Surely that balanced out my lingering Southern accent and affinity for pastel floral prints, even in the sea of blacks and grays that filled New York City streets.
“Seriously,” Chloe said, handing over the first tray of drinks. “You need to feed that woman a cheeseburger. She’d probably be happier.”
I offered a tight-lipped smile. Sasha maybe had a bit of a reputation. She was a woman who knew how to get what she wanted and didn’t back down no matter the sacrifice. How else could she have climbed to the top of an elite fashion house design team in less than three years? Naysayers claimed she’d slept her way to the top—she was engaged to marry brand originator and CEO Alicio LeFranc, after all—but I’d seen the way Sasha worked. She was a cutthroat, for sure. But she had gumption.
An administrative position had gotten me through LeFranc’s front door, but it was Sasha’s recommendation that would get me designing. I couldn’t afford to be anything but loyal.
“Just add those to the company tab,” I told Chloe.
She nodded. “Sure thing. That’s a great dress, by the way. I love the color.”
“Yeah?” I looked down at my dress. The pale blue Oscar de la Renta Guipure lace had been a splurge at Mood, my favorite fabric store, but the tiny geometric pattern had been perfect for the A-line I’d been sketching. I’d dropped a third of my weekly paycheck without even flinching. I had spent the first two hours of sewing cursing my decision—there’s definitely a learning curve working with guipure—but in the end, I had been totally stoked with the results. The lace kept it feminine, but it wasn’t too frilly. Cinched at the waist, with a tiny black belt and a boat neck, I loved it. Still, that’s different than someone else loving it. “I just finished it,” I said to Chloe. “You really like it?”
“Wait, are you serious? You made it yourself? I’ve never wished so much that I could afford to wear LeFranc.”
My cheeks warmed with her praise. I’d been designing clothes a long time, but it still surprised me when people liked my stuff. “Oh, I didn’t design this for LeFranc. Designing is . . .” I hesitated. Designing was my life, my passion, my everything. But that felt a little heavy for small talk with the barista. “It’s still just a hobby for me,” I said. “But who knows? Maybe someday.”
“I take it back then. The fact that they have you making coffee runs instead of designing clothes makes me hate LeFranc,” Chloe said as she slid a lid onto Sasha’s macchiato. “I’ll never wear it in protest.”
“Give me a few more months,” I said with a wry grin. “Every day I’m a day closer.”
“I like your attitude.” Chloe turned back to the cappuccino machine behind her. “Just a few more to go.”
I nodded and pulled out my phone, scrolling through the to-do list Sasha had texted over that morning. I’d already made it through the first half—not bad for a morning’s work.
A minute later, a text came in from my brother, asking if we were still on for dinner that night. I inwardly groaned. I’d almost forgotten about dinner.
I should have been excited to see my twin. He still lived in Charleston, so we didn’t see each other very often. But Isaac and I—we couldn’t be more different. I was Gucci and New York Fashion Week. He was cargo shorts and . . . the couch in his basement. We’d done okay as teenagers. We’d tolerated each other, at least. But then he’d opted out of college to stay home and focus on the YouTube channel he’d developed while we were still in high school. I’d been furious at the time. Colleges had offered him money to come use his brain and Isaac had picked . . . YouTube?
Still, family was family. I keyed out a quick response, confirming the restaurant and time.
When the bell above Java Jean’s front door jingled, I didn’t even look up. But then I heard a voice that made the blood in my veins run New York-winter cold.
“I completely understand. I’ll take care of it right away. Right. Sounds good,” the voice said.
I gripped the edge of the counter, grateful it was there to hold me up. Because hearing Alex Randall’s voice? That was enough to put me flat on the floor.
Chloe leaned toward me. “Dani? You okay?”
I forced a breath in through my nose, and out through my mouth. Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe it was some other Southern guy that just sounded like him. Some other guy who didn’t have wavy chestnut hair or perfect brown eyes or an incredible dusting of freckles across perfectly chiseled cheekbones. I closed my eyes, a sudden swell of anger surging to the surface, making my skin feel hot, prickly. I could envision those eyes like it was yesterday. Like it hadn’t been twelve agonizing months since he’d left New York. Since he’d left me.
I snuck a brief glance over my shoulder, my heart tripling its speed as soon as I determined that yes, the one and only Alex Randall was standing less than ten feet away from me. At once I felt both elated to see him again—I’d loved the man, after all—and furious that he felt like he had any right to place himself within a one-hundred-mile radius of where he knew me to be. Java Jeans was my territory. Maybe he’d introduced me to the place, but he’d ceded it when he’d left. He was the guilty one. The heartbreaking, dream-crushing, soul-stabbing, vanishing act that had nearly been my undoing.