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Prologue
I hate college kids. From their unwashed righteousness to their impossibly naïve view of the “real world,” they really piss me off. So, on the eve of my thirtieth birthday, what did I do? I went and moved into a craphole apartment building full of the little buggers. Oh, and I took a job at a university-area coffeehouse, so that I could serve them, too. Brilliant idea. Truly brilliant.
Now, why would I go and do a stupid thing like that, you ask? Necessity. I was broke. It was either move in with my parents (again), or accept a job from an old friend and strike out on my own, penniless. I would choose loneliness and poverty over suffocation and nagging any day. Not that my parents aren’t wonderful people, because they are. It’s just that I can’t stand living under the same roof with them.
So here I was, back in Nashville, in my old college stomping grounds. I have a degree in vocal performance from Belmont, but that doesn’t do a person with paralyzing, all-consuming stage fright much good. That was why I took the job at my friend Pete’s coffeehouse, because you can’t be a teacher or a lawyer or a rocket scientist with a vocal music degree. You can, however, be a damn good restaurant manager, which I am. Well, if you don’t count the time my dickhead fiancé stole all of the money from the café we owned together and left town with my best waitress.
Life has given me lemons. What’s a girl to do? I’m going to make some coffee.
Chapter 1
The moment I set foot inside Java Jive, I felt like I was home. The place looked exactly the same as it had the first time I walked through the door over ten years ago, and the pervasive aroma of freshly brewed coffee still hung heavy in the air. My longtime best friend, Pete Bennett, was even behind the counter, wiping up a spill and throwing a towel over his shoulder exactly like he always did. When he looked up and smiled at me, a wave of nostalgia hit me like a ton of bricks, and I was immediately transported back to the first time we met.
At that time, I was nineteen and a freshman at Belmont University. My parents had given me exactly five hundred dollars of spending money for the entirety of my freshman year. Needless to say, it was long gone before Christmas break, and I was in desperate need of a job. I answered a “help wanted” ad posted on campus for a local coffeehouse, Java Jive, and scheduled an interview with the owner. Besides babysitting, I had never had a job before. To say that I was nervous would have been a heinous understatement.
I walked in the door, and a boy from school was standing behind the counter, wiping up a spill. I had a huge crush on him, but I hadn’t known he worked here. All I knew was that his name was Pete and that he was dreamy, with his spiky black hair and ever-present smile. He threw the towel over his shoulder and greeted me, “Hi, what can I get you?”
“Oh, um . . . nothing . . .” Back then, I tended to get flustered easily.
He frowned. “Then I’m going to have to ask you to leave. We have a strict ‘no loitering’ policy here.”
My face went scarlet. Getting kicked out of the joint was not the way to begin an interview. “No, I . . . I’m here for . . .”
Breaking into a grin, he said, “I’m just yanking your chain. I know who you are.”
Wide-eyed, I asked, “You do?” How could he possibly have known me? He was a year ahead of me, and we didn’t have any classes together. Plus, I was still dealing with homesickness, so I wasn’t overly outgoing—not what you’d call big man on campus, or whatever the female equivalent of that is.
“Sure. You’re Juliet.” He then broke into song, his voice throaty and pitch-perfect: “‘Juliet. Oh, Juliet. The night was magic when we first met.’”
My blush deepened as I tried desperately not to grin like an idiot at the fact that Dreamy Pete was serenading me. That was no easy feat for a lonely nineteen-year-old girl, but I managed to choke out, “I’m, um, here for an . . . interview.”
His face turned serious. “Yeah, about that. My pop—he’s the owner—usually does those, but he had to run and pick up my little sister from dance class. You’re stuck with me.”
I remember thinking how awesome it would be to have Dreamy Pete all to myself for a while. But then the reality hit me that I’d have to be able to form a complete sentence around him (if I wanted the job, that is). Before my brain had a chance to catch up, I blurted, “I’d like to be stuck with you,” and immediately cringed.
He smiled again. “That’s good enough for me. You’re hired.”
My mouth dropped open. “That’s it? You don’t want to know about my job history or work ethic? Or if I’m an axe murderer or anything?”
Chuckling, he answered, “You don’t look like an axe murderer to me. And if you’re terrible at the job, Pop will fire you. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“Great. Wanna hang out with me and have some coffee?”
I couldn’t believe my luck. What were the odds I’d meet my crush and get a job working with him and get invited to hang out with him, all in under five minutes? That night we talked for hours, staying long after the coffeehouse closed. It was the first time since I had left home that I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.