Seeking Single Male. Stephanie Bond

back with a little frown. “Cheery Kwanza?”

      Lana shrugged.

      Alex laughed. “Keep me posted on the roommate search.”

      Lana relinquished a smile as she watched the woman she’d known since junior high leave the shop with a sexy bounce to her step. Alex, it seemed, had nabbed the last gorgeous, independent, thinking man walking the face of the earth, or at least walking in the vicinity of the Bluegrass. Lana was happy for her friend, and sad for the rest of the female population, primarily herself. In times like these, it would have been nice to have a big, dependable shoulder to lean on. But since she’d bought the shop, she no longer had time to entertain her fantasies about a stranger arriving to sweep her off her feet. Now she’d settle for someone willing to sweep the floor.

      With great effort, she pushed the upcoming council meeting from her mind while she tidied up the tables and plugged in the lights of the four Christmas trees on the stage. The liquid bubble lights on the smallest tree cheered her immensely. She loved this time of year—people were in a generous spirit during the holidays, if at no other time. It served a little glimpse into how things were supposed to be.

      She worked around a college-age couple reading from a shared book and holding hands. A pang of envy cut through her chest. Young love was so sweet, so powerful. But she looked at the young woman and willed her to remain her own person, to follow her own interests, to make her own way. Not to marry out of sheer infatuation, then someday wake up dissatisfied with the life she’d built around another person’s needs and wants.

      Like her mother. The divorce had taken all of thirty days—and Lana hadn’t even known until she’d dropped by her parents’ apartment during a college class break and found her old room stacked with moving boxes. Janet now lived in Florida, selling tour packages and dating men that were wrong for her. Lana’s father had bought a secondhand RV and hit the road with a chick named Mia. She hadn’t seen him in years. The sordid clichés had broken Lana’s heart. She’d thrown herself into her studies, determined to make something of herself that had nothing to do with a man.

      About that time she had discovered The Best Cuppa Joe as a hangout. Old Mr. Haffner had given her grief about not liking coffee—but kept tea bags beneath the counter just for her. She loved the artsy feel of the place, the way musicians and poets and would-be philosophers gathered to try to solve the world’s problems. Who would’ve thought that she would someday own the place?

      She knocked over a mug and chastised herself for wasting precious time before the lunch rush. Picking up her pace, she carried table scraps to the back door and fed the two stray cats that magically appeared each morning. The day-old pastries went into a box to be delivered to a soup kitchen a few blocks away. Sorting the trash between serving customers took a while, with each recyclable going into its proper bin. When the morning chores were finished, Lana straightened the magazine she and Alex had been reading and decided to check the voice mailbox for the ad she’d placed. Juggling the receiver, she punched buttons while reaching for a pad of paper.

      Eight calls—five men and three women. For one reason or another, none of them sounded exactly right. Then, remembering what Alex had said about her being too choosy, Lana replayed the messages and jotted down names, then just numbers when the pen threatened to run out of ink. Okay, so one of the women had a voice so annoying Lana struck her from the list, but she did return the rest of the calls, inviting the applicants to stop by the coffee shop for a chat as soon as possible—the first to make the grade would sign the lease.

      She hung up the phone and turned to the mirror that ran along one wall to adjust her Santa hat. Her unruly pale hair stuck out from under it, hair that she’d finally whacked off in deference to the widow’s peak and wavy texture. Her father had once said she was a hairbreadth from being albino, but instead of pinkish eyes, hers were violet. People thought she wore contact lenses, and when she told them different, they dubbed her eyes “spooky.”

      Funny thing, but when a person looked different, their behavior sometimes rose to the occasion. Even as a child, she’d stepped to the beat of a different drummer. Friends were hard to come by, doubly so since she was teased for living in a low-income apartment tenement. Teachers dismissed her as an oddity. A fluke pop quiz by a school administrator had led to IQ testing in the seventh grade. It was amazing how a “159” changed her in the eyes of her instructors. She was moved into private school on a scholarship, where she’d met Alexandria Tremont, heiress to a local department store chain. Their backgrounds couldn’t have been more different, and their friendship couldn’t have been more strong.

      The warbling of the blue jay from the Birds of North America clock dragged her from her nostalgic musings. Ten o’clock—the lunch rush would start in an hour, and without Annette, it would be nuts. Thank goodness Wesley, a bespectacled college student, arrived a few minutes early.

      But by eleven, customers were standing at the counter three-and four-deep. Lana deftly doled out coffee and bagels and biscotti until she was sure her arms would fall off. The rezoning meeting nagged at the back of her mind, although she tried to concentrate on each customer.

      She glanced toward the door to gauge how long the rush would last, and did a double take when a seriously good-looking man walked in—tall, dark hair, wide features, great tie. On the heels of her initial assessment, disappointment set in. Such an interesting face for a working stiff. And holy houndstooth, hadn’t she met enough shallow yuppie guys on her old job?

      Yet she couldn’t pull away her gaze, and to her surprise, the man stared back with such intensity that she wondered if she knew him from somewhere. He wasn’t a regular customer, she was sure. In fact, he seemed more interested in her than in the menu. A second later, Lana laughed at herself—the man was probably there about the ad. When he claimed an empty booth without ordering, she was almost certain. It made perfect sense—all the best-looking specimens were gay. Although from the permanent wrinkle in his brow, this man appeared to be gay and depressed at the same time.

      Oh well, if the man could cook and didn’t steal, she’d be content. And just because he was gay didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy the scenery. The crowd thinned in thirty minutes, and the man still loitered in the booth, occasionally glancing her way. Jeez, he might smile once in a while. When Wesley signaled he could handle the orders, Lana wiped her hands on her red apron and approached the man.

      Upon closer inspection, the man was even better looking than she’d thought. His dark hair was closely shorn, his black eyebrows thick and expressive. His brown eyes were framed with heavy lashes and his skin glowed with health. Unusually affected, Lana overcompensated with a broad grin. “Hi! Would you happen to be here about the ad in Attitudes?”

      He studied her for so long that she started to feel foolish. Then the man gave her a conservative smile and nodded his well-shaped head. “Yes. As a matter of fact, I am.”

      3

      GREG STARED at the unusual-looking woman, tamping down his surprise. He had assumed that most women who placed singles ads were…desperate, shy or even homely. This woman appeared to be none of those things—the fuzzy Santa hat notwithstanding. In fact, her beauty slammed into him like a sucker punch. The white-blond hair that framed her perky face, and those violet-colored eyes—well, surely she was wearing contact lenses, but the color suited her enormously. His initial thought was that a woman this beautiful wouldn’t be sincerely interested in Will, no matter how sweet his temperament.

      A purely selfish reaction, he conceded a split second later. Because while he’d never denied his brother anything, he had to admit he wouldn’t mind spending time with this woman himself.

      “You must be Coffee Girl,” he said stupidly, standing.

      Her laugh was musical. “Well, my friends call me Lana. Lana Martina.”

      He luxuriated in her voice—smooth and full-bodied, like heavily creamed coffee. His vision tilted slightly, and he felt off balance. Suddenly remembering his manners, he extended his hand. “Greg Healey.” Her handshake was firm and surprisingly strong.

      “Nice to meet you, Greg. Would you