Betsy Amant - A Valentine's Wish

“It sounds harsher than they mean it. They just want to protect you.”

Andy’s throat constricted. “And their children.”

Mike’s shoulders drooped. “That, too.”

“They don’t trust me?” His stomach felt like he’d swallowed the mirrored paperweight on his desk.

“You’ve proven yourself to their kids over and over. They’re just paranoid right now. That scandal really stirred everyone up.”

Apparently. Andy pulled one arm across his chest in a stretch and tried to ignore the way the room closed in like a claustrophobic’s worst nightmare. Marriage. Like it was that easy to find the perfect woman with whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life.

His eyes drifted to the framed photo on his desk, taken last summer during youth camp in Baton Rouge. Lori stood front and center next to his gang of miscreants, all wearing big smiles and matching yellow tees. His eyes lingered on Lori’s image, then quickly darted back to Mike.

“With all due respect, sir, doesn’t the congregation realize that if it were so easy, I’d be married by now? It’s not like I particularly enjoy going home every night to hot dogs and reality TV reruns.”

“I can imagine. However…” Mike shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

Andy’s stomach rolled again. Something was up. He braced his elbows against the edge of the desk. “What are you really saying, Pastor?”

Mike twisted his gold wedding band around on his finger. “That the church board would like for you to get serious about finding a wife.” He cleared his throat, then met Andy’s gaze. “The sooner the better.”

“What have I gotten myself into?” The whispered words drifted toward the pink-painted ceiling, riding the wake of a delicious chocolate aroma. Lori planted her hands on the glass display counter and eyed the cozy boutique. Black iron tables for two snuggled in various corners of the shop, inviting patrons to linger over their coffee and chocolate. Fresh roses offered a splash of pink in the center of each table, and the black-and-white tiled floor appeared freshly scrubbed. Bella had left the Chocolate Gator in pristine condition—Lori hoped she’d be able to return it in the same shape after nearly two months.

Nice as the New Orleans native was, Lori couldn’t help but wonder if Andy’s aunt Bella was slightly off her rocker. In her mid-fifties, she practically oozed grace and charm with a Southern flair—just like her boutique. But trusting a near stranger with her business, on the sole recommendation of her only nephew, seemed a bit crazy. Sure, there was a chef and a college student working part-time at the register a few days a week, and yes, Lori had often chatted with Bella while buying those signature chocolate crocodiles, but was that enough to merit such responsibility?

Lori strode to the front door and flipped the white cardboard sign to read Open. She shouldn’t complain. Less than a week ago she didn’t have a job, and now she was running one of the trendiest boutiques in New Orleans—not to mention total access to those yummy little milk chocolate and caramel crocodiles. She sneaked a glance at the chocolates arranged on doilies in the display case. Even with her discount, she just might end up eating her paycheck. Literally.

The swinging kitchen door splayed open, nearly banging into the wall behind the register. Lori jumped as a tall, olive-skinned man in a white apron strode across the floor toward her. This had to be the chef Bella had mentioned. It would be in Lori’s best interest to impress him, so that any reports going back to Bella would be positive. She offered a nervous smile. “Hi, I’m—”

“Lori, yes. The new manager Bella sent.” He grinned and dipped into a low bow, the white strings of his apron dangling close to the ground. The scent of mint chocolate drifted to Lori’s nose. “I am Edmondo Renardo Rossi, but you may call me Monny.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Monny.” She offered her hand.

“The pleasure is all mine.” He caught her palm and squeezed. “We shall make—what do they say?—beautiful chocolate together.” He winked.

A half snort, half laugh escaped Lori’s mouth, and she tried to cover it with a cough. When Bella told Lori about the chef, she must have forgotten to mention he was the Italian drama king. “Wow, your accent is strong.”

Monny released her hand and straightened his shoulders with pride. “It should be. I am from Napoli, and am here in America to learn Cajun cuisine and desserts. My family owns a business and wanted me to bring new cultures to our restaurant.”

“I see. So you’re learning the ropes on desserts right now, apparently.” Lori motioned toward the streaks of dried fudge on his apron.

“Ropes?” Two brown eyebrows meshed together as one.

Lori pointed toward the kitchen. “Learning how to bake.” She pantomimed stirring in a bowl, then felt ridiculous. He didn’t need sign language; he obviously spoke English. Her cheeks warmed.

“Ah, si.” Monny kissed his fingertips in a broad gesture. “Before Bella hired me, I worked at the Gumbo Shop. You Southern Americans, you like the spices.”

The bell on the door tinkled. Lori jerked. She’d gotten so distracted trying to decipher Monny’s accent, she’d forgotten she was there to work. She hadn’t even opened the register yet. Or fanned the pink paper napkins on the counter as Bella said she did every morning. Or more importantly, sampled a crocodile before they sold out.

“I’ll have my usual.” An elderly, slightly hunched gentleman in a pinstripe suit hobbled toward the counter, a heavy cane accentuating his steps. A cool winter breeze floated in behind him, stirring Lori’s hair. The door shut with a clank.

“Ah, customers. Time to work.” Monny lightly patted Lori’s cheek before disappearing into the kitchen. “Ciao.”

“Wait, what’s his usual?” But Monny was gone in a puff of flour and charm. Lori hurried into position behind the register, shaking her head to wrench back to reality.

“Good morning.” She put on her best smile. “I’m taking over for Bella—”

“Who are you?” the old man barked, lips nearly hidden behind a thick gray mustache. “Where’s Bella?”

“She had a family emergency. I’m Lor—”

“I said what’s your name, dearie? You deaf?”

Lori winced. “No, sir, I said my name is—”

“Ah, forget it. Young people have no manners nowadays.” He thumped one gnarled hand on the counter. “Give me my usual.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know—”

“Don’t tell me you’re out of black coffee and dark chocolate raspberries.”

Lori exhaled for the first time in what felt like minutes. “Of course not. Right away, sir.” She reached for the coffeepot—the empty coffeepot. “Uh, just a minute.” She opened the white cabinet doors under the coffee station. Where were all the beans? And how was she supposed to work that glittering monstrosity of a coffee machine?

Panic cramped her stomach in time to the impatient tapping of Grouchy Man’s cane. She was going to fail on her first day of work. Make that her first ten minutes of work. She’d never get to eat chocolate again. Why couldn’t the other girl, the college student, what’s-her-name-with-the-eyebrow-ring, have been working today?

Lori shoved her hair out of her eyes with an impatient flick, then paused. The list. Bella had said she would leave a list of instructions in the register since she hadn’t had an opportunity to train Lori in person. Anything else she needed she could ask the chef or Eyebrow-Ring Girl or could call Bella’s cell.

Lori unlocked the register and grabbed the list with a triumphant hand. Redemption, in the form of neat penmanship and sheets of lined notebook paper. Thank You, Lord. She skim-read until she found the section labeled Coffee.