1. Britta

Chapter one

Britta

G oodbyes suck.

I hate them almost as much as I hate bad coffee (looking at you, Starbucks). At their best, they're watered down and marginally satisfying. At their worst, they're full of sugar, yet somehow still bitter.

What I'm saying is that filling a complicated coffee order is much easier than saying goodbye. That's what people in Paradise, Idaho, don't understand. For the past month, my regulars have been tiptoeing around me, ordering their coffee black, then taking their mugs to the condiment bar where they pour in way too much cream and even more sugar. And I have to watch it all. I don't know who winces more with the first sip, them or me. We all know that I can make them the perfect cup of coffee if they would just ask.

The locals giving me space would be bad enough, but the vacationers do the same thing. I've looked forward to the first day of the summer season being so busy that I wouldn't have to think about anything else besides coffee, but their orders are basic, not the usual bougie brew out-of-towners want.

Maybe someone posted a notification about Mom somewhere or they're picking up on a vibe. I don't know. It's not like I hung black crepe in the doorway—or whatever they used to do back in the day when a family member passed—so I can't figure out why they're being so careful with me too. It's irritating.

So, when a disheveled guy in board shorts steps up to the counter, I expect nothing other than a basic coffee. Then he opens his mouth, and in a—sweet mercy— Australian accent says, "I'm guessing you use ristretto in your flat white. Being that you're American."

For the first time all morning, I actually look at the person across the counter from me. I don't see disheveled anymore. Nope. This guy is all shiny and gold, like the first day of the summer season usually is. Eyes the color of a dark Ethiopian blend flecked with amber; honey brown curls swirled with shocks of blond; bronze skin dipped in sunshine.

He literally glows.

And I feel a spark of something for the first time since Mom died. Not just because of how he looks, but because I've heard Aussies are snobs when it comes to coffee—deservedly so, according to everything I've read.

I smell a challenge, and I'm here for it.

"If you've got time…" I drop my gaze, taking in his beach attire, and leave unsaid my which, obviously, you do . "I'm happy to make it the way you like. Espresso instead of ristretto?"

He answers with a nod, then points to the sign on the wall above my head. "That's quite a claim to live up to."

I crane my neck to read the words I've known by heart since I was five years old, when my mom took over this shop from her grandma, Britta Neilsen. They were the first words I learned to read. Breakfast at Britta's: Coffee so good, it's only found in Paradise.

I shrug. "I've had no problem living up to it so far."

The corner of his mouth pulls up. "You're Britta then?"

I nod and bite back my own grin. It's too soon. Not because of him, but because of Mom. It's barely been a month since she lost her fight against early-onset Alzheimer's. Everyone—including her—knew she'd lose, but we still weren't ready to say goodbye.

"I'm Dex." The Australian juts out his chin. "I'm here visiting Cassie and Georgia. They were my neighbors in LA, before your brothers got hold of them. They're your sister-in-laws, yeah?"

"Yeah." I think I've heard them mention a guy named Dex, but I stop myself from correcting him.

Not just his grammar—it's sisters -in-law—but also his understanding of our relationships. Technically, Cassie is only engaged to my brother, Bear. But Georgia is very much married to my brother Zach, so I'll give him that.

"What's e-bell-skiveh?" Dex points to the menu posted on the back wall; the r at the end of ebelskiver gets lost in his smile.

This time I do correct him. "Ay-bluh-skee-ver." Some things have to be said right. "Danish pancakes. First order is on the house." For him, at least. Not for other short-timers. "So is the flat white, if it doesn't live up to the claim." I tip back my head toward my Britta's sign.

Dex's smile dimples. "Sounds like a fair deal."

"I think you mean a fair dinkum deal, mate." I cringe as soon as the words escape.

"Were you trying to speak Australian there?" Dex sends me a much-deserved smirk—my Australian is terrible. "Only pensioners say fair dinkum anymore."

"And a pensioner is—"

"—an older person, yeah." Dex's eyes dance with the smirk still plastered on his face.

Almost everything I know about Australia, I learned when I was ten from an old movie about an Australian going to New York. I only remember two things: he had a big knife, and he said fair dinkum a lot. Then, for about two weeks, I said fair dinkum a lot.

And while I'm enjoying ‘fair dinkuming' with Dex, there's a line forming behind him, and I've got to get to work on the best flat white of my life. I'm not about to give away my coffee.

"You want your order to stay or go?" I know which one I want, and I hope he hears my invitation.

"Reckon I'll stay for a bit."

Invitation heard, accepted, and, if I'm not mistaken, he's given an invitation of his own. I'm not sure to what yet, but I'd like to find out.

"Find a seat. I'll bring out your order when it's ready." I let my smile grow wider after he has turned away.

The next hour is crazy busy with people in and out, the bell above my door continually ringing in the official start of the summer season. The weekends before Memorial Day bring in a few visitors, but May thirty-first marks the beginning of the busiest three months of the year. And while I don't get any orders as challenging as Dex's, the day seems brighter with him sitting in a corner, trying to hide the fact his gaze keeps drifting back to me. But I don't miss that his eyes are on me as often as they're on his phone.

Maybe I should be creeped out by that, but his smile is too boyish to give off stalker vibes. Plus, he's in Paradise to see Georgia and Cassie, which gives him instant credibility. Georgia might be taken in by a charmer (she got taken by Zach, after all), but Cassie is ex-LAPD. She'd handcuff a player for hitting on me.

Just as things slow down, Dex stands. He ambles to the counter and lays down a ten-dollar bill.

"The e-bell-skiveh was excellent. The flat white coulda been a bit stronger but was almost as good as in Aus."

I assume when he says oz, he means Australia. I push his money back to him. "A deal's a deal. You can pay me when my flat white is better than what you've had in Aus."

Golden rays of laughter flicker in his eyes. "Cracker idea, Britta. I'll see you here tomorrow."

Dex ambles out the door in the same easy gait he used to approach the counter. Like he's got all the time in the world, and no cares weighing him down. No business to run. No family to help whenever they need an extra hand—which is always. No mom he's watched slowly slip away too soon.

Having things you care about is a good thing—I'm aware of that. But Dex's worry-free air is infectious. I want some of that.

Dex keeps his word and comes back the next day, and the next.

Whatever makes everything shiny when Dex is around, I'm into it. Over the next five days, he spends every morning at Britta's, his gentle teasing pushing me to make coffee as good as what he's had at home. And when he lets slip he's a professional surfer, I tease him about getting an actual job. If pro-surfing is anything like the pro-rodeoing some cowboys around here do, Dex makes a little money but mostly spends his time chasing both cash prizes and girls.

His laugh lightens the atmosphere like a blue sky after a hailstorm, so I don't mind him flirting with me. He can chase all he wants. He's not going to catch me. We both understand he's here for a week, maybe two, and then he'll go back to his life a long way away from here. Even further in lifestyle than miles. There are no professional surfer positions in Paradise, and I'm not going anywhere.

He tries to pay for his coffee each day, but I'm determined to get him to say my coffee is as good as—if not better—than an Aussie brew. I barely know Dex, but this is important, and I'm up for the challenge.

Except, he's only in Paradise for a week, and by the end of his stay, I still haven't beaten all of Australia at coffee. The morning he's headed to the airport to fly back to LA, I don't expect to see him. But when he saunters in during a lull between customers, I'm thrilled to have one more chance to prove my mettle as a barista, and to look into his copper-toned eyes one last time.

By some miracle, Dex is the only customer in the café, and my employees are in back doing dishes and prepping ebelskiver batter. For the first time, we're alone.

I don't bother asking him what he'd like before I make it. He leans against the condiment counter instead of taking a seat, so I pour his flat white in a to-go cup before carrying it to him. Dex takes the cup from me, his fingers brushing mine.

"You should try it before you go." I want to see his reaction when he tastes the last cup of coffee I'll ever make for him.

I know what I've accomplished with this flat white. I've spent the little free-time I've had researching how the best baristas make them in Australia and then done my best to copy the method: finely ground beans and perfect water to bean ratio. If this cup doesn't convince him that at least one American can brew coffee as good as any Australian, he's lying to himself. Which is fine, but he won't get away with lying to me.

Dex takes a slow sip, and his eyebrows go up. His lip follows, curving with satisfaction behind his to-go cup.

"You can say it. You won't lose your Australian citizenship." I step closer, just in case he tries to escape before admitting the truth. Also, he smells really great. Like coconut sunscreen and a fresh, salty, summer breeze.

"I might." He lowers his cup and my stomach dips at the sight of his dimples. "But I'll take my chances."

He sets the coffee on the counter, then hooks two fingers around the apron strings I've wrapped around my back and tied in front, just below my belly button. Despite the layer of apron and shirt, his fingertips scrape the top of my jeans as he pulls me closer.

I'm surprised by this, but I don't resist when Dex draws his hand across my stomach to my lower back then slides his other hand to my jaw. I need no more prompting than this to tip my chin to him. I expected enthusiasm for my flat white, but until right now, I never expected he'd show his enthusiasm by pressing his lips to mine, kissing me with an eagerness that turns my legs to jelly.

Apparently, Dex really likes my coffee.

His lips are Chapstick smooth, and he tastes rich and spicy with the exact right amount of sweet. Like a good brew should.

"Best flat white I've had…in the States," is the last thing he says to me before leaving.

And it's the perfect goodbye.