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Liz
“They denied your liquor license? I don’t understand. I thought you said it was just a formality?”
I shook my head, even though my best friend Renee couldn’t see the movement through the phone.
“I thought it would be. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I got the letter. The letter said that they’ve determined that there’s too high of a concentration of liquor-serving establishments here in Pine Bluff.”
“I didn’t realize there were that many places to booze it up in your tiny little town.”
“There’s not, that’s the weird thing. We have one bar, one tiny little liquor store, and one restaurant that’s only allowed to serve beer and wine.”
Our dining options were also pretty limited in my small town. It was one of the reasons everyone in town was excited about my idea to open a café and art space. Besides the one restaurant we had a deli that doubled as the post office and a hardware store with a bakery counter in the back – we liked to have multipurpose businesses here in Pine Bluff – that was it. We didn’t even have a coffee shop or a pizza place. No one liked having to drive fifteen to twenty minutes to the next town over when they wanted a decent cup of coffee.
For years I’d been itching to find a way to combine my culinary training with my love of music and art. I’d spent most of my adult life raising my kids, helping my ex-husband with his business, and picking up the occasional catering jobs. Now my kids were out on their own, my husband was remarried to a girl half his age, and it was finally “Liz Time”. Or it would be if I could convince the faceless bureaucrat at the county to approve my damn liquor license.
He wouldn’t be faceless for long though.
“I submitted an official appeal and requested a site visit,” I told Renee. “In fact, he’s supposed to come today. I posted in the group telling everyone to be on their good behavior.”
Pine Bluff had a very active resident-only Facebook page where we shared announcements, news, and local gossip. I’d warned them all not to be too crazy when the liquor license guy got here. Sometimes our little town was a bit over the top and I wanted to make a good impression on the county inspector who apparently thought he’d find a town full of drunks.
“Let me know how it goes,” Renee said.
“I will. Now what’s new with you?”
“I picked up a new personal chef gig.”
Renee and I had met years ago when we were both in our twenties and living in New York City. As the only two women in our culinary training class, we’d bonded immediately. Our friendship had held strong over the years, even after we both got married, had kids, and I moved to Colorado. Hardly a week went by when we didn’t check in with each other.
“What’s the gig?” I asked.
“I’m going to do cooking lessons for a guy who had a massive heart attack. He needs to learn how to cook something besides microwave burritos and burgers,” she explained. “His kids actually hired me. They’re worried about him so I’m his Christmas gift. He gets ten cooking lessons at his house, and I’ll try to convince him that it’s possible to adopt a heart-healthy diet. He’s strictly a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy.”
“Is he on-board with lessons?”
“Not really. We’d been warned by his kids that he was stubborn, and they weren’t kidding. This one’s going to be a challenge, I can tell already.”
“Well, if anyone can whip him into shape it’s you,” I laughed.
Renee was the strongest woman I knew. She’d probably been a general in her last life.
I heard the bell ring on the entry door and looked down over the shop from my position up on the mezzanine that separated the first floor retail space from the hallway leading to my upstairs apartment.
“I’ll be right down,” I called to the man who’d entered.
He looked up and I swear I forgot how to breathe for a minute. He was tall and lean with broad shoulders that strained against his navy blue puffy jacket. His dark hair was short, thick, and neatly styled, framing his strong face. I took in the square jaw that was slightly shadowed with scruff, and the chin dimple that was so deep I could see it from up here. Brown eyes stood out against the slash of his thick eyebrows. He was easily the handsomest guy I’d ever seen in real life.
“Whoa!” I whispered, awestruck.
“What?” Renee asked. “What are you whoa-ing about over there?”
My eyes stayed glued to the stranger’s. I’m pretty sure I forgot how to blink.
“I’ve gotta go, Renee. Someone’s here. I’ll call you later.”
Finally breaking eye contact, I ended the call and made my way to the stairs, realizing belatedly that the hot guy must be the person from the county coming to evaluate my liquor license appeal. He stood in the center of the space, looking around with a disapproving look on his handsome face.
I tried to see the space with fresh eyes. After my divorce, I’d sold my house and bought this retail property on Snowflake Lane, our main street. At one time it had been an industrial site, then someone had separated half of the second level to create an upstairs living quarters. I’d moved into the apartment upstairs and had spent the last six months remodeling the main floor to make it perfect.
