They may think their brazen flirting and advances are cute, even attractive. But not to me. Not when I know how it feels to have the shoe on the other foot, when you learn the person you’d built a family with is cheating.
I push away the memories and continue down the street toward my house. I don’t even turn around when one of them shouts, “Go Eagles!”
Chapter Three
BROOKLYN
I always thought I’d feel like a different woman once I agreed to marry someone, to spend my life with him, to cherish and honor him until the end of our days. But I don’t. I still feel like Brooklyn. My Friday morning routine is the same it’s always been, even before Wes entered the picture. I get up early, shower, then am on my way to the North End to meet Molly for a cup of coffee at the café.
The entire drive, I don’t even think twice about today being any different from every other Friday that’s come before it. But as I near the café and am moments away from telling my best friend I’m getting married, my stomach tenses, uncertainty washing over me. What will she say? Will she think it’s too soon, like I did at first?
As I lay awake last night, staring at my left hand where a ring would soon sit, I reflected on the handful of men I’d dated in the past. They were all like Wes—serious, professional, and anything but spontaneous. They were all charming, respectful, and devoted, the type of man I would have been proud to marry and have a family with. But something always happened. Drew always happened, cutting the relationship short before it had a chance to take off, unbeknownst to him. I can’t let him ruin this one, too.
I pull into the alley behind the café and park, then step onto the damp pavement, the smell of coffee and sugar invading my senses. Cars roar by, the familiar sounds of the city surrounding me as I make my way to the sidewalk. Despite it not yet being nine in the morning, the North End is already bustling with locals and tourists alike. Mom-and-pop restaurants line the streets of the renowned Italian section of town, the delectable aromas infiltrating the air enough to make anyone’s stomach growl. The people who live and work here are like one giant family…including Molly’s family, who have owned this café for over a century.
But as I stare at the familiar glass doors of the place that’s always been like a second home to me, I feel like I’m sneaking in after doing something I shouldn’t have. I’m probably over-analyzing the situation, as I’m prone to do, but I’m unusually anxious and on edge this morning.
“This is just like every other Friday,” I remind myself, filling my lungs with air, which has the pacifying effect I’m hoping for.
With my nerves temporarily at ease, I open the door and enter the trendy café that’s abuzz with activity. The walls are all dark brick, industrial-looking lights hanging from the high ceiling. Wooden tables of various sizes fill the space—some small bistro tables, others long, communal style. The focal point is the large glass display cases showcasing every delectable treat known to man, all family recipes handed down through the generations.
“Good morning, Brooklyn dear,” a petite woman with dark graying hair calls out from behind the coffee bar. She barely even looks up, cashing out a man dressed in a suit. It reminds me of Wes and how we met in his very café. Last night, he told me how I’d caught his attention almost immediately. Well, he certainly caught mine.
I’ve always prided myself on being such a permanent fixture here. I tend to know most of the people who come through that door. The ones I don’t are usually tourists. But Wes… He was neither a regular nor a tourist. Dressed in a breathtaking navy blue pinstriped suit that clung to his muscular, tall physique, he certainly got my pulse going. Then again, I had been reading a rough draft of one of Molly’s books, and being the romance author she is, it was exceptionally steamy. When I kept seeing him here, I thought perhaps he’d recently moved. I never would have imagined he stopped by just to work up the courage to ask me out. It’s sweet, the type of story you tell your kids years down the road when they ask how their parents met. And