Lucas: 

I let out a soft sigh as I ascended the smooth, gray-hued stone steps leading up to the pristine French double sliding doors. Gazing up at the café my mom owned, Scarlett's Cafe and Eatery, I couldn't help but admire its charm. The shop was a stunning blend of modern elegance and cozy warmth.

The café’s color palette, dominated by clean whites and rich blacks, was playfully accented by splashes of scarlet red, reflecting the establishment's namesake. It was a place where comfort and style seamlessly intertwined, making it the perfect spot for everyone to gather and savor special moments. The polished marble floors gleamed under the soft lighting, while the crisp, white walls provided a fresh and inviting backdrop.

As I approached the entrance, my senses were immediately captivated by the irresistible aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the sweet scent of baked goods. The bar was artfully arranged, circled by display cases filled with an array of pastries, artisan breads, donuts, and cookies. Each treat was a visual delight, making my taste buds tingle in anticipation.

Inside, on one side of the café, plush booths invited guests to settle in and enjoy their favorite drinks and treats, while the opposite side featured elegant tables designed for both intimate gatherings and casual meet-ups.

That's when I noticed her.

I observed a girl bustling about the restaurant, her movements graceful yet urgent as she bused tables, swiftly collecting dirty glasses and silverware, her back turned to me. There was something familiar about her, something that drew my gaze.

She was captivating, with long, wavy red hair that danced behind her as she worked. When she finally turned around, I was struck by her eyes—large, almond-shaped.

And an enchanting shade of violet.

Violet.

Not like purple-colored contacts, an actual violet, the kind that almost looked unreal in the warm café lighting.

I cleared my throat, trying to regain my composure as I took in her appearance.

She wore a pink shirt emblazoned with Scarlett's logo, paired with a vibrant red waist apron that contrasted against her blue jeans. On her feet were classic black Converse sneakers, with white and red knee-high socks peeking out from beneath them. Though her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, several rebellious strands clung to her forehead, evidence of her diligent effort amid the bustling atmosphere.

The name tag pinned to her shirt read Christina.

She smiled at me gently, flashing her pearly white teeth. It felt oddly personal, almost as if we shared an unspoken connection. I felt like I recognized her.

"I’ll be with you in just a moment," she said, her voice a melodic blend of sweetness and sincerity. I couldn't shake the sense that there was something about her. Perhaps it was the aura of energy that surrounded her.

"Christina," I uttered softly, recalling the name that whispered through my memory. It was undeniably common, yet she felt anything but ordinary. I watched as she bussed a nearby table, her expression briefly reflecting a hint of distaste at the sight of the dirty plates.

They were pretty nasty.

She strode confidently through the ornate double doors that led into the bustling kitchen, only to emerge moments later, making her way toward me with a purposeful smile.

"Just one?" She asked as she produced a small notepad from the pocket of her vibrant apron.

"No, I have a plus one, but she's not here yet."

"Alrighty, follow me," she replied, guiding me to my usual booth nestled in the corner. "The staff told me this is your spot." She glanced up at me, and I was momentarily captivated by her.

Holy shit.

"The staff talks about me?" I wondered, arching an eyebrow in genuine surprise.

"Well, yes. You're Lucas, right? The son of the owner of Scarlett's. And your dad's quite the businessman. My father works for him. And, I go to school with you. I have for a week now," she explained, a hint of pride in her voice.

So that's where I felt like I recognized her from.

"How did I not notice you before?" I flashed her my heart-stopping grin, watching her eyes flutter, and her grip on the notepad tighten as she fought against my charm. Or annoyance, I couldn't really tell.

"I tend to keep to myself," she replied, her voice wavering slightly as she looked downward. "Anyway, what can I get you to drink?"

"I'd prefer your number instead," I slid into the booth, allowing the rustic, worn wooden table to anchor my thoughts as I traced the carved letters LAH that marked the surface area—a habit I always engaged in.

"You're most definitely out of my league," she murmured, her gaze dropping to my fingers gliding over the table. "Did you carve that?"

"I sure did, why?" I asked, my curiosity piqued as I lifted my brow once more.

"Mrs. Harrington refuses to replace this table, and now I understand why. I assume they're your initials?"

"Your number?" I skillfully redirected the conversation.

"What drink do you want?" She let out a soft sigh, clearly irritated. It was definitely annoyance.

I thought it was a pretty smooth line.

"Sprite, light ice, and a wedge of lemon on the side."

"Fancy," she said sarcastically, tucking her notepad into the apron's pocket before handing me a menu. "Though I imagine you probably don't need it."

"What a clever girl," I complimented, watching her turn her back to the kitchen, all the while admiring the way her ponytail and her hips gently swayed with each step. Leaning back against the booth, I found myself smiling at the sight—challenges ignited a fire in me, and this girl undeniably presented a delightful puzzle.

I flipped through the menu, even though I already had my mind set on what I was going to order. A soft sigh escaped my lips as my eyes flitted over the café, eventually landing on the entrance just as the doors swung open. A warm smile crept onto my face at the sight of an old married couple stepping inside. Living in a small town meant that we were all intertwined in each other's lives, and the Johnsons were no exception. They had been married for over sixty blissful years.

Mark Johnson, his hair a striking white like freshly fallen snow, wore his age like a badge of honor; the deep lines etched into his face told stories of laughter and love. He had aged gracefully, reminiscent of fine wine. Despite the passage of years, I imagined he must still possess the same charm he had in his twenties. Dressed in a crisp black button-up shirt that accentuated his dignified demeanor and a well-fitted pair of jeans, Mark exuded an effortless sophistication.

Beside him, Patricia—affectionately known as Patty—was a vision in her elegant black dress, which fell just below her knees. Even in the peak of summer, it was common knowledge that she had to keep warm to manage her anemia, so she always draped a jacket over her shoulders. Her long, white hair was meticulously styled in an intricately braided bun, adding to her timeless beauty.

I watched as Mr. Johnson, with a gentle and caring gesture, removed Patty's jacket and gracefully pulled out her chair, his movements a well-rehearsed dance of affection that spoke volumes of their enduring love. The café buzzed with the hum of conversation and the clinking of coffee cups, and just then, Christina reappeared, balancing my drink in one hand while extending a straw in the other, momentarily pulling my attention back to my own table.

"Thank you," I tried wooing her with my smile again, but I harbored doubts about its effectiveness.

"Are you ready to order?" She asked, her tone friendly yet professional.

"What would you suggest?" I smiled, leaning a bit closer, hoping to draw her into the moment.

"Um... you've lived here all your life, and your mom has owned this shop for fifteen years. Almost fifteen years." She corrected herself. "You should know the menu better than I do."

"If you were me, what would you pick to eat?" I tried.

She sighed, taking the menu off the table. "A chocolate-filled croissant or a strawberry danish. I make those myself, so I can guarantee they taste good."

"You must be a great baker then," I remarked, surprise lacing my voice. "My mom always talks about how difficult it is to find bakers who can match her skills well enough for her to actually take a break. How long have you been working here?"

"Just a week," she replied, her eyes sparkling a little as she spoke with pride.

"And she lets you bake without hovering? No extensive training and criticism?"

"Lucas, stop interrogating my best worker." I recognized the voice almost immediately. It was the voice I had heard growing up: the one that had loved and cherished me, called me out, praised me, and punished me when I did wrong. My mother's.

"Mom," I stood up and gave her a tight hug. Instantly, the familiar floral scent enveloped me, and I was transported to my childhood, where I always felt safe in her arms. Even now, at nearly half a foot taller, I felt like a child again, dwarfed by her presence. My mother, dressed in black jeans and the Scarlett's shirt she had designed, stood like a beacon of comfort. Although I was about half a foot taller than her by now, I still felt so small in her arms. She was still my idol.

Her soft, silky hair was kept in a loose bun upon her head, a few black strands sticking to her beautiful face. She had gorgeous ivory skin and the same striking almond-shaped blue eyes that mirrored my own.

"I had no idea that you two attended the same school," she continued, a hint of surprise dancing in her tone.

"I didn't either," I turned to look at Christina, and she cast her eyes down. She blushed beautifully. The color started at her ears and slowly worked its way to her cheeks before blooming everywhere else.

"Well, Lucas, she's new here. Have you thought about inviting her out? She could use some friends," my mom suggested.

"Uhh... I asked for her number," I stammered awkwardly, sheepishly scratching the back of my neck.

My mother sighed softly, her expression shifting to one of concern.

"She needs friends, not a fling," she gently thumped my shoulder, a playful but serious gesture."Stay away from her in that department. She's really sweet," she added, her voice dropping to a near whisper.

At that moment, I realized the weight of her concern. I may not have been the best guy around, but for my own mother to advise caution? That struck a blow to my ego. Was I truly that untrustworthy? Once more, I stole a glance at Christina, who seemed to possess something special if my mother was so eager to protect her.

"Can I get a to-go cup?" I muttered quietly, my appetite fading like a distant memory, the weight of the situation settling heavily in my chest.

"Um... I.. sure." She looked confused, turning to walk away. She froze, as if debating something. She turned back to look at me. With those gorgeous eyes. "Are you... okay?"

"Yeah," my brows raised in slight surprise. Was she... checking up on me? She didn't even know me.

"Okay." She pursed her lips. "What about... your plus one? What if she shows up?"

I smirked. I never had a plus one. I had said that to see if she would show any signs of jealousy. "I never had one."

"I... what?" She turned on her heels and walked away, that gorgeous blush back. I pursed my lips as she sent another waitress to bring me my to-go cup.

For the first time in a long time, a girl didn't fall for my charm. And for some reason... that made me want to know her even more.