Page 3 of Go Back to December

I swallow the fire rising in my throat. “We open at seven, Mr. Johnson.”

A muscle threads in his jaw. Either he’s irked by my detached tone, or oddly incensed by the fact I’ve referred to him by his surname. Which also happens to be my surname, but he doesn’t know that. He’s never asked.

“I’m aware of what time you open, Melody. That’s why we scheduled the film crew for 6:15.”

“Film?” our new waiter echoes. His face pales several shades.

I fold an arm over the stain on my sweater and yank on the remnants of my sleeve, praying no hair creeps out beneath it. “Lacy said the crew was coming on the twenty-first.”

“Yes. Today.”

“It’s the twenty-first of December. She meant January.”

“No, she meant today.”

The new guy’s pallor has nothing on the color draining from my face.

When a local production company invited us to take part in a documentary series on urban development, I turned them down. I didn’t want my staff exploited or their stories co-opted. But Lacy, our Blackhart & Steele sponsor, convinced me to reconsider, arguing that the free publicity would drive business and that we had to plan for the café’s future, if I get the Lightman.

I never would have agreed to the film if I had known Baz was involved.

He seizes several café chairs and tosses them to the side, like they’re props from a professional wrestling ring he needs to remove before he starts bashing skulls.

“You.” Baz glowers at our new waiter. “Help me move these tables.”

Our new guy is unprepared to be barked at by a cashmere devil this early on his first day. He stumbles back into the service station and knocks over an entire tray of salt.

Amal throws up her hands and whispers rapidly under her breath. She’s probably praying for Baz’s soul, soon to depart this earth, courtesy of my hands.

As I stalk across the dining room, I ready myself to rumble. My skin has been prickling with anticipation since I saw that camel flash at the station.

Baz stares at a spot above my head, his expression glacial. If I’m going to make any kind of dent in that ice, I’ll have to get right up in his face.

Unfortunately, it’s a distractingly gorgeous face. Full mouth, regal nose. High cheekbones that are more attractive with the slight flush rising over them.

And now that I’m within inches of that camel coat, my fingers itch to grab hold of it and explore where Baz’s hard edges meet the soft curves of sumptuous fabric.

I force my gaze up to his. Another mistake.

Heterochromia iridium. I’ve been a sucker for it ever since I was six and found my dad’s David Bowie albums. I believed Bowie’s mismatched eyes were proof of his sorcery.

Baz’s heterochromia iridium is subtle; one eye is green, the other is hazel brown. The fact that I’m appreciating the difference means I’m standing way too close to him.

“That’s enough.” I muster my frostiest voice. “You don’t belong here.”

He starts physically. Like he’s been stung, or burned, or possibly both. In all of our prickly interactions, I’ve never wielded this kind of impact.

I’m still processing it when a pack of people bearing outrageously priced audio-visual equipment explodes through the door.

“Christ on toast, MJ!”

Lacy Shore elbows through the tangle of limbs and cameras. Barely over five feet tall, she is a tiny terror. Law school valedictorian, the youngest female junior partner in Blackhart & Steele’s history, Lacy’s the person you phone to disappear a body quickly, quietly, and with vicious efficiency.

“I totally fucked up the film date. I’m sorry.” She gets an eyeful of my face and torn sweater and rattles her head. “Did I miss the rave?”

Lacy means well. It was her idea to establish the café to help salvage Blackhart & Steele’s reputation after a series of scandals involving its senior partners cost them half their clients. She saw a post in our alumni group about a pop-up restaurant I was running with a now-defunct aid organization and offered me the chance to replicate it for her firm. Without the security of this steady job, I’d be deep in student loan debt, with none of the social enterprise management experience required for the Lightman application. I owe Lacy.

Which is why I smile and say, “We’ll make it work.”