Glancing quickly at the clock on the far wall of her small coffee shop,
Nadja fought back annoyance at customers who arrived when she was ready
to close and go home. But in America, she reminded herself, the customer
is always right.

She managed a small smile for the tall dark haired man wearing a classic
blue sport coat with a red tie knotted loosely about his neck. It was
the end of the work day. He was probably grabbing a coffee for the drive
home.

"How may I help you?"

He must've noticed her peeking at the clock. "Am I too late?
I'm sorry, I'm behind schedule. It's been a grueling
day."

"It's okay," she murmured, not wanting to prolong her day by
getting into a protracted conversation with a stranger. "What would
you like?"

He studied the menu of drinks printed neatly on a chalkboard over her
shoulder. She didn't have to look at it. She'd printed the block
letters herself and knew the menu and the ingredients of each specialty
coffee by heart.

She tried to wait patiently for the man to make up his mind. She took
pride in being decisive. The man in front of her - the man with the
square jaw and deep set brown eyes - looked like a take-charge sort of
guy, but he couldn't seem to decide what he wanted. She cleared her
throat.

The stranger flinched and glanced at her. "I'm sorry again. And
you're probably in a rush. It's just that you have so many
choices. I'll have a medium vanilla latte."

"Caffeinated or decaf?"

"Caf, please. I don't know how far I'll drive yet
tonight."

She nodded and turned to prepare his drink. He followed her to the end
of the counter to watch. Steam gushed out of the machine. She narrowed
her eyes. If she wasn't careful, steam would be pouring out of her
ears. Many customers watched her work, but this customer was more
deliberate than most.

It was a comfort knowing that since it was Tuesday, her aunt would keep
the shop next door open another two hours. The door between their shops
stood open, so it wasn't quite like she was alone with this intense
guy.

She stirred the latte and set it on the counter. He paid her and she
made change. She fully expected the gentleman to take his latte and
leave, since he had miles to go.

She scowled when he turned his back on her and strolled to a corner
table. He looked back at her and grinned crookedly. "I hope it's
okay if I drink this here. It's too big to sit in my little car.
Spilling hot coffee can be dangerous."

She nodded. "I've got to clean up anyway. No hurry." She
grabbed a rag and began scrubbing down the counters. With any luck, the
stranger was a fast drinker, or maybe he'd spill it.

She peeked at him out of the corner of her eye. He didn't seem to be
hurrying at all. He seemed more interested in studying her shop and her.
Unless he was an avid reader, there wasn't a lot that should catch
his eye. Relief swept over her when the man stood. Just as quickly her
stomach knotted. He wasn't leaving. He walked over to one of several
bookcases lining the walls.

What had gotten into her? She was a twenty-nine year old woman capable
of handling nearly any man. If nothing else, she knew her five-foot-ten
size intimidated most men - though the fellow in the sport coat had
given no indication of noticing. And her aunt was only a few steps away.
It wasn't as if the guy intended to accost her. If he'd planned
to rob her, would he have bought a drink first?

Still, he made her uncomfortable. She didn't like being
uncomfortable.

He stared across the empty room at her. She couldn't escape his
scrutiny. "This is a beautiful setting for taking one's time
with a mug of coffee. I hope I'm not keeping you."

"No," she lied easily.

"You have a fine book collection." He drew one out from the
shelves and leafed through it absently. "Do you sell books as well
as coffee? Or do people borrow them?"

"I lend them out. It seems a shame to keep books stored away when
others might find them useful."

He smiled broadly. "What's the penalty for people who fail to
return them?"

She folded her arms across her abs. "I don't know. I use the
honor system. So far each book has come back."

He carried her book and his half-full mug over and set them on the
counter before her. "So all of these books...is that why this place
is called Nadja's Literary Cappuccino?"

She grinned softly. She couldn't help it. The shop was her pride and
joy. It was her child. And the man clearly approved of her
establishment, of her work. "That, and because on most Friday
evenings, we have readings by local writers. Some nights it might be
live music. And occasionally we even feature graphic artists and their
work."

"A cultural Mecca, of sorts."

"This town is a cultural Mecca," Nadja responded with pride.

"I'll have to take your word for that. I haven't had time to
look around."

"Too many people hurry through on the way to the big cities."

"So are you Nadja?"

"I am. This is my shop."

"You've done a tasteful job with it."

"Thank you. It has been a joy to do."

"You surely don't run this place by yourself?"

"Not any more. I have two full time employees and a few part-timers
who come in for our busy nights." She glanced at the clock, whose
hands now showed five minutes after six. She blushed. "I close on
Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday at six o'clock," she said, in
case he wondered why he was the only customer remaining. "On Friday
and Saturday we are open until ten o'clock."

He eyed her levelly, with a hint of danger. "So how much would it
take to buy this place?"

Stunned, she stepped backward and caught her breath. "I am not for
sale!"