Chapter One
Sage Drake heard the bell chime over the front door and, without turning from her window display, chirped a pleasant, “Welcome to Sequels.”
A young voice behind her mumbled, “Thanks.”
She finished curling the beach towel just so over the fold-up chair inside the display and turned, spotting a tall, rangy figure in a tank top and walk shorts, flip flops on his feet and his dirty blond hair shorn close to his head.
He looked all of twenty.
She saw him ogling some of the sweets in her pastry display and ambled over, wiping her hands on her orange and brown Sequels apron. “What are you feeling today?” she chirped, sliding behind the café counter.
It was still early – she’d only been open for a few minutes – and Fiona, her part-time helper, wouldn’t be in until 11A.M., so Sage was pulling solo duty for another hour and a half.
She didn’t mind. Seaside Heights was a sleepy beach town that didn’t really start getting serious about books, coffee and crullers – her stock in trade – until after half the town had come in off the beach just before lunch.
He looked over the counter at her and flashed a crooked grin. “I dunno,” he said with a shrug. “What’s good?”
She put her hands on her hips and said, “Only everything, of course!”
He chuckled, on cue, and confessed, “Anything on special?”
She nodded. “Surfer, huh?”
“How’d you guess?”
She sighed and slid a tray of day-old – but still totally awesome – donuts, scones and cookies onto the countertop. Stickers from all the local surf shops and board wax companies nearly covered the long Tupperware container. “Take your pick,” she said, sliding off the top and filling the immediate area with the heady aroma of cinnamon, nutmeg and powdered sugar.
Though it was late June, and the display case held its usual rows of red, white and blue treats, Sage couldn’t resist the perennial fall favorites. Maybe that’s why there were always a few leftover in her snack box for hungry, broke surfers like this kid.
He seemed embarrassed, though that didn’t stop him from peering down into the box and licking his soft, full lips. “For real?”
“Just keep it under your hat,” she chuckled as he reached for a cinnamon scone with cream cheese icing. “Coffee?”
She always had a hot pot of regular brewing – not flavored, not expensive, but strong, hot and, best of all for local surfers, only fifty cents a cup. “How much?” he asked. “I’m supposed to be getting a check any day now, but until then, well…”
“First one’s on me,” she sighed, pouring him a tall cup and sliding it over the counter.
He marveled at her generosity, polishing off the scone and coffee in hungry gulps. “No one in L.A. ever gives anything away for free,” he said as Sage topped off his coffee without being asked.
“That where you’re from?” she asked, leaning against the counter behind her.
He nodded, wiping his full lips with an orange and brown Sequels Café napkin. “Born and bred.”
She nodded, impressed. California was a lot like Florida; plenty of people, but not so many natives. “What brings you to Seaside Heights?” she asked, trying not to ogle his long, muscular arms and the way his hazel eyes caught the morning sun filtering in through the arched windows that lined her old brick
Sage Drake heard the bell chime over the front door and, without turning from her window display, chirped a pleasant, “Welcome to Sequels.”
A young voice behind her mumbled, “Thanks.”
She finished curling the beach towel just so over the fold-up chair inside the display and turned, spotting a tall, rangy figure in a tank top and walk shorts, flip flops on his feet and his dirty blond hair shorn close to his head.
He looked all of twenty.
She saw him ogling some of the sweets in her pastry display and ambled over, wiping her hands on her orange and brown Sequels apron. “What are you feeling today?” she chirped, sliding behind the café counter.
It was still early – she’d only been open for a few minutes – and Fiona, her part-time helper, wouldn’t be in until 11A.M., so Sage was pulling solo duty for another hour and a half.
She didn’t mind. Seaside Heights was a sleepy beach town that didn’t really start getting serious about books, coffee and crullers – her stock in trade – until after half the town had come in off the beach just before lunch.
He looked over the counter at her and flashed a crooked grin. “I dunno,” he said with a shrug. “What’s good?”
She put her hands on her hips and said, “Only everything, of course!”
He chuckled, on cue, and confessed, “Anything on special?”
She nodded. “Surfer, huh?”
“How’d you guess?”
She sighed and slid a tray of day-old – but still totally awesome – donuts, scones and cookies onto the countertop. Stickers from all the local surf shops and board wax companies nearly covered the long Tupperware container. “Take your pick,” she said, sliding off the top and filling the immediate area with the heady aroma of cinnamon, nutmeg and powdered sugar.
Though it was late June, and the display case held its usual rows of red, white and blue treats, Sage couldn’t resist the perennial fall favorites. Maybe that’s why there were always a few leftover in her snack box for hungry, broke surfers like this kid.
He seemed embarrassed, though that didn’t stop him from peering down into the box and licking his soft, full lips. “For real?”
“Just keep it under your hat,” she chuckled as he reached for a cinnamon scone with cream cheese icing. “Coffee?”
She always had a hot pot of regular brewing – not flavored, not expensive, but strong, hot and, best of all for local surfers, only fifty cents a cup. “How much?” he asked. “I’m supposed to be getting a check any day now, but until then, well…”
“First one’s on me,” she sighed, pouring him a tall cup and sliding it over the counter.
He marveled at her generosity, polishing off the scone and coffee in hungry gulps. “No one in L.A. ever gives anything away for free,” he said as Sage topped off his coffee without being asked.
“That where you’re from?” she asked, leaning against the counter behind her.
He nodded, wiping his full lips with an orange and brown Sequels Café napkin. “Born and bred.”
She nodded, impressed. California was a lot like Florida; plenty of people, but not so many natives. “What brings you to Seaside Heights?” she asked, trying not to ogle his long, muscular arms and the way his hazel eyes caught the morning sun filtering in through the arched windows that lined her old brick
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