Coconut Iced Coffee (Cupid's Coffeeshop Book 8) Read online

  Coconut Iced Coffee

  Eighth in the

  Cupid’s Coffeeshop

  Series

  By

  Courtney Hunt

  COCONUT ICED COFFEE

  Copyright © Courtney Hunt 2016

  All Rights Reserved

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, events, business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First Digital Edition: August 2016

  www.Courtney-Hunt.com

  Chapter One

  Last October, during the refreshing crispness of autumn, when Zooey Lockhart foolishly agreed to run Cupid’s Coffeeshop, she’d forgotten about the misery of August in the foothills of the Blue Ridge mountains. Close enough to the converted morass of DC swampland for the air to congeal with humidity and too far from the ocean for the relief of a sea breeze, Ashford Falls suffered through the dog days of summer, mostly by staying indoors. The oppressive heat made coffeeshop business slow to a trickle. No one wanted coffee in the midst of a heat wave.

  And that was a problem since according to their grandmother’s unusual bequest not only did Zooey, her brother, Patrick, and her cousin, Joe, have to run Cupid’s Coffeeshop together for a year, they also had to turn a profit. After some initial bumps and difficulties, the three Lockharts had kept the store running more or less smoothly for nearly eight months now. But profits were another matter all together.

  So far, they’d run in the red, just like the overworked thermometer outside.

  But, no matter how hard they worked, they couldn’t sell coffee in the middle of a heat wave.

  After running out of busy work to keep her occupied in the empty shop, Zooey flopped into a chair near the window, propped her chin on her hands and stared out at the sunbaked square. Nothing moved in the heat. The leaves drooped listlessly from the still branches of the Bradford pear and cherry trees lining the fountain, without even the hint of a breeze to cool them. Due to the drought, the fountain sat dry and empty, the flagstone baking in the glare of the sun.

  She lifted her hair from her neck, fashioning it in a loose twist, and fanned her hot cheeks with a menu card. In less than a week, she’d turn 21, spending her birthday in much the same way as today. Sitting in an empty coffeeshop and hoping that, by some miracle, they’d manage to turn a profit and satisfy her grandmother’s insane bequest. Zooey, her brother Patrick, and their cousin Joe, faced five more months of struggling to make this place profitable. Five more months with her future in this uncomfortable limbo. Though keeping busy with the coffeeshop nicely camouflaged the fact that Zooey’s future was a big blank.

  When she’d gotten the call about her grandmother’s passing, she’d quit her waitressing job on the spot and, pausing only to grab her sketchpads and clothes at the shoebox apartment she shared with three other girls in Soho, headed south to her hometown. Thanks to her grandmother’s timely passing, she’d never had to tell her family about dropping out of college to pursue her dream of being an illustrator. And, if they managed to turn a profit, maybe she wouldn’t have to, as her Grandmother’s coffeeshop came with a generous nest egg for each of the three grandchildren. If not, well, then she’d definitely have to figure out a career.

  Idly, Zooey tugged her sketchpad toward her, adding detail to the sketch of a Christmas mouse she’d started that morning. Her sweaty arm stuck to the paper, smearing her pencil. Frustrated, Zooey sighed and tossed the pad back on the table.

  An instrumental with snare drums played over the speakers. Zooey closed her eyes and imagined the seashore. The gentle splash of the waves, the sand between her wiggling toes, the kiss of the sea breeze over her skin. Since her earliest memories, she’d always celebrated her August birthday at the beach. But not this year. Her 21st birthday would be spent cold brewing batches of coffee for the only drink that was selling—Joe’s Coconut Iced Coffee, the closest she’d get to the islands today.

  When she’d been very little, her family trekked to all the beaches within driving distance, Ocean City, Virginia Beach, the Outer Banks. But once they’d departed Ashford Falls, her parents took her and Patrick to ever more exotic beach locales to celebrate their annual summer vacation. They’d gone to the Mediterranean, Hawaii, the Caribbean. Zooey’s favorite remained Turtle Bay on the tiny Caribbean island of San Maria. With a sigh, she remembered her favorite beach on the island, white sand, crystalline water, and…

  “Zooey? You asleep over there?” Joe called as he strolled into the coffeeshop, his blue eyes contrasting with his deep tan. To everyone’s surprise, just a few months ago, Joe’d fallen in love with the owner of a farm outside town. Now, in addition to working at the coffeeshop, Joe helped his Molly tend to her farm and it showed in his bronzed skin. The happiness and contentment he felt radiated from within him. Zooey’s fingers itched for her sketchpad to try to capture some of that bright inner light.

  Joe rummaged behind the curtain shielding the storage area and emerged with a gift bag printed with colorful balloons decorated with an artful spray of cerulean tissue peeking out the top. Zooey smiled as she recognized the dab hand of their friend Val, owner of Val’s Cards and Gifts across the square from the coffeeshop. Neither her brother or her cousin could wrap gifts at all.

  Joe dropped the bag on the counter and grinned at her. “Come get your present.”

  “My birthday isn’t for nearly a week.” Zooey answered, too hot to move.

  “Paddy-cakes. Come give your sister her present.” Joe yelled up the stairs. After a few minutes’ delay, Patrick emerged from the stairwell, rubbing his eyes and a pillow crease across his cheek due to his afternoon nap. Patrick usually covered the early shift at the coffeeshop while Joe took the evenings, leaving Zooey to her lonely afternoons.

  “My birthday is— “

  “On Saturday, I know.” Patrick carried the bag over to her and claimed the chair across from her. Joe leaned against the blush marble counter, his arms crossed, mischief in his bright blue eyes. “You’ll understand when you open it.”

  Eagerly, Zooey tugged the tissue out of the bag and reached in to find an empty small blue mason jar. “Thanks, I think?”

  “Turn it around.” Joe encouraged, looking delighted with this rather odd gift. Slowly, Zooey turned the smooth jar, her fingers trailing over a rough paper label on the far side, not unlike one used for labeling canned fruits. Puzzled, she stared at the label and read aloud, “Turtle Bay.”

  She looked up at her brother and cousin, smiling at her expectantly. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s for you to collect sand. Like as a souvenir.” Joe answered as Zooey gaped at him.

  “How am I going to collect sand on Turtle Bay? It’s in the Caribbean.” Zooey asked.

  “I told you we should have gone with a card.” Patrick cuffed Joe on the shoulder as he sat at the third chair at the tiny table. “We’re giving you a trip.”

  “A trip? To Turtle Bay?” Zooey’s heart lifted. She’d be able to walk on the beach, watch the sunrise, let the waves flirt with her toes. Before she could get lost in her fantasy, she protested, “But I can’t leave. We have a coffeeshop to run. Gram’s will says we all have to run it.”

  “That’s true.” Patrick agreed. “But we talked to Auntie Ruby though. She said a lot of legal mumbo jumbo about satisfying the terms of the bequest. But she thought that the terms of the will could extend to allow for a short vacation. You can’t go be a beach bum— “
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  “Not yet, anyway.” Joe laughed. “Let’s get our inheritance first.”

  “You like to spend your birthday at the beach so you get to go to the beach.” Patrick smiled. “Wish we could go with you but Joe and I will run the store— “

  Zooey flung her arms around her brother and then jumped up to hug Joe too. “It’s perfect, you guys.”

  “Your flight leaves tomorrow morning. Better go pack, little sis.”

  “Are you all sure?”

  Joe picked up her sketchbook, carefully flipping it closed and handing it to her. “Take your sketchbook and go, while the getting is good. Bring me a seashell.”

  Zooey beamed at him and dashed up the stairs to pack.

  Chapter Two

  Two days later, Zooey sat on the veranda of an island coffeeshop, her sketchpad on her knees as she sipped her morning coffee. She stared out at the waves, crashing against the shore of Turtle Beach. The sea breeze rustled the palm branches overhead, casting shadows over the remains of her brunch. She tapped her pencil on the half-finished sketch of a gull she’d dubbed Hank. He’d flown away before she could complete it, enticed by something more than her toast crust, and leaving Zooey with nothing to do.

  When had she become so uncomfortable with the idea of doing nothing? Since her grandmother’s death last October, she’d barely had a moment to think. At first, she, Joe, and Patrick were overwhelmed with getting the coffeeshop restored enough to open and since their grand opening on New Year’s Day, the store consumed nearly every waking hour. Though she’d occasionally found a moment here and there to open her sketchbook, she hadn’t been very faithful to her practice recently. Once upon a time, she’d spend hours sketching everything she could imagine.

  She blew her bangs away from her forehead. Maybe she just need a change of scene to spark her shy muse. As she reached to grab her bag, intending to head to the beach, a man in a white Panama hat caught her eye. She leaned back, appraising him from behind her dark sunglasses. He wore khaki cargo shorts topped by a simple light blue linen shirt. He strolled along, his hips rolling with each step as though he listened to some internal music, his graceful walk nearly a dance. She flipped to a blank page, watching him covertly as she sought to capture his essence in just a few pencil lines.

  Muscular calves with his feet stuffed into flip-flops. His shirt fluttering in the breeze. His biceps pressing against the sleeve of his shirt. His skin, the color of cafe mocha, smooth and gleaming in the sun. Working quickly, not stopping to hesitate, Zooey sought to capture his essence with just a few simple lines of charcoal.

  The man stopped at the hostess stand, his back to her. She captured the way his shoulder muscles bunched under his shirt, power and grace. Even as he spoke to the hostess, he shuffled his feet in time to his own internal melody and tapped his fingers on the book he carried. She sketched close-ups of him now. His long fingers tapping on the burgundy leather volume. His narrow feet keeping rhythm with the snare drum instrumental pouring over loudspeakers hidden in the palms. The hostess, a broad smile on her face, seated the man at the empty table across from Zooey.

  He slouched into the chair, putting his feet up on the opposite one. His shorts rode up, revealing his toned thigh. Zooey flushed but continued to capture him in charcoal, her own eyes safely hidden behind her dark shades. Inspiration came in many forms, after all. He tossed his sunglasses on the table and flipped open his book. He read for a second, his stillness allowing her to note some of the details of his appearance down. She bent over her sketchpad, working to refine her sketch of his broad hand supporting the heavy leather tome.

  “What are you drawing?” A deep voice, with the musical lilt of the Caribbean, broke the silence.

  Zooey looked up, into eyes the exact color of the sea lapping against the shore, a lovely mixture of blues from sky to cerulean. Her muse sat staring at her, his generous mouth quirked up at the corner, his startling eyes kind. Zooey’s heartbeat quickened as she realized she’d been caught.

  “Just sketching.” Zooey said, slamming the cover of her sketchbook shut and gathering her things. She didn’t like to share her sketches, feeling naked and exposed whenever she did. They always revealed far more about her than they did their subjects. She stood stuffing the sketchbook into her bag. But as she stepped forward, it caught on the strap, sliding out of her hand and onto his empty table.

  “I’m Charlie Lyons.” He gestured at the sketchpad. “May I?”

  Her cheeks burning, Zooey nodded. He flipped open the book and smiled at her unfinished portrait of a tiny mouse wearing a Christmas wreath she’d been working on when Patrick and Joe gave her tickets to paradise. She wished the sand would swallow her as he flipped past her unfinished sketch of Hank before her pages of close up details of him. He grinned wickedly at her and then winked.

  “Charming.” Charlie closed the book and held it out to her. “You’re talented.”

  “Thanks.” Zooey said, carefully placing the book in her bag.

  “Won’t you join me for breakfast? You can tell me more about your charming illustrations?”

  “No. Thank you.” Zooey choked out, slipping past his table. She headed to the beach, with only her mortification for company.

  Chapter Three

  After finishing his breakfast alone, Charlie headed down to the beach for a walk. When he’d come home to San Maria for a visit, he’d set himself the goal of walking on all the beaches of his island. Turtle Bay usually too crowded with tourists but, now, in the off-season, just a few people strolled along in paradise. He crossed the sugar-colored sand and then dipped his toes into the cool water. He watched the waves for a moment, just breathing and relaxing, centering himself. He enjoyed the warmth of the mid-morning sun on his skin. He’d never really been able to get warm on the mainland.

  At first, he headed south, toward the rocky point, intending to sit on the rocks and watch the waves for a while. But a crowd of laughing children, happily playing in the surf, made him turn around and walk north, seeking solitude for his walk. Slowly, his muscles began to loosen as he relaxed into being at home, the rhythm of the waves lapping against the shore calming him.

  As he strolled up the cove, the dark-haired girl from the coffeeshop sunbathed on a bright pink and white oversized beach towel. In the coffeeshop, she’d worn a brightly patterned cover-up that only hinted at her lush figure. Now, she filled out a sky blue bikini nicely, her skin gleamed in the sun. He chewed his lower lip, deciding whether to approach her. She’d rebuffed his invitation to breakfast and he didn’t want to intrude on her solitude, even if she was the prettiest girl he’d seen in a while. She braced herself on her elbows and, catching sight of him, raised her sunglasses.

  “Following me?” She arched a single brow at him, the corners of her lips curving into a confident smile.

  “Want to go for a walk on the beach?”

  She shook her head and, with a half-wave, Charlie departed. When he returned, about twenty minutes later, the girl sat, cross-legged on her towel, watching him approach. When he got within hailing distance, she stood and walked to the surf, dipping her feet in. She splashed water on her chest and face, making the droplets slip enticingly down her sun-warmed skin.

  “Hello again.” She greeted him.

  Charlie stopped, keeping a careful distance from her. He didn’t want to spook her again. “Done sketching for the day?”

  “I’m sorry if I was rude earlier. I don’t like to show people my sketches before they’re done.”

  “You’re a perfectionist.”

  “Maybe.”

  He narrowed his eyes, considering the way she ducked her chin or the faint pink color that rose to her cheeks. “Or is it that you’re shy?”

  “Both.” She admitted and smiled, ducking her head again so her chestnut hair fell over her face.

  “I see.” Charlie grinned. “You are very talented, Miss…”

  “It’s Zooey. Zooey Lockhart.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,
Zooey Lockhart.” Charlie stuck his hands in his pockets. “What brings you to Turtle Bay?”

  “Vacation. Same as you, I suppose?”

  “I am not a tourist.” Charlie corrected her. “I was born here.”

  Zooey tilted her head at him, considering. “Your accent is different though.”

  “I have been on the mainland too long, perhaps.” Charlie nodded. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Zooey Lockhart.”

  After he strode past, she called. “Charlie?”

  He turned back to face her. “Yes?”

  “Would you mind if—Oh, never mind—I don’t want to bother you.”

  “Please feel free to bother me.”

  She laughed. “I didn’t get a chance to draw your face earlier. Would you let me sketch you?”

  “I would be honored.”

  They walked back up to her towel. She offered him a second beach towel from her bulging oversized bag and, after helping him to shake it out, he sat on it. She claimed her towel again and pulled out her sketchpad, flipping through to a blank page. Without another word, she pushed her sunglasses up on her head and drew, her hand moving fast over the paper. This close, the amazing color of her eyes became apparent. All the colors of the sea swirled in her eyes, green, blue, even gold, fringed by dark eyelashes. Freckles bloomed across her nose and cheeks, her skin a lovely bronze from the sun.

  “So, you are an artist?”

  “Stay still.” She chided.

  “You talk then. Where are you from, Zooey Lockhart?”

  “A tiny town you’ve never heard of. Ashford Falls.”

  “You’re right. I haven’t heard of it.” Charlie agreed. “And where is this tiny town?”

  “It’s about 50 miles northwest of DC.”

  “I have heard of DC. I’ve even been there.” Charlie grinned. “My grandfather took me several times, to visit the Smithsonian and tour the White House.”