“You underestimate your father’s love for you, Evelina.”
“Love you, Momma,” I sing as I practically skip into the back office where I need to make a few calls before the doors open tonight.
It’s open mic night at my café. I’m the only retro café around that is doing something so different. By day, we serve breakfast and lunch and the best cakes in town, by night we have beer, spirits, dinner, and music. I have had some incredible talent come through my doors, to the point where I now have people scouting around, looking for the next big thing. They come in once a week and watch the acts that perform.
I’ve had more than one record deal come from my café. Wildflowers has been my dream since I was a child, and I worked my ass off to get it up and running. With my parents help, I was the proud owner by the time I was twenty-five years old and, thus far, it has been incredibly successful.
See, I don’t need a man. I have everything I need right here.
“Yo, bitch, where you at?”
The sound of my long-time best friend Ramona’s voice fills the office space. She appears at my door only minutes later, and I have a moment of regret for giving her a key. She is always in here, strutting her stuff, bringing men in and acting like the cheap whore she truly is not.
I love the shit out of her, though, and she knows it.
“Girl, your momma is pissed.”
I look up from my desk and grin at her. Ramona is gorgeous. She’s of Indian background, and has this long, dark hair, this beautiful brown skin, and eyes that are sexy and seductive. She has the curves of a goddess and boobs that make men do a double take. She’s perfection, full of sass and bad attitude, but perfection all the same.
“I dumped Oscar,” I tell her. “She’s not happy about it.”
“Oscar was a wet rag,” Ramona huffs. “Imagine having sex with that man? He’d probably cry upon release and declare his undying love. Don’t your momma know a girl likes to be fucked?”
I laugh. “I wasn’t about to tell her.”
“That means you’re single again, so we can go on the prowl.”
She throws her hand at me as if she’s a lion swiping, then she gives a little roar. I blink at her, and then inform her, “When you do that, we look desperate.”
“We are desperate,” she huffs, walking in and throwing herself onto my large, extra comfy office chair. “Tell me you’ve got some good acts on tonight? I love a good, sexy, bad boy with a guitar.”
“You’re in luck then,” I say, flicking through the pages for tonight’s acts. “We do indeed have a sexy bad boy playing. I met him during the week when he signed up. Tall, dark, handsome, guitar over his shoulder. Just your type.”
Ramona fans herself. “What time?”
“He’s up first. Keep your eyes peeled.”
“Good, because this girl needs to get laid.”
“You said that last week, then you got laid ...” I point out.
“That was a week ago, Eve. Yeesh.”
I laugh. “Your vagina will up and run away from you one of these days.”
“Says the girl who hasn’t had sex in like a year. What’s up with that? After that long I’d have even taken Oscar for a ride.”
I laugh loudly and shake my head. “I have respect for my lady parts and, also, I hate random hook ups.”
“Those are the best. You smash and dash, and you never have to see them again.”
I chuckle. “I hate how awkward they are. It’s the worst thing ever, it’s never romantic, or even hot. It’s usually fumbling and weird conversations. I’d rather wait.”
“If you get really drunk, it seems like it’s hot,” Ramona points out. “That’s what I do.”
“Well, girl, you do you. I’m going to wait.”
“Prince Charming doesn’t exist, you know that, Eve? You’re going to have to settle for the toad eventually.”
I grin at her. “At least he’ll be a well-earned toad.”
She laughs and stands. “I need to go and get changed. I’ll be back when the doors open. Save me a seat close to the stage so I can scope out the man meat I’ll be taking home tonight.”
I shake my head and roll my eyes but smile at my best friend.
She blows me a kiss and disappears.
I move back out into the main area of my little heaven and smile at the space I can call my own. It has a large bar, a kitchen, a serving counter where the cakes are available during the day, a large stage, and gorgeous red and gold tables and chairs scattered around in different areas. The theme is very rustic, with wooden floors, old chic furniture, and everything you would want in a café slash bar.
I love it.
I love it more than I ever thought possible.
“Eve!”
My twin brother, Domenic, comes barreling into my café waving a piece of paper around. We’re scarily similar. Like, the egg didn’t split but it should have because if we weren’t opposite sex, you’d say we were the exact same person. We even look alike. We both have dark brown hair that is thick and curly. Our eyes are the same milk chocolate shade, and our features are basically identical, right down to our full lips and little nose.
The only difference is Dom is bigger, musclier, and I’m short and curvy. I’m sure that’s where the curse of our family fell in, right to my thighs and hips, because, man, I am packing. Of course, I’m not sad about it, I am what I am, but being a touch taller like Dom might have been nice.
It would have made me look less ... full.
“Why are you running at me with a piece of paper in your hand, Dom? You could just approach me like a normal person.”
“I found a woman, a woman that I’m going to be with, and she’s going to be singing right here.”
He stops in front of me, shoving a stray lock of hair from his face. My twin brother is handsome, no doubt about it, we have good genetics and every single one of us was blessed with incredibly attractive faces.
“Okay, you’re scaring me. You can’t just find a woman and decide you’re going to be with her, show me this.”
I snatch the paper from his hand and see an advertisement for a woman looking to fill slots at open mic nights. There is a picture of her on the sheet of paper, guitar in hand, and she’s certainly pretty. Blue eyes, blond hair, mousy looking features. She’s small and very ... country.
“I don’t do country singers here, Dom. You know that. I can’t handle it.”
“She can sing other things,” he mutters, snatching the paper from my hand. “I heard her, I also told her we could put her in.”
“You can’t do that!” I cry, throwing my hands up. “That’s not how it works.”
“I’m the better half of you, therefore I make decisions for both of us,” he informs me, crossing his arms.
“You literally do not get to make decisions. She’s a country singer. So what if she can sing other stuff? I don’t want country singers in my café.”
“What have you got against country singers anyway? They’re quite charming.”
I roll my eyes. “You sound like an eighteenth century lord when you talk like that, stop it. And I don’t like them because they’re just so ... depressing. Someone always leaves them, or their dog dies or ...”