The Magnolia Café

Chapter 1

After travelling for what it seemed like days but turned out to be just five hours inside a small, cold taxi, I finally arrived at a small town called Greenshire. This place is harder to find on the map than a needle in a haystack. How did I even come across it? It's a good question. I guess it's one of those times we have to believe in fate, and I hope mine leads to good things. Better things, at least.

Greenshire is little, if not at all, modernized. It looks as if time has stopped around here. I feel like I might find a fifty's diner around every corner or an old movie theatre with black and white movies that still use film and a projectionist instead of digital.

The air still carries around the scent of summer even though it's already September and fall is already showing signs of being near. I can hear the breeze passing through the tree branches. The leaves are turning orange and yellow and red, and the sun is starting to get colder. There are flowers on every street and each house seems unique; each one emanates something different, and yet, all convey a certain familiarity and a warm sense of shelter.

Green mountains rise on the horizon, forming a breathtaking landscape and, just by looking, I can almost hear the water that flows through the mountains and streams down to the river. There's an odd and undeniable peacefulness about this place. I give that to fate. At least the view is nice.

The taxi stops and I step out. Magnolia Café. Says the sign right above the door. This is it. The place where my new landlord told me to meet him. We took care of everything over the phone, but now that I've arrived, I'm starting to think that it might not have been such a good idea. I have no idea what my new landlord looks like or if the apartment matches the photographs. What the hell I am doing with my life?

As I enter the café with my enormous suitcase beside me, a man that appears to be in his late twenties walks towards me. He's handsome, has short curly hair in a dark shade of blond, almost brown, and light greyish eyes, a shallow beard, broad shoulders, and he's tall, probably over six feet. He's wearing denim jeans, a white t-shirt with a flannel on top, and heavy brown mountain boots.

He looks just like how I picture the cliché hot lumberjack described in novels. The main male interest of the protagonist, appears chopping wood with his shirt off, sweat glistening under the sun... I guess it's the checkered flannel. And what the hell is so enticing about a man sweating under the sun? Anyway... In my life, he's not a lumberjack, but my landlord and a café owner and he has his shirt on. Geez. I've clearly read too many books. And haven't been around humans in a while.

He smiles as he reaches out his hand to greet me. "Isabella, right?" he asks while looking at me from top to bottom.

What is someone like her doing here? That's probably what he's thinking. It only takes a quick glance at me to see I don't belong. Currently, my hair is platinum blond, neck length and straight, its natural state is a slightly darker and untamed waves.

My usual outfits consist of stilettos, a combination of black pants and shirts and the occasional dress. I'm five-foot-three and it's rare the occasion someone sees me without heels. I have hazel eyes and my eyesight is terrible, despite that I always wear contacts instead of my glasses.

Most of the time, I work hard to be the embodiment of poise and sophistication. I need to be perfect. At least that was what I heard my entire life. But I'm so used to keeping up appearances that I don't even know what else is inside me anymore. Habits are hard to break, I guess. Maybe this is also one of the reasons why I feel so lost. I've been trying to be something I'm not for so long. I'm tired. Moving here might be a good opportunity to let go of this façade and try to figure out what's underneath.

"Yes." I say after more than a minute of awkward silence and yet he's the one that blushes slightly as I grab his hand. "Isabella Gallagher. We finally meet in person."

To my surprise, despite the roughness of his looks, his hand is soft and warm, and quite delicate as he grabs mine.

"Connor Miller. I have the apartment ready."

We leave the café and Connor guides me towards the apartment. The apartment is on top of the Magnolia. There's a set of stairs on the outside that leads to the front door. I'm struggling to carry my suitcase up the stairs.

Not only does the bag probably weigh as much as me — I guess this is what happens when you lay on the couch and don't move and don't eat for months, you just shrivel away like that forgotten lettuce in the back of the fridge — but my shoe choice is also not the best.

I'm not wearing sensible shoes for any type of activity that requires movement. Black Louboutin's are not made for walking, they are made to look pretty.

I quickly glance at Connor and see a tiny grin. He seems quite amused by my ridiculous attempt at carrying two of me.

"Let me help you with that. That thing is almost as big as you," he says, and before I can even gather my thoughts and answer, he takes it from my hands. "Don't worry about it."

"Thank you." I glance at my feet and tighten the belt on my Burberry trench coat.

"The apartment was recently renovated. You are the very first tenant," he says as he opens the front door. "So, if you have any problem or if something isn't working, just let me know."

It's a very spacious one-bedroom apartment. Simply charming. It has a round skylight where the sun shines through, a huge terrace overlooking the town, an all-equipped kitchen and, although modern, it blends well it the rest of the building's character. The bathroom is huge, as well as the pantry. The living room area is in a lovely mezzanine and on the main floor, near the kitchen, there is a beautifully crafted fireplace.

"So, what do you think? Does it live up to the photos?" he asks, interrupting my thoughts as I look around, mesmerized.

"It exceeds them. It's perfect."

Despite the words that just came out of my mouth, I'm aware of the lack of emotion on my face. I still have a long way to go before I start to feel something again, aside from numbness.

"Who made the design choices?" I ask, and he frowns. "Professional curiosity." I shrug.

"I did. Are you an interior designer?"

"Architect."

"Now I feel intimidated." He lets out a nervous chuckle while scratching the back of his neck. Cute.

"Don't be. You did a great a job."

Connor hands me the keys and, as I look at him, at his greyish eyes, I see myself in them. His eyes look as lonely as mine.

"If you need anything, just stop by the café or call me."

He leaves and I'm left alone, in an empty apartment, wondering why I wasn't even able to fake a polite smile. Am I that broken?