He laughed again. “God save me. The only black belt I hold is for bending my elbow to eat your cinnamon rolls.”

She found herself following him up the narrow staircase that led to his private quarters. In the downtown area of Mystic Creek, most of the shops had upstairs living areas or vast storage spaces. Being in the Menagerie, the Morning Grind had no second story. But over time Julie had seen many of the Main Street stairwells. Having been designed well over a century ago by smaller people, they tended to be dark, steep, and treacherous, but Blackie had dispensed with that feeling. He’d installed good overhead lighting, added sturdy handrails along both sides, and painted the walls and ceilings a pale banana yellow, which seemed to bring in sunlight.

As he opened and held ajar the door at the landing, she stepped over the threshold into his apartment with more a sense of curiosity than apprehension. She expected to see—well, she wasn’t sure what she anticipated. A bachelor pad, she supposed. Most men didn’t bother with color schemes and seemed to think a mismatch of outdated furniture looked fine. But Blackie had carried the illusion of buttery sunlight into his living area, and he had appointed the rooms that she could see with a sturdy, brown leather sofa and well-cushioned chairs, offset by a collection of honey-and-black Amish accessories, a theme that flowed flawlessly from the sitting area to embrace the dining room and kitchen.

“Oh, wow.”

Stepping inside behind her, Blackie asked, “You like?”

She couldn’t help but smile. “Fishing for compliments?”

He chuckled. “Don’t all amateur decorators fish for them? Of course, I did more than just decorate. I gutted the entire apartment and started over from scratch.”

To Julie’s discerning eye, he’d done a fabulous job. The great room concept worked beautifully, each area flowing nicely into the next. Being a woman who loved to cook, she felt beckoned by his kitchen. She glimpsed a Sub-Zero side-by-side, chrome-and-black double ovens, a built-in microwave, a utilitarian work island that begged for a rolling pin and pie dough, and a wealth of cleverly designed storage.

“I think you performed a small miracle.” The apartment wasn’t that large, but he’d somehow made it seem spacious. “The kitchen is amazing.”

“Grab a seat. I’ll grab us each a brew. I keep a selection: IPA, ales, and darks. What’s your pleasure? Don’t be afraid to name a certain brewery. I may have it on hand.”

Julie felt the last traces of tension ebb from her body. She’d liked Fred Black the first time she met him, they’d chatted at her shop almost daily over coffee for months, and this was really no different. He wouldn’t suddenly transform into a lecherous jerk simply because he’d lured her into his private quarters. “I’m not an expert on beer,” she confessed. “I always forget the names. But I love a dark with a hint of smoke and sweetness.”

As he rifled through his fridge, Julie chose to sit on one of two recliners that angled toward each other near a gigantic flat-screen television. The sofa looked equally inviting, but the position of the chairs provided a perfect place for people to chitchat. It also lent itself well to viewing football games. Blackie was a self-proclaimed enthusiast who unabashedly admitted that he had purchased two external hard drives to save sporting events so he could watch them at his leisure all year long. She plopped her overfilled purse on the barnwood floor in front of an end table. As she sat down, the leather chair seemed to melt around her body. She resisted putting up the footrest. This was her first visit, and she didn’t want to appear too relaxed, even though she suddenly was.