As my thighs pumped, I tried not to look at her, tried not to give her any opening to continue the conversation about Chad. I just wanted to wipe last night from my mind. The embarrassment, the awkwardness, the kiss. A fresh shiver went down my spine and I pedaled harder, faster.

We reached the town center of Oar’s Rest, forced to slow for pedestrians and cars. The ride down never got me out of breath, so I knew the tightness in my chest had everything to do with Penny’s proximity and the secret that hovered between us.

Hang in there, just hang in there, I said to myself over and over like a mantra. In just a few short moments, I would be able to duck inside the shop and Penny would be on her way. Just hang in there.

As I waved to one of my regulars, a young mother pushing a stroller into the Busy Bean, Penny drew up alongside me. My muscles stiffened.

She came to a stop, angling her wheels so I couldn’t go past her. “Hey, speedy, you didn’t tell me it was a race!” she said with a laugh.

I smiled stiffly and swung my leg over the bike, getting off. “Guess you win.”

Tom, the owner, was bent in front of the windows with a watering can. As he straightened from the window boxes, he raised his dark-brown hand, then called out cheerfully, “Morning, girls!”

“Morning, Tom.” I wheeled my bike by the handlebars, sidestepping Penny.

“Hey,” said Penny with a bright smile, undeterred. She swiped her glossy black hair over her shoulder. “Coffee smells wicked good.”

It was hard not feeling a little intruded upon when she let her bike lean against mine on the rack in front of the shop. “You’re coming in?” I asked.

She nodded. “Think I’ll get something to go.”

She followed me in, smiling and waving at the familiar faces of Oar’s Rest. While she was waylaid by a table of young high school girls, I shimmied myself behind the counter, where Lucy was making coffees to go.

It was only once I donned my familiar green apron and breathed in the strong, aromatic blend of our house favorite that my unease faded. It was as if my apron was a suit of armor, strong enough to protect me from whatever came my way.

The Busy Bean, affectionately known to the locals as Busy’s, was an eclectic cluster of kitsch and old-world charm. Nothing matched—not the mugs or the furniture. The tables and chairs were solid European workmanship, odds and ends that Tom had picked up at antique malls and liquidation sales, with the odd bit of patio furniture thrown in. I loved the jumbled look of the place, “tasteful eclectic,” as Tom called it.