He always came in at 7:02 on the dot. Every morning. The bell over the door would jangle merrily, announcing his arrival as the cold London wind gusted in with a bitter chill.
The first time he had patroned her little coffee shop on a quiet side street, she had been struck dumb and handed him his black coffee (with two sugars) willing her blush to fade and her voice to work. His angular face had not shown a single emotion as he scrutinized her, then the cup, and took a sip. She released her breath with relief when he nodded once, dropped a tip in the jar, and strode out the door with the same dramatic flair in which he'd entered.
That was nearly six months ago now. And he had rarely missed a morning since.
She didn't know what he did or even his name, but she imagined all sorts of backstories for her mysterious customer and spent much too much time daydreaming about his curly black hair, sea-churning eyes, and cheekbones a girl could cut herself on.
He never spoke to her after that first order when his deep voice had forever entranced her. Now, she had his order ready to go, steaming hot, when he walked in.
His lips twitched the first time she'd had it prepared ahead and he had tested the temperature with an approving hum before dropping an extra fiver in her tip jar and leaving.
After six months they had fallen into a smooth pattern that felt familiar and wonderful. But life has a way of throwing you out of the familiar.
And in this case, it came in the form of the flu. For two days, Molly let her second-in-command take over the little shop's operations while she recovered. Mary was more than capable of running the cafe, but Molly fretted about her mysterious customer. She told a bemused Mary on no less than five occasions to always have a black coffee with 2 sugars ready and waiting by 7:02.
Now she was back to full health and bustling about on her first morning back, trying to ignore the twist in her stomach. Mary had said the tall, curly-haired gentleman had shown up both days but was visibly unpleased with the coffee and tossed it out after a single sip. Molly knew Mary was an excellent barista and didn't doubt for a second that the coffee was perfection.
But what if he didn't come back?
Worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, Molly eyed the clock as she filled the next order with an extra helping of whipped cream. 7:01.
7:02.
The bell above the door jingled as she handed the older woman her latte.
Relief flooded through her at seeing her mysterious customer in the doorway. His tousled curls blew wildly before the door closed and shut the London wind out. His gaze landed on her and she caught her breath as the frown on his face was replaced by a quick, heart-stopping, smile.
He strode up to the counter and raised his eyebrows expectantly. Realising he was waiting for his coffee, Molly jumped and reached for the cup she'd had waiting.
He took it with a nod of thanks and sipped it experimentally. She bit her lip nervously and waited his approval.
He swallowed, her eyes drifting momentarily down to his enticing throat, before pulling a fiver out of his inner pocket and setting it on the counter.
"Perfect. As always," he said with a smile and his deep voice threatened to melt her into a puddle right there.
She smiled brightly. "Thank you."
From his pocket, he pulled out a small card and dropped it in her tip jar. With a wink, he turned around, his coat flaring out around him, and strode out to join the London crowds.
Molly fished the card out of the tip jar, trying not to appear too eager. It was a business card, black ink on a thick stock.
S. Holmes.
Consulting Detective.
That was it. Molly frowned, surely that wasn't all.
She flipped it over.
221B Baker Street.
And underneath it, in blue pen, was a scribbled phone number.
His phone number.
Molly stared at the digits, a smile growing on her face. It seemed her mysterious customer didn't want to be so mysterious anymore.