Author's Note: Thank you for all of the kind reviews, favorites, follows and overall support! I hope you enjoy this chapter and that it doesn't disappoint you!

Chapter One:

LOUISA

I trudged home that night with my poor choice of footwear clutched in my hands. My feet had blistered somewhat horribly, and so I waddled awkwardly – my toes cool against the pavement. As I reached the three steps that led to the front door, I clutched the railing hoping that it would assist me in my attempt in hobbling.

"Lou, that you, love?" my mum asked, her voice floating through the narrow hallway. I answered in the affirmative as I let my shoes clatter to the floor so I could hang up my coat. After wrestling for a few moments, I managed to get my coat to stay hung up. A wave of exhaustion hit me, my bones aching and my eyes becoming heavy.

A warm glow of light emanated from the kitchen, and I acted like a moth being drawn to a flame. I found my mother there washing some dishes, the plates and utensils hitting the sides of the sink as she tried her best to get the worn dishware clean. She glanced over at me with a soft smile, her eyes crinkling a little.

It was then that I realized that my mum looked completely exhausted. The years of worry that had occurred in this household had left their marks permanently on her. Worry lines were etched in her face, and the roots of her hair were a definite gray. Her own shoulders were stooped as if she was carrying a great weight upon them, and the skin on her hands were worn but soft looking.

Guilt hit me. Even though she stayed home, (something that sounded absolutely luxurious to an exhausted-from-work me) taking care of Grandad was no simple task, and the house always seemed to demand attention. I had a sneaking suspicion that if my mother wasn't home, the house would be an absolute mess from the semi-mess it already was.

Even though I wanted nothing else than to crawl into my bed, I picked up a towel to dry the pile of dripping dishes on the counter. My mum sent me a grateful look in my direction before focusing on the remaining dishes, "How was work?"

"Fine," I said as a put away some of the plates. I reached in my back pocket and slapped my earnings on a piece of dry counter. I ignored the fact that the banknote that was tossed in my direction by that rude man from the wedding stared up at me.

We worked in silence for the rest of the night. Perhaps both of us were tired.

Once I put the spoons in their respective kitchen drawer (the last item), I bid my mother goodnight and went upstairs. I was looking forward to sleep, but suddenly as I reached the door of my small bedroom, I wasn't tired anymore. Instead, the rude man's words came into mind which dispelled any exhaustion that I had previously felt. My legs led me to Treena's room, whose light was surprisingly still on. I walked in, not bothering to knock, and sprawled out on the bed with a happy sigh. Treena's room was much bigger than mine (even if Thomas was in here as well), and I was content with the change of scenery compared to my own claustrophobic room.

Treena, who had been reading a magazine, shot me a dirty look as she gestured to the already sleeping Thomas. I whispered an apology before staring up at the white ceiling. Somehow staring at absolutely nothing was soothing.

"Treena," I whispered, the rude man's words eating away at me, "do you think I'm boring?"

I was met with silence, so I looked over in her direction to see if she suddenly fell asleep. Instead, I was greeted with a thoughtful expression plastered on Treena's face. She seemed to be considering her words carefully, "Well, you don't really do anything exciting, do you?"

Ouch.

"I like my life," I said defensively. Her words stung a bit, but I knew it wasn't out of menace. I rolled over onto my stomach and used my arms to support my head as I looked at her, "It might be tiring, but I enjoy working at the Buttered Bun, and while the catering gig might be annoying sometimes, (I said this with the rude man in mind) I can make more than a decent wage sometimes."

"Yes," Treena said, waving a dismissive hand, "but you don't really do anything besides work. You don't really have any fun."

And with that comment, she went back to perusing the contents of her magazine, obviously believing that the conversation was over and that I should leave her room.

Which I did.

The Buttered Bun was what Patrick described as a "dinky, dingy old place with no charm at all," but I thought it had character. It certainly wasn't a fashionable place, but the Formica tops on the tables and the photographs of town that hung from the wall, gave it a "blast of the past" kind of feel. Especially if you also considered the unique feature of Frank's radio which sang oldies and droned off the news.

The customers however, were what made me really look forward to working there. I always enjoyed interacting with Kev and Angelo, the plumbers, and the Dandelion Lady who had a sweet temperament. I liked hearing the adventurous stories of tourists, and listening to the wild imaginations of the schoolchildren who would rambunctiously pop in the shop. Working at the Buttered Bun allowed me to watch different stages of life: I watched relationships begin, but I also watched them end. I watched people cry, but I also watched them laugh many a times. I never was a big part in people's life here (or at least I didn't consider myself to be) but being there allowed me to observe life's follies and joys – and that suited me just fine.

Mondays were pretty quiet at the café, and this Monday was no exception. Except for our usual customers, nothing was strikingly new. The tea urn was full and piping hot, the bread ready to be freshly toasted, and the cinnamon buns were still cooling down – the scent of sweetness wafting in the air. As I leaned against the counter completing my daily crossword, I believed that everything was alright in the world.

I didn't feel the cool rush of air that occurred when the door opened. I was too focused on trying to figure out the last name of the Englishman who won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1983. I was about to ask Frank for some help when a tan finger intercepted my vision, pointing at the blank spot on the paper that I was having a hard time filling.

I looked up, slightly startled only for myself to become truly startled. My eyes widened as my brain recognized the figure before me. It was the standoffish man from the wedding.

"Golding," he uttered, his eyes again boring holes in my own.

"'scuse me?" I asked, feeling once again foolish in his presence. Perhaps he made everyone feel that way.

He cleared his throat, and regarded me with a flicker of annoyance, "William Golding won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1983 for his work Lord of the Flies."

Oh.

I had never read the book, though I suppose if I did want to read it, Treena probably already had. She always was one step ahead of me.

Realizing that he was staring at me with an expectant look, I scribbled G-O-L-D-I-N-G into the allotted space (a perfect fit) and quickly straightened up. I attempted to show off my best smile as I edged away from my crossword and towards the register, "Right, well, what can I get you?"

He looked at me with an indiscernible look on his face before blinking once, twice, and speaking to me slowly as if I was a child, "A cup of tea please and…" he glanced at the treat offerings, "a cinnamon bun. To go please."

"Right," I said, attempting my best to sound cheerful, "that'll be-"

Somehow he had already been prepared, for he gracefully handed me a pound note that covered the cost of his tea and bakery item thrice over. I decided then that he was either a peculiar man or a Mr. Moneybags. From the way he dressed (in a suit that looked like it would cost me a month's wages or more) it would suggest the latter, but I decided his attitude was perhaps the former.

"Keep the change," he told me before glancing at his Blackberry phone with a frown. He stood there for more than a few seconds, typing who knows what. I wondered what exactly he was typing so quickly, and stood there awkwardly – the pad of my thumb running along the smooth surface of the pound note he just handed me.

"Quite a small world," I said, attempting my best at small talk as I put the money in the register. I was horrible at small talk. I don't know why I tried. I turned away from him to put a cinnamon roll in a small paper bag. I glanced over for a moment while I was at the tea urn filling up a disposable coffee cup with piping hot tea and decided to speak again. "What brings you here?"

He glanced up from his phone's screen with a plain look on his face, "I'm a paying customer just hoping for a decent cup of tea before I head off to work." He paused and then mentioned casually, "The tea is running over."

It took me a moment to understand what he was saying, and then the burning sensation hit me and I yelped in pain. The tea sloshed over the sides of the cup, and I was thoroughly embarrassed. Not knowing what exactly to do (the tea was all over the place and my hands screamed in pain) I tried to play it off even though I was clearly frazzled. All the while the man just stared at me, looking impassive except for the twinkle in his eyes. I couldn't tell if he was amused or just thought I was a complete idiot. Probably both. I could feel my cheeks becoming hot and red at the thought.

Frank's voice carried out from the kitchen in the back, "Clark, I need your help back here when you have a free moment."

I gave a quick "Okay" to let him know that I heard him before I focused back on the task of securing the cup with a lid. Placing his hot beverage and small paper bag with his goodie on the counter section near where he was standing, I instantly began sucking on my thumb where my skin was exposed the most to the boiling tea. I was hoping that it would soothe the aching sensation on my skin, but then I realized that I probably looked like a wee child sucking on my thumb. I quickly dropped my hand to my side before sputtering, "R-Right, is there anything else I can get you?"

He looked at me for a moment before letting his eyes drop towards his watch and then his Blackberry again. He grabbed his order off the counter all the while looking at his phone. Casually he said, "No, that's all. Thank you Miss Clark."

He exited the café.

I grimaced.

I wondered if he would come again, but by Friday I was sure that he wouldn't. For the most part, I felt relieved that I wouldn't have to interact with him, but another part of me was curious about him. Maybe it was because I just didn't understand him.

On Saturday however, he came back. He entered just as we opened up the café, and sat at a table for two near one of the windows which displayed the miserable cloudy day that the town was currently experiencing. Setting his leather briefcase on the table, he pulled out his laptop and began typing away. I observed him for a moment, mentally preparing myself for whatever was about to come my way, before I walked over.

"You're back." I blurted. Somehow that was the only thing that came to mind.

"You seem surprised." He said almost absentmindedly. His brow was slightly furrowed as he continued to stare at his laptop's screen. He paused for a mere second to look up at me before going back to his task of typing, "I'm not stalking you if that's what you're wondering. I simply thought it would be an experience if I visited the Buttered Bun – never been here until only a few days ago. It's only a mere coincidence that you work here, and I wanted a cup of tea."

I've never considered myself a good liar, but somehow I was able to smoothly say, "I wasn't wondering if you were following me, we just always like to see repeat customers here at the Buttered Bun." I then quickly changed gears, "Can I get you anything?"

He looked up at me briefly before looking back at his screen, his eyes squinting at whatever he was looking at, "Are you always here, Miss Clark? Don't you have anything to do on the weekend?"

I suppressed the huff that wanted to arise from my lips and instead spoke with a hint of sarcasm, "Why yes. I'm going to have tea with the Queen of England this afternoon, and right after I plan to go bungee jumping. Later this evening I plan to hike Mount Everest, but not before I take a hike through the lovely Amazon rainforest. But Mr. Wedding Man, you should be honored that I had a spare moment in my ridiculously busy schedule to spend time here with you of all people."

His hands stilled for a moment, the clacking noises that his hands produced from touching his laptop's keyboard stopping. He then looked at me, and leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed. I wasn't sure if he would regard my outburst as childish or immature, or perhaps even unprofessional. All that was running through my head was that I was an idiot. It was an acknowledged fact by all of those who knew me that I usually didn't filter my thoughts or kept them to myself. And usually that was okay here at the café, but the possibility of perhaps offending a customer could be trouble for not only myself, but Frank and the Buttered Bun as a whole.

He then smiled brilliantly at me, his white teeth gleaming as a small sound of laughter emitted from his lips, "Mr. Wedding Man?"

I nodded, not backing down, "Yes, Mr. Wedding Man."

He perfectly arched an eyebrow, looking entertained, "You couldn't be more creative in creating a name for me?"

"It was either that or Mr. Whiskey Bourbon. Or would you prefer Mr. Bitter in Love?"

He leaned, elbows on the table as he propped his head up with the assistance of his hands. He looked thoughtful, as if he was seriously considering the options, "Hmmm…I see your point, Miss Clark – Mr. Wedding Man will have to do. It's much more tasteful than the other options, although if you ever would like to use my real name, I suppose you could call me Will."

I guess the name Will suited him – he kind of did look like a type of William sort of man. Probably a William Jr. or William III or something like that. Coming back to the present situation I then realized his eyes were examining me from top to bottom.

"Question for you Miss Clark, do you always dress like that?" He inquired.

I looked down, not exactly remembering what I was wearing. A white blouse and black tights. That was normal enough. A black skirt with a happy ladybug pattern that I found at a vintage store for a bargain, and an outrageously loud pair red shoes that may or may not have clashed with the black and red ladybugs on my skirt.

"Do you not like ladybugs?" I asked, doing my best to take a leaf out of his book and arch my eyebrow.

"No, I like ladybugs just fine," He responded, again leaning back in his chair. "I was just curious if you always dressed…" the corners of his lips curved slightly upwards as if he was suppressing a smile, "uniquely."

I pursed my lips, tired of this conversation, "Are you going to order something or not?"

He smiled pleasantly at me, as if he could sense my annoyance. He seemed to be accommodating by going with the change of subject, "A cup of tea please. Thank you, Miss Clark."

I pivoted on my heel and quickly prepared his cup of tea behind the counter (careful not to let the tea overrun and certainly careful not to burn myself this time). Once I placed the mug on his table (with him giving me a nod of thanks) I made my way back behind the register and began my crossword of the day.

By the time I finished my crossword puzzle it was midmorning, and the table that Mr. Wedding M-Will had sat at was no longer occupied. I guess I never noticed when he had upped and left. I walked over to the table, (almost hesitantly) cleared away the mug that was empty, and scooped up the pound note that again covered the cup of tea twice or thrice over.

At least I was making decent tips from his patronage.

Note: Review? I usually don't update this quickly but all the support the Fanfiction community has shown me as really inspired me and motivated me to write the next chapter quickly. I love reading all of your comments and observations. I really am enjoying writing this story, and I am really hopeful that my characterizations of both Lou and Will are accurate. (If not, let me know in a review!)

Goal: A total of 15+ reviews before the next update. (I like increments of five)

Thank you again for the kind support you readers have shown me! It is much appreciated. Hopefully I'll have the next chapter up in a week or so.

- The Painted Green Door