The golden velour-covered couch in a Victorian design looks completely awkward next to a contemporary red leather chair in the shape of an egg. Various rugs are scattered about, some with pink and orange neon geometric designs, others looking like they came straight out of The Arabian Nights in muted reds and blues. There’s even a large bearskin rug in front of a fireplace, also rimmed in red brick, and flanked by two olive-green deep and mushy-looking chairs with matching ottomans.

Everywhere I look, every piece of furniture I gaze at looks completely out of place next to the item it sits beside, yet when I sweep my gaze across the interior as a whole, it just fits together.

Sort of like Lexi.

“Excuse me,” I hear from behind me and I realize I was blocking the door. I move to the side and smile apologetically to the patron as he passes by me to head to the register, which is flanked by bakery cases on each side. I take the opportunity to peruse the menu handwritten on a chalkboard that takes up the entire wall and order a cup of black tea and a raspberry scone from the young girl behind the register. I make a mental note to add an extra ten miles to my cycling workout tomorrow morning to compensate.

After I place my order I step off to the side and casually lean up against the counter and look around for Lexi. I told her I’d come by tonight to hear her perform, and I’m buzzing with nervous energy. This daughter of mine is a musician, I’ve learned, and I find the feelings of parental anxiety when your child performs still reign supreme. It reminds me of how I would feel before Gray would take to the ice when she was playing hockey, or even when she took over as general manager last year. All parents want their children to succeed and be happy in their pursuits.

Interestingly, it’s a feeling that’s come quite naturally, which is further proof in my mind that she’s my daughter.

“Hey, you,” I hear from behind me at the same time someone nudges me in my ribs. I turn to the side to see Lexi standing there, wearing the same outfit she had on earlier when she met Gray. “You came.”

“Of course I came,” I chide her. “You said you were playing at seven, so here I am…fashionably early by fifteen minutes.”

“Brannon,” a young guy calls out, and I turn back to the service counter. My tea is there, along with my scone.

I reach into my back pocket, fish out my wallet, and put a five in the tip jar.

“Thanks, dude,” the guy says, and I nod. Totally not professional to call a customer dude, but not my place to say anything.

I take my teacup, resting on a saucer, and Lexi grabs the plate holding my scone.

“Come on,” she says as she turns away from me. “I’ll set you up near the stage.”

I follow her as we weave our way in and out of the scattered furniture to the far corner of the coffee shop where a small stage is set up. Really no more than a wooden platform approximately six feet by six feet, and clearly designed to hold only a single performer and not a band. Lexi had told me the owner of the shop has various artists who perform, not only music but sometimes slam poetry or even local authors who read from their books.

A wrought-iron pub table with a battered wooden top sits to the right of the stage, along with three tall stools that don’t even come close to matching. Lexi places the scone on the table and pulls out a stool that faces the stage. I set my cup and saucer down, and given my height, I’m easily able to take my seat while my feet stay planted on the floor.

“I’ve got to go in the back and make sure I’m tuned up,” Lexi says excitedly. “I’m really glad you came.”

“Sounds good,” I tell her as I lift the tea bag from the steaming water to dunk it a few times. “We’ll talk after the show.”

She gives me a bright smile and then hurries off.

I settle in to enjoy my tea and scone, but I’m startled when the stool beside me scrapes along the lacquered floor and a tiny woman is hopping up onto it, dressed in a long black, red, and gold dress that’s cut deep in the front and cinched tight around her waist with a thick, shiny black belt. I blink in surprise at her sitting there beaming a welcoming smile my way.

“Lexi told me you were coming,” she says, her southern accent thick and tart-sounding, but definitely not hickish.

“Excuse me?” I say as I look at her.

She reaches a hand out to me, each finger adorned with rings, and manners dictate I shake it. The multitude of silver bangles on her wrist jangle as we do so, and she formally introduces herself. “I’m Georgia Mack, and I assume you must be Lexi’s father, Brian Brannon.”

I immediately recognize the name, as I’ve learned a lot about Lexi these past few days, which included her raving about her boss and somewhat of a surrogate mother who owns this shop. In addition, Lexi rents a small apartment above Georgia’s garage, so she’s also her landlord. Lexi confided in me that she had told Georgia that I was her father, but she’s the only person she’s told.

“Ah,” I say in understanding as I smile at her. “Lexi’s boss and owner of this very unique establishment.”

“That I am,” she says as she levels a hard stare at me. “And you look totally out of place here. This is so not your scene, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone appear more awkward before.”

My entire body tightens at what I’m pretty sure was a well-placed insult, but for the life of me I can’t understand why it was lodged. Granted, my status as the CEO of a professional sports team grants me luxuries and privileges that greet me wherever I go, but never once have I been told that I don’t belong somewhere. Especially not in a retail establishment that is dependent upon customer service.

Particularly not by a sprite of a woman with amazing long and curly blond hair and the warmest brown eyes I’ve ever seen, and why in the world am I even focusing on those things?

With a stiff spine, I level a hard stare back at her, not in the slightest taken in by her beauty—or so I tell myself. I sit up straighter on my stool and pull forth all of my executive prowess before I tell her, “Is it your business, Mrs. Mack—”

“Miss Mack,” she says with an exaggerated twang.

“Miss Mack,” I acknowledge. “Is it your business to insult your customers? I can’t say as I’m surprised, as one of your employees called me dude a little bit ago.”

The woman sitting beside me doesn’t acknowledge that she’s insulted me or that she has a rude employee, but merely nods her head wisely. “That’s Tink.”