💕 “Love, Bellamare”

When Mia Delacroix arrived in Bellamare, she had exactly three things: one overstuffed suitcase, a broken suitcase wheel, and a job she wasn’t sure she wanted.

The train had dropped her off at a station that looked like it belonged in a postcard — cobblestone square, flower boxes, and a small lake glimmering under the afternoon sun. Bellamare, population 3,200, smelled faintly of coffee, rain, and nostalgia.

Mia dragged her suitcase over uneven stones, muttering every French curse she knew. “Bellamare,” she grumbled. “More like Hellamare.”

Her destination: Café du Lune, a small bakery-café where she was supposed to start work as an assistant manager — or as her mother had called it, “a temporary escape from your spectacular career meltdown.”

Inside, the café was charming in that old-European, slightly-chaotic way. Shelves of pastries gleamed under warm lights, and the espresso machine hissed like a dragon. Behind the counter, a tall man in a rolled-up shirt sleeve and an expression of mild annoyance was juggling three orders at once.

“You’re late,” he said without looking up.

Mia blinked. “I just arrived. The train—”

“The train’s always late,” he interrupted, sliding a cappuccino toward an elderly lady who gave him a wink. “So you must be the Paris girl.”

“I’m… Mia,” she said, slightly offended.

“Luca,” he replied, finally glancing at her. His eyes were warm brown, his smirk infuriating. “Welcome to chaos.”

He handed her an apron that clearly wasn’t washed since last century. “You’ll start with croissant inventory. Don’t mix the butter batch with the almond batch, or the town council will start a revolution.”

Mia stared at him. “Do you always talk like that?”

“Only before my fourth coffee.”

By noon, she’d dropped a tray, mixed up two orders, and accidentally told an old man he was “beautiful” instead of “beloved” because her Italian wasn’t great. The café erupted in laughter.

Luca just leaned against the counter, grinning. “You’re fitting right in.”