Page 3 of The Relationship Clause

Hence the itch to leave Pete’s even though I love it here. It’s an itch I must, under all circumstances, ignore. I need to fix my resume.

But things are starting to get too familiar, too cozy, too good to be true. Better to leave on my own terms instead of waiting for things to fall apart.

That’s what my dad always said too…

The bell above the door jingles. I look past the woman I’m currently ringing up and nearly swallow my gum. My pulse spikes and my palms go immediately clammy because he walks through the door. The other reason I wanted to return to work so soon and quite possibly the biggest perk of working here.

Mr. TDC—Tall, Dark, and Caffeinated.

That’s not his real name, of course, but it’s what I write on his coffee cup every morning. I did it as a joke the first time he came in, and it sort of stuck. He’s never asked what it means, which is just as well because I’m pretty sure if he ever did, I’d be too mortified to admit it.

The first time he came in was only a couple of weeks after I started working here. He’d called in a large order ahead of time, presumably for everyone in his office.

Should I be using his real name at this point? Yes. But for the life of me, I can’t remember what it is. I think it starts with a C, or maybe an O? He told me that day, but I was so enamored staring into his beautiful, brown, bedroom eyes that I maybe, sort of, wasn’t paying attention to the words coming out of his bedroom lips. Didn’t know bedroom lips were a thing? Well, if you saw Mr. TDC, you would, and you’d totally agree with me.

This is why Kiera, my best friend and old roommate, wants a picture. To prove he’s as gorgeous as I say he is.

To go along with those lips and eyes, he’s also got this deliciously thick-looking dark hair, just the right amount of stubble on his beautifully cut jaw, and shoulders that look like he could bench press all of my baggage and then some. Impressive is an understatement.

He works at some office building in downtown Greenville, and he orders the same thing every day—a small, black coffee. That, plus his uncanny resemblance to Aidan Turner, is literally all I know about him. But that doesn’t keep me from dreaming of what our babies would look like.

I pop up from my stool to get to work on Mr. TDC’s order, but a pair of hands land on my shoulders from behind and push me firmly back down. “Relax, Junie. I’ve got it.”

I whip my head around, staring up into Pete’s knowing eyes. From this distance, I have a clear view of his crow’s feet and the gray whiskers in his stubbled chin. “Yeah, but I—”

“I don’t care if you’re half in love with him—”

I flail my arms around like a person being attacked by a shark, shushing to get him to be quiet. He only lowers his voice marginally.

“You’re staying on that stool. Got it?” Without waiting for an answer, Pete starts making Mr. TDC’s coffee as he gets in line behind a few other people.

I take a sneaky glance down the line of people to where he stands. He’s wearing his typical wool overcoat with a suit coat, white shirt, and tie—wine colored today. His hair looks as if it’s been recently trimmed. He’s talking on his phone, eyebrows knit together in a smoldering glare.

I have no idea what he does, but I can imagine him as some big executive, commanding an entire office building, closing deals with a tilt of his head. The images this conjures in my head are enough to make me fan myself with my hand.

Speaking of hands, I’ve checked his multiple times, and there is no ring in sight. Not even a tan line from a ring. But maybe he has a girlfriend somewhere. A man that good-looking, how could he not? At the least, he’s got to have no less than five women in his office who secretly pine for him.

The closer Mr. TDC gets in the line, the more agitated he looks, which is odd. Don’t get me wrong, he’s no Mr. Sunshine. He’s kind of growly and monosyllabic—hence the reason we’ve exchanged less than five sentences with each other in all this time—but he’s not usually this upset. It’s weird, and I don’t like it. A knot of worry twists in my gut, just behind the dull pain where my appendix used to be.

For half a second, I think about snapping a quick picture for Kiera, but quickly dismiss it. It’s too stalkerish and feels like an invasion of his privacy, especially considering the circumstances. Kiera will have to continue to take my word for it.

“Yes,” Mr. TDC says into his phone. He’s close enough that I can hear his half of the conversation now, and I do my best to make it look like I’m not eavesdropping as I take the man’s card in front of him. “I know. No. I’m not—” He cuts off with a rough sigh. “Fine. Yes, I’ll meet you tonight. Send me the address.” He hangs up without saying goodbye and moves forward in line, his hard gaze dropping to me.

Our eyes lock. Everything I want to say hangs on the tip of my tongue, but he’s holding me with the full force of his smolder, and all possible words in my vocabulary drop out of my brain.

I’m vaguely aware of a drink appearing beside my elbow. Bless Pete. Or Marlee. Whoever it was. I manage to break the staring contest Mr. TDC and I are in and drop my eyes so I can push his drink closer to him. It takes a beat or two, but he finally takes the drink out of my hand. I have to force myself and the stupid butterflies in my stomach to behave when his fingers brush mine.

“You’re back,” he says simply. His voice is deep and soft. So soft, I almost don’t realize he’s talking to me, and he has to say it again, louder this time.

My brain almost short-circuits. Inside, there’s a marching band of sorts waving flags and banners that spell out the words, “He noticed I was gone!”

“That Andrew kid could never remember my order.”

Oh.

Andrew is a college kid who normally works afternoons but took my shift for me while I was in the hospital. Mr. TDC didn’t miss me as much as he missed the convenience of having a barista who remembered him.

But I’m desperate enough that I don’t care.

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