Page 3 of My Blind Date is a Werewolf

“You’re kidding me.” She slapped a hand on the counter, her eyes tearing up.

“Why would I kid you about that? Apparently, she doesn’t trust anyone who comes from Mystic Cove and wanted to make sure nothing nefarious was afoot after Jessica left the last Beckford looser a bedwetting, screeching mess,” I told her.

“Hey, cut the chit-chatting and get a move on, will ya? Some of us have jobs to get to!” Officer Schmidt hollered down the line, tapping his foot impatiently. His bushy mustache wiggled as if it wanted to scurry off his face. There was an ongoing debate around the town as to whether the facial hair was real or fake.

“Oh, shut your trap, Schmidt,” one of the local crones barked. “We all know that once you’ve had your doughnut fix you’re going to pack your cruiser behind the Welcome to Mystic Cove billboard and pretend you’re running a speed trap while you snore the day away in the car.”

That drew some laughs from the other customers. Everyone knew that it was rare to get pulled over for speeding when Officer Schmidt was on traffic duty. Either way, Angie paid for her order and moved down the counter to fetch her coffee, but not before promising to pry more details from me later.

The day seemed to totter on at a snail’s pace after the breakfast rush. I was scheduled to work until the afternoon since I’d been pulling full-day shifts for two weeks straight. I’d planned on doing all the admin crap back home and finally getting to some housework and then sweet, sweet sleep.

My gaze wandered to a table in the far back, away from the sunlight—a seat reserved for possibly one of my favorite people ever. And it wasn’t only because he was one of my favorite authors ever and I had the pleasure of being his go-to beta reader… Okay, it was exactly for that reason.

Grabbing a carafe of black coffee from the special menu, I walked over to give him a refill and get a sneak peek at his latest project.

“Hey, Emil, you need a refill?” A pair of startling citrine eyes met mine. Those eyes were a shade darker than his shoulder-length hair that was gathered in a man bun at the nape of his neck. Jury was out on whether Emil’s hair was naturally yellow or if he dyed it. Vampirism tended to cause weird mutations in some vampires.

Emil lowered the screen of his laptop before I could get a sneak peek at the top-secret project he would tell me nothing about.

“Yes, please—even if your ploy is glaringly obvious.” The hundred-and-sixty-eight-year-old vampire smirked at me. I couldn’t imagine what it felt like to be an adult stuck in a sixteen-year-old’s body for eternity, but Emil had figured it out.

“How’s the latest project coming along?” I poured him his coffee. It was a little thicker than most people liked it and left the sides of the carafe tinged with red.

The blood coffee was an experiment of mine so that Jumpin’ Beans could cater to everyone in the town, and it had taken me a couple of tries to get the ratio of blood to caffeine right—some vampires preferred more blood than coffee, while others only wanted a hint of blood in their coffee. The idea came to me when I accidentally drank blood-laced red wine at a friend’s place, and it had become a hit with the vampire community.

“The project is coming along just fine. And for the hundredth time, you’ll get your grubby hands on it when I am done with the first draft,” he gently chided. I tried haggling with him for a few minutes before I relented and left him in peace. With a lull in the shop, Wendy was busy scrolling through her Instagram, seated on a stool behind the counter while her brother wiped down tables and returned mugs and plates to the kitchen. Before she knew what was happening, I’d snatched her phone from her and stuffed it in the front pocket of my apron.

“I feel like I should point out that you should be the one carrying all the valuables back into the kitchen instead of Butterfingers McGee over there. And could we stop with the elevator music already?” I glared at the speakers mounted on the wall behind us. Wendy had a Lo-fi playlist, and relaxing as it was, it made me want to curl up in bed and sleep.

Wendy opened her mouth, already armed with a retort, but cut herself off at the glare I shot her. Luckily for her, two customers walked through the doors. Shooting up like there was a spring under her butt, she went to help them.

A glance at the wall clock showed that the lull would end in about half an hour when the lunch masses came swarming in. Sighing, I walked back into the kitchen to get started on making sandwiches for those who called ahead for orders, and the cold sandwiches for those who would not want to wait too long for an order. Once I was done with those, I was going to be swarmed by incoming orders and working like a headless chicken trying to keep up—I needed to hire one or two more people to assist me in the kitchen, but between the house needing renovations and the coffee shop also needing a little facelift, my finances were strained. But if I wanted Jumpin’ Beans to continue growing, I’d have to dig deep into my accounts. I was thinking of hiring another chef to diversify our menu. As much as I loved cooking, baking was my forte, but I wanted to offer more than just sugary treats.

I went down the rabbit hole, fantasizing about the kind of cafe I wanted Jumpin’ Beans to be one day. I’d been on track before the divorce three years ago. I’d sold my first iteration of Jumpin’ Beans in the city and moved out here to be closer to my family and the people who really cared about me instead of the emotional and financial vampires I had been constantly surrounded by—my ex chief among them.

My pockets might be a little emptier now, and, sure, I did miss the financial security that came with being married to a corporate shark, but boy did my heart and shoulders feel ten times lighter—my finger too after I pawned off the monstrosity of an engagement ring he’d given me.

No! Do not give that pig a second thought, Liv—he’s moved on and you’ve…kinda moved on, I thought to myself. I grimaced, images of all my failed dates and relationships post-divorce flashing through my mind. I don’t need a man to feel complete, so stop acting like a lovelorn ninny and focus on something that really matters.

I got sucked into the repetitive routine of sandwich making until Peter came into the kitchen, face flushed and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

God, what was it like to be that painfully shy? I felt bad that this job forced him to socially interact with others when he so obviously did not want to, but, hey, he’d get better at it eventually, right?

“Hey, Petey, is something wrong?” I tossed a slice of cucumber into my mouth before completing the takeout order I was working on and packaged it so that he’d take it out front.

“Th-there’s…uh…someone who wants to talk to you out front. Wendy sent me back here to c-cover for you.” His voice was a soft whisper, so I had to strain to catch what he was saying.

It was never good news when a customer brought out the “I want to speak to the manager” card. Most of the time—in my experience at least—the customers tended to be entitled twats who thought the sun rose and set on their command.

Taking off my gloves and hairnet, I checked my reflection in the mirrored surface of the fridge and re-fastened my high ponytail. “Did something happen?”

I didn’t hear any of the usual rants coming from the front, so at least I wasn’t at risk of walking out there and having coffee splashed into my face. It had happened to me twice before, and the only reason I didn’t get burned was because Michelle Wentz had terrible aim.

Peter shook his head. “He says he’s a friend of yours and just wants to talk to you.”

A friend?

The line was six people long when I walked out, and half of our tables were already taken up, chatter filling the small shop. Wendy was busy ringing up a customer, but she flicked her head to the far end of the counter where a familiar face was waiting for me. “He’s back,” she mouthed, grimacing.

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