Page 17 of Dreaming of Dawson

“Has the job already been taken?” I ask.

“No. It’s still available.” He tilts his head slightly. “You’re… You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No. Is that a requirement of the job?”

“No. It’s just I’ve never seen you before.”

“I live with my aunt, although her house is quite a way outside of town. You might have heard of her. Her name’s Bernice…”

“Oh, you mean Bernie Wilkes?” he says, like they’re the oldest friends in the world.

“That’s her. Although my name isn’t Wilkes. It’s Potter… Macy Potter.” I hold out my hand across the bar and after just a second’s hesitation, he takes it, his touch giving me a jolt, which I do my best to hide, with a slight cough.

How can he have gotten under my skin already?

He can’t. It’s not possible. It’s certainly not practical.

And it’s not what I’m here for.

“Do you wanna take a seat?” he says, finally releasing my hand.

“Sure.”

I sit up on one of the bar stools, removing my jacket and putting it across my lap.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“I don’t drink… not alcohol, anyway. But I’ll have a coffee, if that’s okay.”

He nods his head, turning away from me, and as he works the barista machine, I study his muscular back, concealedbeneath a tight-fitting check shirt. I know this isn’t what I’m here for, but the man is built like a bear. Where else am I supposed to look?

“There you go,” he says, putting down two cups on the bar between us, pushing one a little closer to me.

“Thanks.”

I take a sip, looking up at him, trying not to fixate on his deep brown eyes and stubbled jaw, although ‘stubbled’ is being generous. It’s more like a beard, which I’m sure would look even more attractive if he’d lose the scowl and crack a smile. He doesn’t say a word, but gulps down his coffee, and for a second, I catch a whiff of strong liquor. It’s been a while since I’ve worked in a bar, but I think it’s probably bourbon.

“Do you want another?” he says.

“No, thanks.” I’ve barely touched the one I’ve got, but before I can say anything, he flips around and fixes himself a second coffee, returning to me within moments.

“So, you don’t drink?” he says, putting his cup down.

“No. I know it sounds strange for someone applying to work in a bar, but it’s never stopped me in the past.”

His face clears slightly, although he’s still a long way from smiling. “You’ve worked in bars before?” he says and I nod my head.

“Yeah. Right through college. That was four years ago, but it’s not something you forget, is it?”

“No, it’s not.” He leans forward slightly. “Is there a reason you don’t drink?”

“Not particularly. I’ve just never developed a taste for it.”

“I see,” he says, sipping at his coffee this time, rather than gulping it down. “And what have you been doing in the intervening four years?”

“I left college with a degree in digital design and moved back to Boston, where I got a job as a web designer.”

“How did you get from there to here?” he asks, and I get the impression he’s unable to see where I’m gonna be able to use my hard-earned talents if I’m working behind a bar. He has a point, but it’s not relevant. Not now.

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