Page 23 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

Since I’ve obviously blown this gig, I might as well learn a thing or two.

I take my cup to the daughter at the counter, doomscrolling on her phone.

She doesn’t look up when I approach, her dark hair falling forward so that it’s hard to see her face. But she knows I’m there. “Don’t like it?” The question has a laugh in it.

I skip that question. “What would be a normal order for a place like this?”

“Just a coffee.”

Surely not. “No macchiato? No almond milk? No drizzle?”

Her voice is deadpan. “Just coffee. Plain or french roast.”

I’ll have to find a way to work with this. “Am I allowed to get cream?”

She points to a shelf on the side wall. “From over there, yeah.”

I turn. There’s packets of sugar and sweeteners, and a small silver pitcher with a lid.

“And this is how most small-town coffee shops work around here? Can you even make what I asked for?” The only coffee I ever drank in Alabama was from my dad’s burned-bottom metal percolator that sat on the stove. Once I got to LA, fancy coffee became a line item in my meager budget. I got hooked.

She shrugs. “We can make espresso drinks, sure.”

“And you wouldn’t give me one because ...”

“Your order was ridiculous.” She pretends to flip her hair. “Iced with blah blah milk and drizzles of junk and oh, let me tell you even how to make it because obviously it will suck if I don’t.”

So, my order wasn’t precise; it was insulting. “I see. Thank you.”

I’ve learned.

Just a coffee. Ask for it kindly.

Be simple.

If this is what I’ll have to get at every coffee shop all the way to Alabama to avoid looking like a big-city brat, this is going to be a long trip.

Chapter 8

ZACHERYPLAYSBIGBROTHER

Kelsey doesn’t write me again after my rather emphatic reaction to her suggested hair-color change.

She’s off the deep end. Dressing different. Planning to force a meeting with a strange man.

I’m worried.

I don’t have a desk of my own in Desdemona’s office, so I sit at Kelsey’s, watching Jester attempt to type a letter with one finger. It’s excruciating.

Kelsey’s desk is neat and organized, all the items laid out at right angles. I shift her mouse an inch to the left to break the pattern, then move it back.

Her space includes a framed photo with her mother, a kitten mug that holds her pens, and a collection of small blown-glass unicorns. It strikes me that I have never asked her where they came from.

I’ve had miles of confidence my entire life, which led to auditioning for parts, getting them, and while maybe not having a lifelong career, surviving in the business long enough to be well set.

There hasn’t been a single woman Desdemona has sent me after, or one I’ve pursued on my own, who has made me feel this off-center.

There’s something about Kelsey that brings it out. It’s the combination of her drop-dead looks, her smarts, and her sunny attitude that gets me.

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