Page 1 of Yield to Me

Chapter 1

The midnight snack rush was just passable enough for me to bear the hangover I was nursing. I know, I know. A hangover by midnight. I’m one classy lady. But let me explain: It started out as a half glass of free wine, a necessary staple at the gallery openings for Foundation For the Arts. The advanced photography teacher’s assistant somehow convinced me to drink two more. I felt like a real winner already (not!) and the night was still young.

I rang up a group of four customers, all of which wanted iced black coffee and barbecue flatbreads. Clay, my coworker, stretched out a long arm to pull the receipt and start their order. Bobby, the owner of No Doze Cafe, shuffled out, scanning the line that stretched to the door. The cafe was smack dab in the middle of the Broadway Strip in San Francisco, which meant our next door neighbors were the Condor Club and Nookie Books, an adult bookstore rumored to have a glory hole in the restroom. It’s not the type of place I liked hanging around, but Bobby, the owner, promised decent tips, especially if I worked the cash register.

I forced a smile as the next customer walked up. He handed me twenty dollars for a french press pot and winked as he told me to keep the change. In my head, I rolled my eyes, but it was better than the fifty-two cents the last group left us. After him, a few dancers from one of the clubs ordered a lavender latte with no foam, two iced coffees with espresso shots, and a blended mocha. As they pulled out their wallets and clutches, thick with ones, I stared at Lavender Latte’s false eyelashes. The glue had melted, leaving the last millimeter of black strands barely hanging on. Besides looking tired and overly done up, they were all pretty, with full red lips and a mix of hair colors. I noticed Clay staring at a woman with long black hair as he blended the mocha.

I grabbed a twenty-five-pound bag of coffee beans from the back room, heaving it towards the front, when the door chimed. A man in a suit walked in. He checked his watch as he approached the counter. Clay was staring at the man. Clay sometimes did that, sized up certain customers he knew were bound to give me trouble, always being the protective cafe brother. But this was different; he was staring as if he couldn’t exactly place who he was. He didn’t even glance at the dancers as he handed them their drinks. And when they noticed his lack of attention, they turned and stared too. The short platinum blonde’s jaw dropped open.

“What can I get you?” I asked. Dark brown hair styled back, a dark freckle beneath his lip. The brilliant hue of his green eyes was piercing, like the sunset coming through the trees in a forest. He looked like he was five to ten years older than me, in his early or mid-thirties, and clearly had a well-established career to be wearing that kind of suit and watch. His suit was tight enough that you could tell he had broad, muscular shoulders and strong, thick legs. He was an attractive money man, there was no doubt about it, but everyone’s reactions seemed bigger than that. I wondered if I was missing something.

“What do you recommend?” he asked. His voice was smooth and deep, like molasses dripping down the side of a jar. His eyes stayed a second on the menu behind me, then locked onto mine. The corner of his mouth lifted into a half smile, as if to tell me he was amused that he had caught me staring. I quickly looked at the street side’s windowed wall and flushed.

“Iced coffee with the pesto flatbread,” I said. It was our most popular combination, but it was also what I got when I wanted my free meal.

“Flavored syrup?” he asked.

Pick something already, I thought. “No, sir.”

“No hazelnut?” he asked. Why had he assumed I’d like hazelnut? There was that smirk again. It was like he was playing a game at my expense, and I didn’t know what the rules were or how to win. My cheeks kept getting warmer and warmer, and I didn’t even want to know how red I was. “I know,” he said. He leaned on the counter with his palms, moving closer to me. “Dark cherry and a splash of half and half.”

I did add dark cherry syrup sometimes, and I liked my half and half. It was eerie how close he was to my usual order. “That can be good,” I said steadily, careful not give him the satisfaction of guessing correctly. “But I like my coffee black,” I lied.

“Black?”

“Black like my heart.”

The joke was meant to be slightly rude, to show where the boundaries began and ended, but also to flirt for a substantial tip. He laughed, and his smile’s warmth was disarming. The laugh lines around his eyes made him even more charming. It was a real laugh.

“You go to Foundation For the Arts,” he said, standing up straight. “I’ve seen you at the openings.”

The Foundation For the Arts was a few miles away, and while business types made there way onto Broadway often, the artistic types rarely wandered down these roads. They probably couldn’t afford it. I was only here because I worked in the area. “I go to the openings,” I said.

“You’re in the midst of applying, then?”

I crossed my arms over my chest, wishing I had a sweater to hide in. He was staring at me with such intensity; his eyes never left me when they should’ve been more interested in those done up women that were ogling him, whispering to each other, clearly planning their sneak attack. At least they were dressed up to the same extent he was. I was in my black apron and cream colored polo with coffee stains on my pants. It was flattering that he knew who I was, but it also embarrassed me, like he shouldn’t see me in both places, this other side of me. No one had ever asked about my life outside of the cafe before, and no one at the Foundation knew about my job, except for the teacher’s assistant.

“Do you know what you want?” I asked, wanting the conversation to end.

After a moment of silence, I inched my gaze up to him. His pink lips were plush, the bottom lip slightly plumper than the top; I wondered how it would feel to press our lips together. A gentle touch, the need to nibble on his perfect mouth. I made the mistake of looking up to his eyes, and they held mine for what felt like an eternity. Those emerald irises gleamed like he was hunting me, showing an act of dominance that he owned the ground we stood on and everything on it, including me. I had to fight myself to keep from looking away. I wanted him to know that I could stand my ground too.

And then he smiled. That’s when my face felt like it was on fire. I knew I was beet red.

“I'm friends with the director. Professor Chang too.” He paused, gauging my reaction. I kept my expression blank, even though I knew my red cheeks betrayed me. I wanted the conversation to end so I could get back to work and pretend like he wasn’t a beautiful predator that had emerged from the depths of the woods. It would be easier to pretend like he was another stripper-loving-businessman while I was grinding coffee beans, and not looking at him. “I could introduce you,” he said. Another dramatic pause lingered between us. The way he slowly said those words, it was like he thought his offer was a golden ticket that I should be groveling for, grabbing it out of his hand. But more than anything, I hated when people tried to give me handouts, especially men. It pissed me off; it was as if they thought I was some impossibly small woman incapable of doing things on her own.

“Thanks, All-Mighty-One,” I said under my breath, but loudly enough so he could hear.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

My eyes narrowed, but I kept my forced smile. I even showed teeth. I must’ve looked like a primal animal glaring like that, baring my fangs. “Thanks, but it’s two a.m. in a twenty-four-hour cafe. It’s not the time or the place to talk about the arts. You should order your food.”

“I disagree,” he said. “Why limit artistic discussion? Isn’t that against the arts? It’s endless possibilities?”

I almost staggered in my tracks. He was right, but I wasn’t about to admit it. Just because he was beautiful like a half-naked statue of a Greek God, didn’t mean I had to bow down before him.

“I’m not your average customer here,” he said.

“No,” I smiled. “You’re special, just like everyone else.”

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