Page 3 of In Death's Hands
I stumbled upon The Muddied Waters almost by accident. I could even say fate, if I believed in such a thing. I went to cross London Bridge, but I chose the worst time of day to do so: rush hour. It seemed like the entire population of the town was running about, pushing me around to get to work while drinking their morning caffeine fix, a lot of which I ended upwearingby the time I reached the end of said bridge.
That whole ordeal made me want coffeeinme, and when I turned around, trying to find my bearings, I saw this small place that looked like a rainbow had puked on it. It was made for me.
But my life isn’t a movie. I didn’t enter bright-eyed and full of hope, and they didn’t give me a job because someone hadjustquit and they were desperate for help. No. It took practically a month of me befriending the busy staff and a lot of begging forthem to vouch for me and send my ridiculously short CV to the new owner.
Six years later, I’m now the employee with the most seniority. Not the oldest, mind you. Isaiah, a fifty-five-year-old teddy bear of a man, started working with us a few months ago, after his husband passed away. It’s strange to be his superior, but he takes it in stride. He only works here part-time to stay busy, anyway, not because he needs it. He used to be some kind of fancy lawyer, apparently, so money doesn’t seem to be an issue for him.
Nor is it for me, but I don’t talk about it.
Isaiah is now looking at me with a twinkle in his eyes as he’s purposefully taking three times longer than usual to make a simple large white mocha.
The playful man didn’t have any issues fitting in with our young crew. It’s only the three of us now during the busy afternoon shift, but there are six other people on staff, all of whom are students with big dreams. But right now, I’m not so focused on my lack of personal dreams, but rather on the handsome man waiting to order his coffee while Joana is conveniently wiping an already clean table at the front of the shop.
Do they think themselves clever? I roll my eyes and step up behind the register to take his order and finally allow myself to truly look at him. I’ve been careful every time he’s come in not to ogle him too much. I admit I haven’t been that successful, because as I once again take in his tall frame, broad shoulders stretching the dark grey sweater that probably cost more than my rent, something relaxes inside me.
Weird. I know I missed seeing him here, but that’s kind of a big reaction for a stranger. I cast it out of my mind and focus on him. He must think my team and I are complete lunatics by now.
My heartbeat accelerates when my gaze settles on his face. Square jaw, kissable mouth, proud nose, strikingly dark eyes. And short, messy dark hair. Yup. He looks like a god.
I realise I’ve been staring too long without speaking when he clears his throat, the sound luring my eyes back to his lips, currently quirking on one side.
Shit.
I blame him. Had he continued to show up every day like he used to, I would surely be desensitised to his good looks. But now, it’s all hitting me like the first time I laid eyes on him. I was so stunned I choked on my mocha until it came out of my nose.
Giving myself a mental slap, I finally open my mouth to greet this completely normal, random customer. Except that instead of saying hello and asking what he wants, I say, “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
Double shit. Way to be a creeper, Liv.
His lips now extend into a full smile that turns my breath shallow. “I had some things to take care of.”
“Oh.”
We stare at each other, and I’m growing more and more nervous. Why is neither one of us saying anything? Ah. Maybe because I’m a freaking barista who should be asking him what he wants to drink!
In the background, I hear a customer clearing her throat pointedly, forcing sanity back into me. “What can I get you?” My voice does a weird squeaky thing that I refuse to acknowledge.
“Coffee. Black. Thank you.”
“Are you sure?” Huh? What sort of question is that? Of course he’s sure, Liv. That’s what he always gets! Sigh.
He cocks his head in response, and I’m preparing for a mortifying moment, but he only says, “What wouldyouhave?”
“Uhm. What?”
“You seem to disapprove of my choice, but I’m not very familiar with the other beverages you offer here. So, what would you choose instead?”
“Beverages…” He sounds so fancy my heart does a flip in my chest and I wonder for a second how someone in our day and age can talk like that. And doesn’t know the kinds of drinks one can order at a coffee shop. Sure, we have specials with strange names like the Unicorn Swirl, courtesy of yours truly—a double shot with caramel syrup and bright pink whipped cream with sprinkles on top—but the rest of the menu is normal enough.
I quickly forget my train of thought, however, as his curious gaze makes me stupid. “Mocha!” I nearly shout, finally remembering to answer him. Jesus. Clearing my throat, I try again. “I’d take a mocha. It’s got chocolate and coffee, so it’s basically heaven in a cup.”
“Heaven, huh?” He seems amused. “Then I’d like a taste of it.”
I nod, keeping my lips closed to try to limit the number of nutsy things that can come out of it before I’m through with this exchange. I busy myself taking his money and preparing the drink. My colleagues mercifully take over the register and tend to the numerous other clients that were getting antsy from such a long wait.
Sadly, my mouth has a mind of its own today, and before I hand him his cup, I ask, “What’s your name?”
“Why?” He seems taken aback by the question, making me realise I have absolutely no fucking reason to ask for it. We’re not Starbucks!
