Page 4 of Fall I Want
“My love life,” I explain, but she knows that I’ve been in a dry spell, too.
Blaire chuckles. “You’re too intimidating. Most guys can’t talk to someone who looks like you. And the ones who can... they’re typically trouble or ex-Olympian skiers with tiny dicks.”
I snicker and they high-five. “Sebastian wasn’t that small.”
Blaire rolls her eyes and holds out her pinkie. “I witnessed it with my own eyeballs.”
“Average is perfectly fine,” I say.
They both glare at me. Neither ever understood what I saw in him. Sebastian was my rat boy ex. We all have one, right?
When Blaire grabs an apron and ties it around her waist, I notice her black cat earrings with dangly tail and paws.
“I want a pair of those,” Julie says, stealing the words out of my mouth as she carries a few gallons of milk to the extra storage fridge. “I would wear thefuckout of those.”
“Guess it’s an F-bomb day?” I ask with a brow lifted.
“Every day is.”
I shake my head. “Two dollars of your tips are going into the fuck jar. It’s too early for all that.”
While Julie can do whatever she wants, last month her parents ripped us a new one over our inappropriate language. Apparently, the pastor overheard one of our “rowdy conversations,” as they labeled it. We’re convinced his hearing aids were in spy mode. The two of us were practically whispering. Thefuck jarwas created, and it’s covered the expenses for several margarita days.
When the store is ready for the morning rush, I glance out the wall of glass, noticing the line of regulars that’s already formed. The sidewalk outside of Cozy Coffee is one of the hot gossip spots andone reason I’m convinced so many show up weekly. Or it could be our kick-ass java. Probably both.
“Food is almost done,” Blaire says as she enters from the back. “Five more minutes.”
Sweetness wafts through the air, and though we make chocolate croissants every day, it never gets old. I glance out the window, seeing the sky has brightened as Blaire sets fresh vases of flowers on each table.
“I’ll be happy when we can light the fireplace,” Julie says, placing a few decorative pumpkins on the mantel. It’s not officially autumn yet. Honestly, everyone is lucky she doesn’t start with the spooky decorations on July fifth.
The timer rings from the back and I run to grab the pastries. With two mitts, I slide the trays from the commercial oven and carry them to the front. Once they’re put away, it’s time to open. Julie goes to the door and unlocks it. The early morning chatter fills the space, and every person is smiling as they enter.
“Ready to rock this?” I ask.
“Yep,” they say in unison.
Blaire moves to the cash register and I move to one espresso machine. “It’s a great day to have a Cozy Coffee. Welcome in, everyone,” she says with a wide smile, like it’s a grand opening.
Soon, the printer is spitting out orders and we make drinks like bartenders. Most other shifts run with more people, but Julie and I can predict each other’s movements and we’re efficient baristas. For the first hour, we nonstop set drinks at the end of the counter. No one waits longer than four minutes. It’s an art and why this place has continued to stay in business for eighty years straight.
I pull the next order from the machine and immediately snicker, then show it to Julie.
She shakes her head. “Glad it’s you and not me.”
While I have a degree in literature, I trained at one of the mostprestigious coffee shops in the country when I was in undergrad. Making a ristretto shot is nothing, all the finance men in the city drank them, but it’s also a dickhead drink nine times out of ten.
I go to a manual machine, knowing I need a precise amount of liquid. After finely grinding the beans, I carefully tamp the powdered grounds. Soon after, the espresso drips from the metal tips and it looks like a thick honey. The crema on top is perfect. This cup is a ten out of ten and whoever Alexander is, hopefully they’re impressed.
I check the name on the side of the short cup and move to the end of the counter. “Ristretto for Alexander.”
When I glance up, his deep ocean-colored eyes are on me and my mouth slightly parts. The pulse in my neck increases and I nearly lose my ability to speak. My temperature rises and I forget how to breathe as my eyes scan down his tall, muscular body. The sleeves of his stark white dress shirt stick to his carved biceps. The cuffs are rolled to his elbows and his navy-blue suit pants sit perfectly on his waist. He’s clean-cut like he should be on a yacht sipping dirty martinis with his swimsuit-model girlfriend.
I force a friendly smile and search for words as he approaches because he shouldn’t exist.
Mr. Dreamy.
My palms grow sweaty as he stares at me. Everyone and everything fades away and in that moment, it’s the two of us. I clear my throat and glance back down at his name. “Alex?”
