Page 12 of Coffee Shop Girl
Stop wearing those pants, for starters.
“Do you have somewhere I could take a call? I have a business meeting with a member of my team, and I don’t want it to be interrupted.”
Her teeth bit into her lower lip for a second before she said, “Sure. I have an office you can use. It’s a bit messy.”
“I’m not afraid of messy.”
I’d better not be if we’re going to do this together.
“Down the hall, first door on the right.” She gestured to a short hall only a few steps away. A wry smile appeared in a flash. “And no, it’s not a closet. It’s the office.”
“Ah, thanks.”
Her pulse picked up in her throat, but she didn’t break eye contact with me. A new tension lived in her body that hadn’t been there yesterday, despite the unmitigated disaster of a day. As if she looked away, she’d break.
Good.
I leaned on the counter with both hands, closing the distance between us. Throwing her a little off-balance was my only goal, but it backfired. Instead, I was thrown off track. She smelled like cotton. I couldn’t think for half a breath. Hints of it lingered in the musty shop.
She immediately leaned back.
Ignoring the annoyance in her expression, I asked, “Can I make a deal with you?”
She blinked several times. “A deal?”
“Yes.”
“About what?”
“I’m here to renovate my grandfather’s cabin, but I have meetings to keep up with in the morning. The internet can’t be installed for another couple of weeks.”
Or just one week.
“And you want to workhere?”
I pointed to her office. “I want to work there.”
“That place would give a mole claustrophobia.” She eyed my tall frame. “Will you even fit?”
“I’m sure it would be fine, thank you. I’ll give you a hundred dollars a day.”
By sheer experience, I kept my laissez-faire attitude about it. A hundred dollars was nothing. Coworking spaces in the city sometimes cost more than that, and without such attractive scenery. Besides, it didn’t matter how much. What mattered was her reaction.
The final test.
Her gaze tapered, studying me. She looked up to the ceiling, then back at me with a wary mien.
Good girl,I wanted to say.Don’t trust me yet.
“How many days?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest.
“Five days a week.”
The math computed quickly in her mind. I could almost see the numbers adding up. If my estimations were right—and when weren’t they?—that would double her revenue on slow days. A pittance for a place like this, with massive overhead.
The moment I saw her comprehend the amount, her brow grew heavy. “Why a hundred dollars a day?”
“Why not?”
