Page 3 of Coffee Shop Girl
Setting aside that unfortunate thought, I stepped up behind the open register. “What can I get you?”
His gaze dropped from the board, meeting mine. My breath caught, but I fought through it, forcing myself to maintain eye contact. His eyes were liquid gold. I’d never seen such a color before.
“Macchiato.”
“We are fresh out of that.”
“Caffe latte?”
My voice quieted to a squeak. “That too.”
A flicker of amusement passed over his face as he reached into a back pocket. “How about you tell me what you do have?”
“Scones,” I said, “and bottled water. Until I can figure out the mess that my now-former employee left behind, that’s about as much as you’ll get. Eventually, I’ll have coffee again for you, but it may take ... fifteen minutes at this rate.”
“Breakfast of champions.” He tossed some cash onto the counter. “Scones and water sound great.”
I slid it back. He had to be kidding. The scones could double as hockey pucks, but I’d take whatever mercy he offered.
“On the house.”
He left the money on the counter as he turned to sit down. My fingers itched to take it, but pride forced me to leave it there. The last thing I needed to be doing was turning away money.
But still...
My eyes darted to a clock that featured a prominent salmon Dad had bought while fishing in Alaska. Then I sighed. Nope. Already missed the scholarship meeting with Dave.
Slumping, I leaned against the counter.
Dang.
“Do you have internet?” the Viking asked. His voice rumbled low and deep, like a roll of thunder sliding across a mountain meadow. Despite my desire to get rid of him, I wanted to wrap myself in it.
“Yes. The password is on the board. Do you want the scone warmed?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
He settled onto a table with his back to the door, leaving his chiseled face in full view. I fought off a swear word and left the cash sitting there. Ireallydidn’t want him to stay. Could I force a customer out?
No.
Dad would turn over in his grave, then reach out and slap me.
With a sigh, I grabbed a new water bottle from the mini fridge beneath the counter, warmed a chocolate chip scone on a plate, set the cash next to it, and delivered them to him without looking at his golden eyes.
He was already tapping away at his computer when he said, “Thanks.”
When I turned to go, my eyes snagged a flash of something near the floor. Loose pants. Thin, specialty shoe. Odd kink in the material. I knew those signs very well.
Prosthetic leg.
Interesting.
Grateful to return behind the counter, I made sure the OPEN sign was still off, braced myself for whatever I would find, and set to work. At least Anthony walking out meant I wouldn’t have to pay wages, though shutting down in the middle of rush hour meant I’d lose half of my usual sales for the day. Maybe they’d balance out.
Trying not to total up the lost money of all those cars sailing by, I started mopping up spilled milk on the floor so I could clean up glass shards from the broken cup. I lost myself in the task.
I will not cry.
