Page 9 of Can't Help Growling in Love
I reach down to pick it up. “Here. And, uh, you go ahead, I’ll wait.”
He takes the wallet, his smile relieved. “Thanks, man.”
I step aside to let him pass, then stare at his back like a weirdo. The guy is my age, or maybe a couple of years older, yet he has a family. Two kids who look up to him and expect him to provide for them, even if they’re not conscious about the fact.
My father was…isa hard man. I haven’t talked to him since I left the Army because he thought I should have stayed in despite my injuries and trauma.Summers men serve their country, son.He doesn’t think “fucking around with a microphone” is a worthy job for his offspring. I tried to explain that going back would very likely mean his offspring would die a sudden and violent death, but apparently, that’s a better option than being a civilian.
It wasn’t exactly a surprise to find out his opinion about my life choices. Mom’s refusal to challenge him hurt much more.
For the sake of these two adorable kids, I hope their father is less of an asshole than mine.
The line moves forward, and I take out my phone to check my messages, but there’s nothing new from June. I still feel guilty about what I did in my bed earlier, so I shove my phone back in my pocket and refocus on the people in front of me.
I’ve never allowed myself to imagine having a family. For so long, my entire life was dedicated to my unit, and I went wherever we were sent, as all soldiers do. Then I got out, and for a while, my body and mind were both too broken to even contemplate a relationship, let alone adding the responsibility of children to the mix.
But now…
For all intents and purposes, I’m a perfectly functional individual. I earn a steady paycheck, I own my house outright, and I take care of myself. Yet there are still nights when I wake up from a nightmare, sweating. I get overstimulated in noisy places like this coffee shop, and the thought of sharing all this mess with another person scares the shit out of me.
The father in front of me places their order, which includes two cupcakes, one with sprinkles and one without, and a triple-shot mocha latte. He gives me another quick smile as he collects their order and shuffles off to the last unoccupied table to let his kids load up on sugar.
“Hey, welcome to Cool Beans, what can I get you?”
The man behind the counter blurts out the greeting so fast, I can barely understand him. His dark eyes are blown wide, and he glances past me at the forming queue, alarmed.
“Uh, my boss called in an order?” I peer at the other end of the counter, hoping he has the coffee ready somewhere. “Stella Rask.”
If possible, his eyes widen more at that, and he moans softly. “Oh, damn. I mean, I’m sorry. I’ve been swamped all morning.” He glances around as if help might magically manifest. “Uh, I prepped the pastries, but you’ll have to give me a minute to make the coffees. Just…what’s your name again?”
“Asher,” I say without thinking.
I could have reminded him the order is in Stella’s name, but he’s already scribbling on a takeaway cup, so I let it go.
“Two minutes,” he promises me. Then he glances at the slip that holds the info on Stella’s order. “Okay, maybe three. Just…please, wait over there, and I’ll get these ready as soon as I can.”
He holds out the card reader, and I tap my phone against it to pay. Then I shove a couple of small bills in the tip jar, and the barista nods distractedly, already working on the first espresso.
“Thank you. Enjoy your coffee!”
I shuffle to the side, reaching for my phone again. I fire off a text to Stella to say that this is going to take a while longer.
The bell above the door chimes again, and I glance up out of reflex. A woman walks in, wearing a pink bike helmet and colorful rain gear—a pair of teal waterproof pants and a purple raincoat. Her rain boots are pink, too, but a different shade than her helmet. The overall effect is startling, but it’s not the gear that has my heart thumping double-time.
It’s the twin braids hanging limp and damp, and a pair of gorgeous brown eyes. A generous mouth, and that pink flush in her cheeks.
June Johansson stands in line, oblivious to the fact that my world is tilting sideways. She pulls a tissue from her pocket and blows her nose, then hops lightly to shake raindrops from her waterproof jacket. Then she glances to the right, her gaze passing over me.
I—I need to stop staring.
Turning away from her is painful, but I do it anyway because she’s already looked away, and that’s exactly how it should be.Compared to her vibrant image, I’m a ghost, a ghoul lurking in the corner, wearing black sweatpants and a rain-spattered gray sweatshirt.
Even though my entire being strains in her direction, I force myself to take my phone from my pocket, pretending to scroll through my feed even though I can’t see a thing. I don’t even dare glance at her. She might not know what I look like. I’ve made damn sure there aren’t any photos of me online. But if she catches me staring again, she could…
“Three lattes and a double-shot espresso for Asher?”
I jerk my head up to find the barista staring at me expectantly, but I can’t make my hands move to take the cardboard tray of drinks and the paper bag of pastries he’s holding out to me.
Instead, I swivel my head slowly, dread coursing through my body.
