Page 7 of Latte Girl
I Swear I’m Not aStalker
Hailey
At ten to ten,I’m just putting the finishing touches on the catering display. A selection of baked goods are resting on shiny metal trays, next to a fruit platter I rearranged into a swirling pattern, and a few coffee dispensers surrounded by carefully stacked ceramic mugs. I stopped just short of folding the napkins into origamiswans.
Images of fantasy man’s face still sway before my eyes. I feel like I’ve been rambling through the desert all my life before stumbling upon the sparkling waters of an oasis, and let me tell you, I amthirsty. I tried to keep myself from staring, but that didn’t stop me from stealing enough glances to notice that his eyes were the colour of a freshly poured macchiato, or that his body strained against his suit in all the rightplaces.
Most of the right places. I didn’t let my eyes droptoolow.
I found a portable sized espresso machine in the main compartment of the cart, and set it up on a stand that was tucked behind the banquet table. Judging from the confused expressions on people’s faces as they start to file into the room, I may have gone a little overboard with all thearrangements.
I take orders from a few people and offer to bring their drinks over once they’re ready. I’m finishing up an Americano when a grey-haired man who smells like cold cuts and cigarettes greets me with a raspy, “Morning,darling.”
“Good morning. Can I get youanything?”
I’ve noticed almost all the people at this meeting are men, men who seem to have noticed thatI’ma twenty-two year-old woman. Most have been content to try putting the charm on while ordering drinks and check me out when they think I’m not looking, but this one seems moredetermined.
“You know how to work that machine all byyourself?”
Tell me he did not justsaythat.
I swallow down the impassioned feminist rant that is rising in mythroat.
“Yes, I do know how to work an espresso machine,” I answer, as evenly as I canmanage.
“That’s very impressive, young lady. I’ll have whatever kind of drink isyourfavourite. I’m sitting just overthere.”
He gives me a shudder-inducing wink and heads over to the table. My eyes move to the spot he gestured towards and Ifreeze.
It’shim.
He’s facing away from me, but I have no doubt that it’s the impossibly attractive guy from the elevator. My hands start shaking as I top off the latte for Cold Cuts withsomefoam.
What the hell? I think to myself.You don’t even know his name. Get ittogether.
I take in a deep breath and bring the latte over to the table. The meeting has already started and I try to set the mug down as quietly as possible, avoiding Cold Cut’s eyes atallcost.
I can’t help but glance at the younger man on his left, though. I’m met with the same liquid brown gaze that instantly has my heart pounding as fast as it was in theelevator.
I back away and go to stand next to the food, unsure of whether I’m supposed to stay or not. I feel like a seventh grader with a crush. I met this guy all of an hour ago, and suddenly just the fact that I caught him looking at me is enough to have my stomach doing gymnastics. He can’t bethathot.
I steal another look at the back of him, at his perfectly disheveled hair and the trim shoulders ofhissuit.
Yes. Yeshecan.
The fierce looking man at the head of table, whose speech I’ve caught enough of to place him as the head of the company, starts to introduce a new junior manager. He lists off a few accomplishments, and then mentions that the manager is also his son,Jordan.
I look around the table with a new interest. There are only a few men young enough to fit the role. He then asks his son to get up to introduce himself, and everyone at the table turns toward The God ofHotness.
Well, if he wasn’t already out of my league, he certainlyisnow.
He stays seated and silent long enough for things to get awkward, and then pushes his chair back to stand up. The room is so quiet that I can hear him draw in a breath, but nothing else follows. Cold Cuts clears histhroat.
“Right. Right. Um.” Jordan launches into a minute of rambling thank you’s interspersed with lots of ‘um’s and ‘ah’s. His voice is jittery and hoarse, nothing like the confident joker I met in thelobby.
The meeting ends soon after and he’s one of the first people out the door. I stare after him, but my thoughts are interrupted by a whiff ofsandwichmeat.
“That wasscrumptious. What do you call that kind ofdrink?”
