3
Pumpkin Spiced Anything
I stare at my reflection in the window of the coffee shop. I felt like a shiny new book fresh off the press this morning. But now, after my interviews, I am the wear-and-tear of an old book tossed in the clearance bin. My tie got crinkled at some point. My dress shirt looks less crispy. My hair is unsettled.
And my eyes say it all.
I step inside and observe the long line. My favorite barista is hard at work, serving up delicious coffee with his charming, Byron-brand smile and good looks. He is the heavenly sight for achingly sore eyes that I certainly don’t feel like I deserve today. As I wait in line, I enjoy watching him make order after order. He never seems to get tired or irritated. He’s always so cheery, in a good mood, and compassionate.
Then he catches sight of me. He pauses.
I smile, blush, freak out, then look away. Wait, why am I looking away? I force my gaze back to him, but he has moved on, turned away to work one of the blenders, gifting me the sight of his broad back in that tight shirt of his. When he faces front again, he’s smiling brightly as he takes the next customer’s order. His eyes sparkle.
I doubt any interviewer could possibly have the power to tell those eyes no. Byron could have any job in the universe. All he’d have to do is look them in the eye, smile, and exist.
Suddenly the customer in front of me is handled, moves aside, and I’m standing in front of Byron. He lays his irresistible eyes on me, beams his sweet smile, and I’m basking in the spotlight of his full attention.
“Hey there,” he greets me. “You want the usual? Or are you in the mood for something a little different?”
As usual, my voice has fled the building, and all that remains is a weird, breathy sort of squeak. “I’m … sure, yeah.”
“Sure?” He tosses a thumb over his shoulder. “The menu is full of Halloween specials. It’s the season for pumpkin-spiced everything.”
“Sure, y-yeah.” My smile tightens. Do I even like pumpkin spice?
“Oh, we’re feeling brave today, huh?” he teases as he leans forward and rests his elbows on the counter—and just that little movement does so much to the way his uniform shirt pulls on his round, broad shoulders and toned arms. I feel like a helpless scrap of metal pulled to the magnet of his beauty. “Want me to surprise you? I’ll whip up my personal favorite: the Pumpkin Prince! It’s iced, super tasty, and packed with that seasonal flavor.”
I’m already looking at a prince. He’s already been served. Customer is happy. “S-Sure, sounds great.”
Byron gets right to work, as if making this Pumpkin Prince is his prized moment of the day. Although I seem to follow his every action, I catch nothing of what he’s actually doing or what pumpkin-spicy ingredients are going into my drink. I just see the flex of his arms as he works a machine, the adorable way his tongue juts out to hang onto the corner of his lips when he concentrates, and how his tight shirt pulls on his body in such inviting ways as he moves.
The drink is finished too fast, and he slides it across the counter to me, complete with a straw already popped into it, a tiny piece of paper at its end ready to be pulled off. The aroma of pumpkin spice, sweetness, and cream feeds my soul before I’ve even taken my first sip. I can’t say I remember giving him any cash, but suddenly he’s handing change back to me and grinning eagerly.
I stare back at him, worried. “Something wrong?”
“I gotta see you try it!” he exclaims.
“Oh. Really?” I smile. “It looks amazing.”
“C’mon, don’t keep me in suspense.”
I pluck the bit of protective paper off the end of the straw, then bring my lips to it. One tiny swallow of the iced, flavorful beverage has all of my senses doing flips and cartwheels. “Wow,” I exclaim, blinking. “That’s … That’s one amazing prince!”
Byron laughs, amused by that. “I’m glad you like it! Maybe I’ve turned you on to a new favorite drink.”
Oh, he turns me on for sure: every morning, every afternoon, every restless night in my dreams.
Wow, I’m a creep. “It tastes great. Perfect. Thanks so much for turning me on, Byron.” Wait, what did I just—? “To the drink,” I amend, eyes wide. “Thanks for the … for the drink. I like drinking you. The drink, I meant. Your … Y-Your drink you made me.”
Thanks for the shovel. Sure, I’ll keep digging.
Unaffected—or too polite to laugh—he just smiles and says, “My pleasure, Calvin. I put my own little spin on it, by the way, so if you ever want another again, you gotta make sure I’m working! … which is … just about every day, actually, come to think of it.”