“The new guy needs to learn how to use the espresso machine, so he’s gonna help you.” Her tone is flat and her eyes are expressionless.
“What’s wrong? You don’t trust me? Is that any way to start a friendship with your new favorite barista?” He lifts a dark eyebrow and my chest squeezes. A thick wall of stone moves in and my lungs are defenseless against it.
“Martina usually makes my drink,” I tell him. I shrug my messenger bag higher on my shoulder and tap a curled knuckle against my bottom lip. His eyes hone in on the motion and my chest compresses.
My breathing is shallow. My heart is knocking around in my chest like a wild bird placed in a cage. Without warning, my hand jerks to my chest. I massage the spot over my heart, just to make sure nobody else can see how ferociously it’s thumping.
“I think you’ll find I’m capable—I don’t just look good—I also have skills. So, what are you having?” His long slender fingers pluck a mug from behind the counter, and I watch him like I’ve never seen anyone grab a fucking mug before. Why I’m so fixated on him is beyond me.
I wet my dry lips with my tongue and notice a spark in his blue eyes. It makes my knees wobble a bit.
Do. Not. Stumble.
I force my legs to go straight again, and I am determined to navigate my way through this uncomfortable interaction. “How do you know I don’t need a to-go cup?” I quiz. He aims one of those long fingers at my bag and lets a smirk tug one side of his mouth up.
“You have a laptop in your bag. We have free Wi-Fi. You’re gonna stay a while. So what are you having?” he asks again, and this time I’m all out of words to say to him. I clear my throat, hoping to dislodge myself from the crushing weight pressing down on my chest.
“I’ll have a cookies ‘n cream latte. Extra whipped cream.” My knuckle bounces against my lip repeatedly. The guy moves around behind the counter like he lives there. In fact, he acts like he owns the entire damn shop.
I stand on the balls of my feet to watch him, in case he makes a mistake. My eyes follow his long and easy strides as he puts two pumps of French vanilla and two pumps of chocolate cookie syrup into the steamer pot. He empties half-and-half in next, and I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from telling him he should have put the half-and-half in first.
His eyes catch me watching him and I freeze again. Somehow, I manage to freeze and burn simultaneously. It’s like he’s twisting my insides without lifting a finger.
“Problem, boss?” he questions. The espresso machine kicks up so much noise I pretend not to hear him. My ears are a dead giveaway that I clearly do hear him. He doesn’t know that though.
He grabs the mustard yellow mug from the counter and pours the latte in. I watch as his wrist makes delicate flicking motions once the mug is full. I’m in awe at how fluid his movement is.
“One perfect cookies ‘n cream latte for the tongue-tied pretty girl,” he says. He sets the mug down and I stare at the top. Now I can finally see what he was working on so diligently.
A dragonfly.
He made dragonfly latte art on top of my drink using cream.
I blink a couple times, taking in his big blue eyes and unruly dark hair. Now, I’m self-conscious of my own disobedient hair. I touch the messy bun on top of my head and try in vain to smooth down the flyaways.
The whole carefree look works on him.
It makes me look like a homeless person.
“Thanks,” I mutter, wrapping my chilly fingers around the hot mug. The sweet smell of chocolate and coffee brings an involuntary smile to my face. I close my eyes for a beat to sink into it.
It’s my favorite smell next to paint.
When I open my eyes, I find two blue pools staring back at me. I nearly stumble over my own feet, trying to find a quiet space to plug in my laptop. “You should do that more,” he calls out.
Puzzled, I stop fussing with my charger long enough to glance in his direction. “Do what?” I ask. I feel my nose crinkle from confusion.
“Smile,” he responds.
Before I have the chance to say anything in response, the tiny brass bell sitting on the front door of the shop jingles and another customer walks in. “Welcome to The Grind House,” his deep voice bellows across the cozy space, lighting it up with energy.
I settle into my seat and pull my shoulders around my ears. I can barely focus on the blank page and blinking cursor staring back at me, because all I can think of is the fact someone actually thinks I’m pretty. Not just anyone but…him.