Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
“Josie!”
“You’ll be fine!” She offers a wave over her shoulder, and the bell above the door punctuates her departure with another jingle.
Did she seriously just leave me here to run her freaking coffee shop? By myself?
I look around the store with incredulous eyes and confirm that I am the only person inside CAFFEINE.
“Okay… Everything will be okay,” I try to reassure myself and offer up a silent prayer that no one will come in here until my sister gets back.
I stare at the clock, willing the minutes to pass like seconds. I even try to busy myself with menial tasks like wiping off the already clean counter and organizing the cups and lids for the tenth time today, but when the bell above the door rings, I instantly want to teleport myself anywhere in the universe but here because CAFFEINE’s newest customer is him.
The big, muscular, grumpy, still-nameless man who drove me into town and promptly kicked me out of his truck so I had to walk the rest of the way to Josie’s.
You have got to be kidding me.
Considering downtown Red Bridge is so small it only needs one stop sign and a single traffic light to keep the roads safe, I know the odds of my running into this guy, in this little town, are high. I just don’t think it needs to happen right now.
Just be cool, Norah. Just. Be. Cool.
When his eyes meet mine, I know that he recognizes me, and I swallow past the ball of nerves that’s lodged itself in my throat and try to go with an affable, customer-service approach.
“Welcome to CAFFEINE.”
“What are you doing here?” It’s the first thing he says to me when he steps up to the counter.
“I work here.” Today, anyway.
“You work here?” he questions like it is the most absurd thing he’s ever heard—like I have a sign on my chest that reads World’s Biggest Dumbass.
Despite the friendly smile I’m trying to keep on my face, my hackles start to rise beneath the surface. Sure, I don’t know jack shit about coffee or making coffee or drinking coffee or practically anything in this entire building, but he doesn’t know that yet, so I haven’t earned this kind of incredulity.
“Yep. I work here,” I eventually answer, pleasant smile impossible to keep intact, and nod toward the counter between us. “Hence the green apron and the fact that I’m standing on this side of the counter. Usually, those are telltale signs of someone’s employment.” I don’t know if it’s the fact that Josie left me here by my-freaking-self or if it’s just this guy in general, but something lights a fire in my belly. A sarcastic-as-hell fire that has me adding, “And I know this might be a hard thing for you to grasp, but I’m standing right here, behind this register, to take your order.”
For the briefest of moments, I swear his lips almost twitch into a smile. But before it’s there, it’s gone and in its place a frown the size of Texas.
Gaze to gaze, my brown eyes to his blue, I hold his stare and try not to get distracted inside the tempting swirls of gold and green and azure within his irises.
But the longer the quiet stretches between us, the more my mouth wants to move.
Just say something! I mentally shout at him. Anything. You’re the one who came in here, so you need to do the talking. Not me. I refuse.
“I’ll take a latte,” he finally says, and I want to fist-pump my victory into the air.
But I don’t. Understandably. Because that would be weird.
Also, I don’t know how to make lattes or what a latte even contains, so I’m in serious trouble here and should not, in any way, be celebrating.
Way to go, Bravado. Way to go.
“A latte?” I ask, my voice completely accusatory, as though he’s the problem.
“Yes,” he responds, doing that gruff-I’m-about-to-lose-it-on-you voice he did right before I snapped and got kicked out of his truck. “A latte. A drink generally offered at coffee places.”
I blow out a begrudging breath that makes a few curls move away from my face. “So…funny story, but I just started here this morning, and I haven’t quite learned the art of lattes yet. Is there something else I can get you that’s not a latte?”
“Oh yeah. You work here, all right.”
“Excuse me, what’s that supposed to mean?”
He shakes his sharp-cut jaw with something that looks awfully close to derision. “I’ll take an Americano instead.”
“An Ameri-what-o?”
“An Americano,” he repeats, and it still might as well be in another language. “Two shots of espresso in hot water…?”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure. An Americano. A drink that requires the espresso machine.” I nod like I understand but frown a little when I have to tell him the truth. “Another funny story for you, but I haven’t quite mastered the espresso machine yet.”