There were a few customers sitting around, a couple of students spread out with steaming mugs of tea and all their books, but there was no one to distract me or Jeremy from the conversation he wanted to have.
He turned to me quickly and slapped his hands down hard. “You have to call him.”
“I absolutely do not,” I disagreed.
“You do. He likes you.” Jeremy wiggled his eyebrows.
“It’s not a good idea,” I sighed, shaking my head. I folded my arms across my chest, crossing my ankles as I leaned back against the counter. There was a little space, then the opposite counter where customers could sit at. Jeremy was leaning over his side, arms dangling into the employee area, in his effort to convince me.
“But why?” He groaned. “You clearly like him, too.”
“I do not,” I pointed a finger accusingly at him.
“You’ve been talking about him—a lot.”
“Well, it was a new experience and, did I mention, he’s a dick?”
Jeremy rolled his eyes. “Once or twice.”
“This isn’t a good idea,” I said. “No matter how attractive he is, it’s a bad idea.”
“Arlo,” Jeremy leaned back on his stool, grabbing the abandoned note that came with the card and waving it in the air. In it, there were the loosely proposed terms for the contract. “This is what you wanted.”
I knew that Jeremy had a point—of course he did. The terms were—generous was one way to put it. Batshit fucking crazy was the other way. It would not only pay off my debts within, what, a year? But give me enough pocket money to get the shops where they really needed to be—I could actually focus on the businesses as places to be proud of, rather than just sinking holes in the middle of the city.
But also.
Jeremy scoffed. “So ride it and get your own jollies.”
“Jesus, Jeremy.” I laughed.
He shrugged. “Can I have a London Fog? That girl’s looked really good. To go, please.”
“Sure,” I was still reeling from his comment and it was nice to have something to do with my hands. I mixed in extra lavender rather than vanilla, knowing Jeremy’s preference for tea.
I loved my shop—I loved the grooves in the wooden slats of the floor, loved the sleek silver of the steamer, loved the way the bell sounded and the clacking of fingertips on computers when the seating area was filled to the brim. I loved making someone a drink that they hadn’t known before, watching the way their eyes would light up and surprise would cascade across their expressions when they took their first sip. I loved having a place where Jeremy and my other friends could come by, relax a little, gather their energies where I could offer them a smile and a cup of tea.
I loved my shop.
What if Walter was the only way I could keep it?
I slid the teabag into the warmed and steamed oat milk—again, a change from the traditional fog to accommodate Jeremy’s preference—and handed it to him.
He smiled gratefully. “Thanks, man.”
I waved him off when he grabbed his wallet.
“Listen, Arlo.” His tone was, for the first time all day, actually a bit serious. I ran my hand through my hair, tucking the too-long strands behind my ears, and sighed.
“Okay.”
“You’re more passionate talking about this complete stranger than any potential love interest you’ve had in the past—what? Six months? At least?”
It had been at least a year since I had even gotten to the third date with anyone. It wasn’t hard to see what Jeremy’s point was.
“I’m not saying sign the contract with the guy,” Jeremy took a sip of his drink, muttering a quick, “Damn that’s good,” before popping the lid onto it. He stood up and shrugged into his jacket. “I’m just saying, what’s the harm in seeing where it goes? One date isn’t going to cost you anything.”
Jeremy tipped a fake hat at me before leaving the cafe.
I watched him go, wishing there was a way to argue with his admittedly pretty solid point.
One date wouldn’t cost me anything. Jeremy was sort of right and I was glad he left—I wouldn’t want to admit that to his face.
Walter had made me feel small and cheap and that wasn’t worth any amount of money. I knew that.
But the note he’d sent—or, the Monsieur sent, I guessed, did say that it was a miscommunication and he apologized. Maybe it was just—a mistake.
The earlier part of the conversation had been great. And Walter even made an incredible cup of tea.
The attraction was definitely there.
I could still remember the initial shock at seeing him, the sharp sense of being more awake than I had been in years. He was a goddamn delight to look at.
And the way I’d felt when he’d said those things—the way his eyes were dark, the light blue nearly swallowed by pupil as he leaned over and whispered all the things he wanted to do to me—to have me do.
I hadn’t expected a few whispered words, a cocky bit of banter, would be enough to have me on edge but I felt like I had been clenching my fists and grinding my teeth in halted anticipation for days.
Walter was hot as hell and sharp. The way his eyes would narrow and his words would spill out like they had been on the tip of his tongue all night was a sight to see. He made good tea and had big hands and I could reasonably get lost inside of his gaze for a few hours.
If the date was just us making eyes at each other, that would be worth it.
Maybe, even not considering the way that my business and personal life would be irrevocably helped by the generous monthly allowance, it would be worth it to give Walter another shot.
For all I knew, Walter was actually a really great guy. Maybe he was kind and considerate and only occasionally, accidentally called people prostitutes and suggested they were ownable objects.
There was a chance that was true, wasn’t there?
I groaned and tugged at my hair. A customer glanced my way, frowning, and I smiled sheepishly, gesturing pointlessly towards the machinery so they would think that it was actually a work-related groan instead of a personal, should-I-date-the-obnoxious-billionaire groan.
My phone’s loud, jarring ring tone broke my incessant considering. I jumped, a hand flying to my chest in surprise. I grabbed it from underneath the cash register, where I stored my phone, wallet, and keys at the beginning of the day.
The caller was Unlisted.
My stomach jumped in a small motion at the idea that it was Walter calling.
I took a deep breath and answered. “Hello?”
“Hi, is this Arlo Stone?” It was a woman’s voice, but still, it could be an assistant or someone patching me through. He seemed like the patched-phone-call kind of guy.
Goddamn butterflies in my stomach, I answered, “Yes.”
“Oh, good!” The woman’s chipper voice rang through. “My name is Mary, I’m with your mortgage company calling about credit lines.”
A flare of disappointment burnt through me, charring the butterflies dead.
Even as the debt collector was talking to me, all I could think about was how stupid I was to have thought it was Walter. Almost as stupid, that was, as getting disappointed when it wasn’t.
If I wanted to talk to Walter—which I wasn’t sure I did—the ball was in my court.