I open the door to the coffee shop, discovering I’m not the only one in need of caffeine this afternoon. I take a spot at the back of the line and pull up the schedule app, once again reminded that I need to cancel my date with . . . Christine.
Fuck. Christine’s always a good time.
I type: My apologies, but I need to postpone dinner to another time. Court ran late, and things didn’t go as planned. I have a mountain of work ahead of me. Rain check?
I move with the line, noticing a blonde at the front of it. You’d think she was explaining the plot of a murder mystery instead of placing a coffee order by how she swung her hands around. She’s definitely what I like to call a hand talker, or someone who can’t carry on a conversation without looking like they’re competing in a mime competition. From this vantage point, it’s hard to tell if she’s upset, demanding, or just expressive. All I know is the line’s not moving because of her, and I don’t have time to wait for Miss Handsy to get her point across.
“Is it so hard to place a coffee order?” I grumble under my breath.
My chest rises with a deep inhale. I’m working on my patience since I seemed to have been born without that trait. At least that’s what my family says. I don’t blame them. As the eldest of four, my shoulders bore the brunt of responsibility and leadership; typical eldest sibling syndrome, I suppose.
That’s when she says, “I don’t have time for this . . .” My thoughts on my growing impatience drown out the rest.
Join the damn club. If she doesn’t hurry this up, I’ll be forced to leave without that coffee, and I can’t be held accountable for what I say or do without caffeine.
Dropping my gaze back to my phone, I start going through emails. I delegate three and reply to one before I reach the front of the line and place my order. Finally. Moving out of the way, I wait along with the others, who look as needy as I am for their afternoon fix.
The crowd thins as orders are called out, eventually leaving Miss Handsy and me standing front and center at the end of the coffee bar.
Lovely . . .
Of course, that doesn’t explain why I’m still standing here when my order—a basic Kona bean double espresso with the slightest hit of coconut milk—hasn’t been called out.
I check the time, then look up at the counter. The line has started to build again, but the baristas have been running to fill orders, so the delay is not from a lack of effort.
“What is taking so long?” Her voice matches the cadence of her tapping foot. Both echo off the concrete floors, leading me to her impressive heels. My gaze slides up, noticing her even more impressive shapely legs. That’s when I look up and see the woman who the world apparently revolves around . . . at least in her own mind.
Great face.
Sexy body.
Full lips that I could definitely keep busy.
She might be animated when she speaks, but the blonde is hot in an uptight, Upper East Side kind of way. Her hair is pulled tight to the back of her head and tucked neatly in a round knot. Not a strand is out of place. Red lips, just a hint of color to her cheeks, and eye makeup on the more subtle side make her blue eyes brighter despite the dim lighting of the coffee bar.
“Sure is taking a long time. You must have a very complex order.”
“Me?” I balk from the mere suggestion that I’m the problem and move my eyes forward, mentally willing my coffee to appear on that counter in front of me. Now. But I’m intrigued by her enough to give her a second glance. Naturally.
Women have always been a weakness. My Achilles’ heel. It’s caused some issues in the past. Most notably, why I’m facing a scorned ex with a vendetta presiding over my trial as we speak. My tendency to love ’em and leave ’em precedes me. I’ve lived my life unapologetically single.
It takes a lot to get my attention, and she’s managed to do it twice for different reasons—annoying and sexy.
“And why would you think that?”
“Because you’re still standing here.”
A camel-colored wool coat drapes over a fitted silk shirt that hangs around her slim torso. The skirt matches the coat and hugs the flow of her hips, going lower to just above her knees. It gives off high-society vibes that I’m not typically into. I have no patience or room in my life for socialites. No matter how attractive they are.
“I think you’re confusing our orders,” I reply, dipping my gaze to my phone and clicking it on while chuckling humorlessly. “I’m the least complex person—” Fuck. She’s good with the games. I shoot her a glare. “Clever.”
“You think?” She grins in pride and shrugs casually. “You said it. Not me.”
I’m attempting to dedicate myself to this email I currently have open, but am stopped when I hear, “You sure are bothered for someone who tries so hard to act like you’re not.” Her hand swings out in front of her. “They’re clearly busy. Maybe next time you shouldn’t drop in during rush hour and expect to be served first. Learn how to have some patience.”
“I know what you’re doing.” It’s tempting to roll my eyes, but that’s not a habit I’m getting into.
“What am I doing?”
“Fucking with my head, that’s what.”
Faux offense strikes her features. “My. My. The language. And that mouth . . .”
“My mouth can do many things, and I’ve heard zero complaints, especially when it comes to serving others first.”
The pampered princess arches an eyebrow. “The only thing I can think of when it comes to your mouth is how foul it is. It’s not just patience you’re lacking.”
“Listen, lady.” Leaning closer, I lower my voice and say, “One thing my mouth has never been called is foul. Magical. Talented—”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh right. And here I thought you might have the moxie not to fall back on the obvious.”
“The obvious being?”
“Sex.” She rolls her eyes again as if the first time wasn’t maddening enough. “You know what? I believe you.”
“You believe what?”
Her expression sours. “That your coffee order is complex. As for you, you’re a simple guy.”
What the fuck?
As if I didn’t deal with enough in court today, I get the displeasure of arguing with her in a freaking coffee shop. Crossing her arms over her chest, she smirks like she’s getting the last laugh.
I don’t think so. “Look, I’m done playing this game.” I angle toward her. “It’s a double espresso with a dash of milk, if you must know. Nothing is complex about it. I believe it was you who placed a 12-step coffee order and wasted more of everyone’s time digging out exact change. Who pays in cash these days? No one.”
“Ooh, I seemed to have hit a button. Who knew chatting about coffee would be such a sore spot for you?” Her tone drips in sarcasm as she continues, “And the part about being mad that someone paid in cash? Heaven forbid. I didn’t know money had become so passé in your kingdom. My apologies, your majesty.”
A barista holds up a paper cup, grabbing everyone’s attention. “Kona coffee, double espresso, with a hit of coconut milk?” The guy looks at the cup as we wait with bated breath, and then he adds, “Mr. Westcott?”