Home > Mr. Garcia(2)

Mr. Garcia(2)
Author: T.L. Swan

“Can I help you?” I ask the next man.

“Hi.” He grins. Oh God…. not you. “It’s me, Michael.”

“Yes.” I cringe. “I remember. Hi, Michael. What can I get you?”

“I’ll have the usual.” He winks.

I take his order and the bell rings over the door to tell me someone else has entered. “That will be four pounds ninety-five,” I say coldly.

I take Michael’s card and swipe it through the card machine. I can’t make casual conversation with Michael because he’s way too flirty.

“I want goat’s milk,” I hear the woman demanding.

“Well, we don’t have any,” Lance replies. I can tell by the tone of his voice that he isn’t in the mood for this crap today, either.

“I want you to put it on the menu immediately.”

I glance over to Lance. His face is murderous, and I bite my lip to hide my smile.

“Look, lady, if you want goat’s milk, you’re going to have to go somewhere else. We are not into milking goats.”

“You’d rather milk a cow?”

“Or kick them out of my coffee shop,” Lance mutters dryly. “Either, or.”

Jeez… I drop my head to hide my smile.

“Did you just call me a cow?” the woman gasps.

Shit, buzz off, bitch. Enough with the dramatics. Just leave already.

“Can I help you?” I ask the next customer and look up at the queue.

Big brown eyes stare back at me, and I step back in surprise.

It’s him.

The guy from the street.

“Hi.” I smile bashfully and tuck a piece of hair behind my ear.

He’s wearing a perfectly fitted dark navy suit and a crisp white shirt. He looks like he may be European or something.

“Hello.” His voice is deep and husky.

I feel my cheeks blush and I smile nervously. “Hi.”

We stare at each other. Fuck me. This guy is completely gorgeous.

A trace of a smile crosses his face as if reading my mind.

I smile goofily over at him and hunch my shoulders.

He raises his brows. “Do you want to know my order?”

“Oh.” I pause. “I was waiting for you.” I lie. Fuck, I’m acting like a star struck teenager. Get it together, stupid. “What would you like?”

“I’ll have a double macchiato, please.”

I twist my lips to hide my smile. Even his coffee is hot.

“Would you like anything else?” I ask.

He raises his eyebrow. “Such as?”

I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out.

He smirks, realizing he has me completely flustered.

Oh, hell, act fucking cool, will you?

“A muffin?” I reply. “They’re delicious.”

“All right.” His eyes hold mine. “Why don’t you surprise me, April?”

I stare at him as my brain misfires. “How do you know my name?”

“It’s on your apron.”

I scrunch my eyes shut. “Oh… right.” Please, Mother Earth, swallow me whole. Way to bimbo it out. “Ah, excuse me. I’m not with it today,” I stammer.

“You look completely with it to me.” He gives me his first genuine smile, and I feel it to my toes.

It’s official: this man is delicious.

“And your name?” I ask, holding my pen to his cup.

“Sebastian.”

“Mr. Sebastian?”

“Mr. Garcia.”

Sebastian Garcia. Even his name is hot. “Would you like another coffee for your wife?”

“There’s no wife.”

“Girlfriend?”

“No girlfriend.” A smile crosses his face once more. He knows I’m fishing for information.

Our eyes are locked, and the air crackles between us.

The man behind him in the line sighs heavily. “I’m in a rush, you know.”

Oh, get lost. I’m trying to flirt here.

Dickhead.

Mr. Garcia steps to the side, and I bring my attention to the man behind him. “Can I help you?”

“I want a toasted ham and cheese sandwich, and you’d better make it quick,” he barks.

“Of course, sir.” Fuck, why is every asshole in London in my café today?

“Excuse me.” I hear from the side.

The man and I look up to see Mr. Garcia has taken a step toward us.

“What?” the asshole snaps.

“What did you just say?” Mr. Garcia raises an eyebrow, clearly annoyed.

The man shrivels, taken aback. “I’m in a rush.”

“No need to be rude.” Mr. Garcia’s eyes hold his. “Apologize.”

The man rolls his eyes.

“Now.”

“Sorry,” the man mumbles to me.

I press my lips together to hide my smile.

Mr. Garcia steps back to his place by the wall.

I feel my cheeks flush with excitement.

Saw-oon.

“That won’t be a minute,” I say, and the man nods, not saying another word.

I glance around, wondering who is making the coffees.

Oh, shit, I’m supposed to be.

Wait, how do you make a double macchiato again?

I have never done this before. Although, I have watched the others do it a million times. I concentrate and do what I think they do. I turn back to the customers.

“Mr. Garcia,” I call, and he steps forward. “Here you go.”

His eyes hold mine as he takes it from me. “Thank you.” He nods and then turns, and I watch him walk toward the door. Shit… that’s it?

Turn around and ask me out, damn it.

He stops on the spot and I hold my breath, he turns back. “April, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I smile. “I hope so.”

He dips his head, and with one more breathtaking smile, he turns and walks out onto the street. Like a little kid, I pick up a cloth and practically run to the front of the café so I can watch which direction he takes.

I pretend to wipe a table near the window so I can spy.

Sebastian walks past a few shops, and I see him take a sip of his coffee and then wince. He screws up his face, and with a shake of his head, he throws it in a trash can.

What? After all that, he didn’t even drink it!

My mouth falls open.

“Am I going to get served here or what?” the rude man calls from the counter.

“Yes, of course, sir.” I fake another smile and make my way back to the coffee machine.

You’re going to get the worst fucking coffee I’ve ever made, asshole.

And judging by Mr. Garcia’s reaction, that’s pretty bad.

 

I walk down the corridor of Holmes Court, my dormitory accommodation at university.

I think I flunked my exam, damn it.

The sound of laughter echoes through the hall, and a faint techno beat can be heard in the distance. Coming home to this place is a living Hell.

I have never hated living somewhere as much as I hate it here. I mean, everyone is nice enough, but I feel like their grandmother. At the age of twenty-five, I’m considered a mature student, yet for some unknown reason, my scholarship houses me with the freshmen, all of which are eighteen and on their first leave of absence from home.

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