Accidentally On Purpose

Chapter 3-2

The short answer is at the Brew Inn, a coffee shop near the bank where Alan works as a financial advisor. For the past thirty years he’s stopped at the Brew every morning for a double espresso, extra hot, and an orange scone before heading into the office. Most of the time while he stands in the queue, his nose is buried in the newspaper, which he folds to the dimensions of the daily crossword. Tucking his briefcase in the crook of his arm, he leans the paper on it and fills in the puzzle with a ballpoint pen while waiting to order. Or rather, waiting to pay—he’s been coming in for so long, all the staff know what he wants by now. When he reaches the counter, he pays with exact change and then steps to the side of the till, still lost in the crossword, until his espresso is ready.

On the day he first met Jim, Alan was on a roll with the puzzle and didn’t glance behind him before stepping out of line. There was a muffled oomph and a sudden hand pressed into the small of his back. Alan was already apologizing as he turned. “Sorry, mate—”

His elbow caught the edge of a saucer someone held, causing the muffin on it to fall on the floor. “Oh, bugger all!” He tried to grab the pastry and only ended up knocking over his double espresso, which the server had set on the counter moments before. Hot liquid splashed his good Chelsea boots as well as the polished Oxfords of the man behind him, whose dirty muffin also got soaked.

“Bloody hell, I am sorry. Jesus. What a mess.” Alan tucked the newspaper and ballpoint into his coat pocket, then grabbed a handful of napkins off the counter. Squatting, he patted the dark splotches on the man’s shoes, which would dry and stain if they weren’t cleaned away quickly.

Without looking up, he advised, “You’re going to want to get some cold water on these so they don’t stain. I’m doing a botched job.”

“It’s okay.” The man caught Alan by the arm and helped him stand. “Really, it’s cool. No worries. It was an accident.”

“Let me at least buy you another muffin.” Dabbing the lapels of the man’s suit, Alan looked up, and anything else he might’ve said evaporated as easily as the breath in his lungs.

Course I have to embarrass myself in front of someone like this. Jesus Lord, but there was something subtly sexy about the stranger, from his rugged features to his combed back hair to his dark eyes and the easy confidence he exuded.

“I’m really sorry,” Alan said again faintly. “Let me make it up to you. Please. What kind of muffin was it?”

The man shook his head. “No, really, it’s fine.” Glancing past Alan, he added, “My partner already got me a replacement, so we’re all good.”

Partner. The word conjured in Alan’s mind an image of a young buck, strapping and built, wearing nothing but a smile as he fed this handsome man a muffin piece by piece.

Then the image changed, and it was Alan himself nude before the man, crumbling the muffin between his fingers and placing them on the man’s soft, thin lips. A jolt of lust shot through him and he jerked, dropping his briefcase. The edge of it landed in the spreading pool of cooling coffee, which splashed his pant legs this time.

“Bugger, I’m—God.” When had he become so damn skittish? And why? The man had a partner. Not a girlfriend, not a coworker. A partner.

And all I’ve done is knock his breakfast on the floor and tossed my coffee on him. If Brooks were here, he’d say I was a hot mess.

A woman approached them carrying a plate with two muffins on it. For the briefest moment, Alan thought she worked there. Then he noticed her pressed linen pantsuit and his heart sank. So this was the “partner,” a sharply-dressed African-American beauty with skin like polished mahogany and an amused smirk on red-lacquered lips.

“Here, Jim,” she said, plucking one of the muffins off her plate and depositing it on his. “Try not to drop this one.”

“It was my fault. I’m sorry,” Alan apologized again.

The man—Jim—shook his head. “No, no, I was in your way. Forgive me.”

Before Alan could say anything further, Jim followed his partner through the crowd and was gone.

“Mr. Travers?”

This from a tentative voice behind him. Alan turned and found a server behind the counter holding out a cup he supposed held his double espresso. His second double.

Alan felt all discombobulated. He patted his pockets, trying to find his wallet. “I’m sorry.” He wondered if that would be his mantra all day. Sorry, sorry. “Let me pay for that.”

“You already did, sir,” the server replied.

“Right, that was for the one I spilled.” There was his wallet, tucked into the same pocket of his overcoat as the newspaper. No wonder he hadn’t felt it at first. “Let me pay for his second muffin, too. How much do I owe you?”

“Oh no, you don’t have to do that. Detective Farrow took care of it.”

Alan frowned. “Detective…?”

“Farrow,” the server said with a nod. “She bought Detective Garrison another muffin and picked up your second espresso. So we’re all square.”

Alan felt like he was a step behind. “Detective Farrow…”

Patiently the server explained, “Yes, sir. She already paid. You’re good to go.”

She spoke slowly, as if Alan might be a little stupid. From the concerned look on her face, she might’ve been wondering if she should call the detectives back, just in case Alan took a header into the coffee spilled on the floor. “Sir?”

“Oh, yes. Thank you. Sorry.” He was apologizing more in one day than he might’ve done the whole rest of the year. Pocketing his wallet, he took the offered espresso, then picked up the small paper bag on the counter that held his scone.

On his way out of the café, he caught sight of the two detectives at a bistro table near the front door. Farrow was saying something Alan couldn’t hear, but as he passed by, Garrison—Jim—looked up and met his eye. He gave Alan a tight-lipped grin and a quick nod in recognition, nothing more. But Alan practically floated all the way to the bank.

* * * *

For some reason the story cracks Brooks up. “I can’t believe it! You’re always so prim and proper—”

“I am not!” Alan protests, even though he knows it’s true.

Brooks ignores him. “I just can’t imagine you knocking all that s**t over like that.”

“Watch your language, young man.” Alan tries to be stern, but the sound of the boy’s laughter makes him grin. Even he has to admit the story is humorous.