Working Men Box Set

Café de l’Amour-1

Café de l’AmourFrom the moment he walks up to the counter and turns those pale blue eyes my way, I know I’m lost. He wears a meticulous suit, crisp and freshly pressed, cut to accentuate his narrow waist and the swell of his butt. When he smiles shyly at me, I grin foolishly back. Suddenly I’m all too aware of the dingy white apron I wear, the ground coffee under my nails, the new, too short haircut exposing my ears. I smooth my hand across the shorn top of my head, then wipe both hands on my apron. “Good morning,” I say, stepping to the counter.

“Good morning, Austin.” His voice is deeper than I expect.

A grin threatens to split my face. “How do you know my name?” I want to hear him say it again.

He points at my chest, where the nametag I wear proudly proclaims I’m Austin, manager-in-training for the Lakeside Café. I roll my eyes and try not to blush. Ducking my head, I toy with a tear in the countertop and notice the initial ring he wears—SBJ. I want to know what each letter stands for, but I’m not the type to ask. But he holds out a hand and, as if he can read my mind, says, “I’m Seth.”

I’m too startled to do anything but shake his hand. His touch is warm and strong, and almost reluctantly I let go. “What can I get you this morning, Seth?”

When I glance up, those baby blues gaze back. Damn, he’s hot. I know I’m staring but I can’t help it. For a long moment he doesn’t say anything, just watches me, and I want to say something witty but nothing comes to mind. Great time to choke up, Austin, I chastise silently.

Just as I’m about to ask again, he nods at the small clapboard on the counter, where today’s special is written in my sloppy handwriting. “What’s a Mocha Locha Latté?”

Though the ingredients are written on the board, I like talking to him, so I lean over the counter to read the board, all too aware he doesn’t step away from me. His hand rests on the counter by my arm, and I want to touch him again but I don’t. “Chocolate and amarillo and—”

“Amaretto,” he says, laughing. When I look up at him, he’s so close I can smell the warm musk cologne he wears. “Amarillo is a city in Texas.”

“I’ve never been there,” I say, smiling.

He smiles back. “Why not?” His fingers brush against my arm accidentally, causing the hairs to stand up at the touch.

Are we flirting? God, I hope so. But I hear a clatter in the back room and remember I’m not alone—my manager Mandy will probably be out at any moment, and if she sees me hanging all over this hot guy, I’ll never hear the end of it.

So as much as I hate to do it, I stand back quickly and point at the board. “You want to try one of those?”

“Are they any good?” The smile lingers on his lips.

I shrug and busy myself with picking at the countertop again. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I’m not big on coffee.”

He laughs. “And you work here?”

I shrug again. “It’s a job. It pays the bills.” I dare to look up and almost lose my train of thought. I could get lost in those light eyes. “Do you like coffee?”

“I like some of the specialty drinks,” he says. “Mostly the chocolate ones. I like sweet things.” I feel my cheeks heat up at the intense way he’s watching me. “With lots of whipped cream.”

I imagine him naked, white foamy cream covering his n*****s and c**k, and I hope to God I’m not blushing as much as I think I am. “Well,” I sigh, turning away. I look up at the menu above me, trying to focus on the words written there. “How about a Chocolate Caramel Latté? Those are sweet, and I can use lots of whipped cream for you—”

“Just for me?” he purrs.

I jump—suddenly he’s very close, his voice curling into my ear like a secret.

“Well, most people like it that way,” I stammer. I’m blushing again, damn it. “It’s very sweet. I’m sure you’ll like it…” Please, I pray. God, you already think I’m an i***t. Please just order something and let me crawl into the nearest hole. Please.

“Do you like it?” he asks. Numbly I nod, not trusting myself to speak. “Then I’ll take one.”

I busy myself making the drink. I try not to look at him while I work, but every time I glance his way those eyes are watching me, making my hands clumsy.

When it’s ready, I hand him the tall glass. “Here you go.” The drink is hot and the whipped cream is piled up on top of it like a promise. I even sprinkled chocolate jimmies and cinnamon on it. I’m trying too hard. “I hope you like it.”

He hands me his credit card, that smile still on his face, and I roll my eyes—I forgot to ring up the drink. “I’m sure I will.” He sips at the hot liquid and, when he sets the glass down, he has a thin mustache of whipped cream along his upper lip. As I watch, his tongue licks it away, and I fight the urge to lick my own lips.

As the credit card reader starts to spit out Seth’s receipt, I realize he’ll be leaving in a few minutes and I don’t want that to happen. He’s too good-looking to just let him walk away. Mandy’s still in the back room and there are no other customers in line, so I dawdle with the reader, reprinting his receipt as I try to think of something to say. Anything to keep him here a little longer.

Taking in his suit again, I wonder what he’s doing in the quaint little part of town known as Lakeside. This isn’t exactly downtown Richmond—the street where I work boasts a handful of antique stores, a few consignment shops, and a farmers’ market on Wednesdays. Somehow, I don’t think he’s here just for the Hanover tomatoes. Hoping to start a conversation, I say, “I haven’t seen you around here before.”

“First day,” he tells me. With his drink in one hand, he fishes the other into his pocket and extracts a business card. He leans against the counter to hand it to me and when I take it, our fingers brush together with electric sparks I swear would light up the night. I’m glad there aren’t any other customers in line.

Jackson Realty, it reads in a modern, block script. The name rings a bell, but I can’t imagine why. A commercial I saw, maybe, an ad I heard on the radio? There’s a green and blue logo on the card, and under that, Seth B. Jackson, Agent.

I hate to admit it, but I don’t really know what the card means. “What kind of agent?”

“Realty.” At the confused frown I give him, Seth grins. “You know, real estate?”

“Like houses and stuff?” Silently, I add, I thought only old people did that. He has to be my age, maybe a year or two older, which puts him somewhere just shy of twenty-five. What’s he doing selling houses and s**t? No wonder he can afford such a snappy suit.

Then another thought occurs to me, and I whistle low. “Wait, you have your own business?” Suddenly I’m all too aware of the fact that I wear a damn apron.

He leans onto the counter and crooks a finger at me, motioning me to lean in, too. When I do, his hand eases around my wrist, warm from the hot coffee. My skin tickles at his touch. Lowering his voice to an intimate level, he glances around as if afraid of being overheard, then pins me with a piercing stare. Even if I wanted to, I can’t look away. Hell, this close I can’t even breathe.

“Let me tell you something,” he says.

I nod—yes, I want to hear whatever it is he has to say.

He leans in closer and I do the same. We’re inches apart, so close I could pucker my lips and kiss his, if I wanted. When he speaks, I smell the faint scent of chocolate and coffee on his words. In a low voice, as if this is something no one else can know, he admits, “It’s my dad’s business. I’m not even really a licensed agent yet.”

He smirks, which makes me snicker. The next thing I know, we’re hunched over the counter like old friends, laughing to relieve the tension between us. I hear something behind me that sounds like Mandy heading our way, so I stand back and he does the same. Without even thinking about it, I sigh. “For a moment there, I thought you’d be out of my league.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle when he winks. “No, I’m pretty sure we’re playing for the same team.”

Before I can ask what he means—before I’m even sure I heard right—the door behind me swings open and Mandy lugs a thirty pound carton of bagged coffee beans out from the back. She sees Seth, the drink in his hand, the credit card still in my grip, then nods as she blows the hair from her face. “If you’re done, Austin, can you restock the beans?”

I hand the credit card and receipt to Seth as Mandy plops the carton by my feet. I try to hand back the business card, too, but Seth won’t take it. “Give me a call sometime.”

Sticking the card in my back pocket, I joke, “Like I can afford to buy a house working here.”

He winks at me as he turns away. “Like that’s the only reason to call.”

As I watch him walk away, his card burns in my pocket.

* * * *

He comes in the next day, and the day after that. It becomes a ritual, one I start to look forward to every morning. Soon I’m making his Chocolate Caramel Latté the moment I see him walk past the front window. Each day I fall a little harder. He’s so nice, always flirting with me, despite the fact he’s all gussied up in a suit and tie and me…well, I’m in an apron with ground coffee staining the front. Everything about him is so damn gorgeous—I love the way he watches me over the top of his mug, the way his gaze lingers down my body while I make his drink, the way his hand brushes against mine when he pays.

One morning he’s late. I’m not worried, I tell myself, but that’s a lie. When nine o’clock comes and goes with no sign of Seth, I toss down my washcloth and try to come to terms with the fact that he won’t be in today. It’s too late now, I know. He’s already started work, or he’s called in sick, or his car broke down. Or hell, I think, while you’re at it, maybe he overslept because he had a late night out with someone else. Who are you to him? Just a barista at a local café, that’s it. No one special. No one sharing his bed.

Trying to not watch the clock, I lean across the counter and doodle on a napkin. I write his name and mine, enclosed in a heart. I don’t like the way it looks, so I draw another heart, and another, until the napkin is covered in little symbols of love. I don’t hear the door open and don’t even realize I’m no longer alone until someone leans down in front of me and says, “Hey, dork face.”

I look up to find my best friend Josh standing at the counter. We met in second grade when a girl I liked punched me in the gut during recess and Josh came to my aid, kicking her in the shin. We both got detention for it, and have been close ever since. He’s the only person I’d let get away with calling me names. He does it because he knows I hate it, but I don’t say anything because I know he wants me to get upset about it. That’s the kind of friendship we have.

Sparing a glance at the chalkboard on the counter, he asks, “What’s the special today?”

“Same as yesterday,” I say. “I’m too lazy to change it right now.”

“Well, damn, boy,” he drawls. “Erase it and make up something new.”

“Don’t you have work to do?” I ask.

He works at one of the antique stores nearby and hates his job. I don’t know how he manages it, but he always seems to duck out every couple hours and comes over to the café for a drink. I say it’s to bother me.

Now he tells me, “I’m on break.” I’ve heard that one before. “Give me a rag, I’ll wipe the board.”

Without standing, I reach behind me for the damp cloth resting on the edge of the sink and toss it at him. “What’s it going to be this time?”

“A tall cappuccino with a twist of lime,” Josh says.

I groan. “That’s disgusting. How do you come up with this s**t?”

Josh blows on the chalkboard so it’ll dry. “I don’t know, I just thought I might give it a try. Hook me up, coffee man.”

I hand him the chalk. “While I do that, make up a special drink.” As he starts to write, I amend myself. “A good drink. Something people can drink without gagging.”