“Uh-huh,” I said and placed the coffee on the counter, reminding myself yet again that I tolerated Wesley because… well, because I did. He was noise and chaos wrapped in too much enthusiasm. Still, when I looked up at him, I found myself pausing—had his eyes always beenthatdark? And had his hair, freed from the usual ponytail, always fallen across his forehead in an easy, careless wave that made my fingers twitch with the ridiculous urge to brush it back.
“And a pastry,” Wesley said, breaking my strange train of thought as he stared into the glass cabinet. “The seventh croissant down.”
“Seventh.”
“My lucky number.”
I can’t do this today…“They’re all the same pastries.”
He gasped theatrically and clutched his chest. “Seven is fate, Hunter. I was born on July 7th, 1997. My first dog? Jackson! Seven letters in his name. See? Then, the year I finally passed my first-ever math test was seventh grade. And don’t get me started on how many times I’ve stumbled into near-death experiences and walked away on the seventh try. It’s the universe talking to me.”
“Next, you’ll be telling me you crashed your car on the seventh.”
He tapped his full lower lip, then brightened. “No, the fourteenth, but oh my god, that is two times seven. Told you.”
I used the tongs to remove the seventh croissant, counted it out and everything, then paused. “Wait, seventh from the top or the bottom.” I was teasing, but a genuine look of consternation had me pausing.
“Top, bottom, no… top… no, I’m a bottom kind of guy.”
I stiffened, the words hanging in the air heavier than they should have.
He froze, eyes darting to mine, cheeks scarlet before he recovered and gave me a wink. “Oops. From the bottom, the one with the curly end.”
I bagged the pastry, trying not to think too hard about that pause, and told him the price. He tapped his card on the reader as if nothing had happened. Beforehe picked up both things, though, he pulled out a stapled booklet and slid it across the counter. “Some more recipes. And I thought we could coordinate decorations in blue and white.”
“I don’t decorate,” I muttered, though even I knew how miserable I sounded.
“You’d make more money if you did.”
“I don’t want to make more money,” I shot back, a lie we both knew, and one he let hang between us without calling me on it. The silence pressed, and I hated how he could see straight through me.
“I can help,” he offered brightly.
“I don’t need help.”
“It worries me that you might use the red and gold you had last year.”
“I didn’t put any decorations up last year.”
“No, I put them up on the lamppost, remember.”
“Thenyouchose the red and gold.”
“Exactly.”
Exactly what? My patience frayed. I wasn’t following his leapfrog logic, and it frustrated me more than it should. The door opened then, the bell sounding.
Wes scooped up his drink and pastry, entirely unbothered. “Just tell me which recipes you choose to do. Bye!”
“I’m not doing any of it—” I started, but the doorshut before I could finish. He was gone, and I dropped the booklet behind the register with more force than necessary. “I’m not doing this shit,” I muttered to myself, though some treacherous part of me was already imagining the blue and white lights he’d talked about, and how easily his energy filled the empty spaces of this place.
“I’m not making Nordic freaking drinks and dressing up,” I told the cash register, and Jamie stared at me as if I was losing my mind.
I probably was.
By the time the lunch rush had thinned, the noise of customers and phones still echoed in my skull, each sound sharp as glass, and the missing deliveries wound me tighter, my head throbbed, and my patience was gone for the day, particularly when our regular bean delivery didn’t arrive. We had enough for two more days, but no one at the delivery company could answer where this week’s delivery had gone. I talked in circles with them untilfinallythey agreed to redeliver—at my cost, of course. That wasn’t new. Me throwing money at a coffee shop I didn’t even want had become routine. And yet, it still left me simmering with frustration, the kind that clung to the back of my throat and made my headache worse and seemingly immune to Tylenol.
“Boss?” Jamie looked wary as he touched my arm—he’d only been in a few minutes, but he’d been quietever since he stepped in, almost as if he had something to say. I could imagine him saying he was leaving or something, and fuck, the thought of me in this place having to cover all day… fuck, no. “Are you getting a migraine?” he asked, and that shocked me. “I mean, you look like my uncle when he has one—he screws his face up, like this.” Jamie pulled a face to demonstrate, and despite myself, I huffed out a laugh.
