Tristan.
He’s been in the back of my mind ever since I left the coffee shop today—the way his flirty grins and teasing, bubbly quips made my stomach flip with a thrill of nerves. How after I’d gone to sit at a table with my latte—an absolutely perfect one, by the way—instead of the work I’d been supposed to be focusing on, I hadn’t been able to stop myself from peering over the top of my computer screen at him where he stood at the counter, arranging pastries and tidying up the display of tea bags. The way, once or twice, I even could have sworn I’d caught him watching me from under the black, silky swoop of his bangs.
The thought was so riveting and scattering that, after a distracted hour of trying to keep my eyes glued to my notes, I’d packed up and headed back to my apartment.
Maybe me thinking he was looking at me was nothing more than wishful thinking, but he certainly hadn’t called anyone elsesunshine,at least not in the time I was there. The fact that I know this is probably a little pathetic, and yet it really was impossible not to listen whenever a new customer approached him with an order.
And the way he’d leaned in over the counter, so close that my next breath had filled me with that minty peach-vanilla smell that lingered in his soft purply-black hair, when his graceful, long fingers closed around the lapel of my coat to wipe it clean—
The last notes of music fade beyond the wall, and from nowhere, a dizzy sense of confidence seizes me, mingling with the hot, hard pounding of my heart at the memory of the tease of Tristan’s nearness.
Whether it means anything or not, I’m tolerably sure that a drop-dead gorgeous man might have shamelessly flirted with me today, just for the hell of it. And that was despite me having soaked him in scalding hot coffee, too.
And fuck, the way his teeth grazed his soft, full lower lip for that too-short moment—
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m sitting down at my piano, letting my hands hover over the keys. What the exchange at Upshot andthishave to do with each other, I have no idea, but somehow, in my overheated brain, the two have gotten all tangled together and all the reckless daring I wish I’d let loose earlier comes flooding to the surface.
And then my fingers press down, releasing the first notes of Greensleeves, one of my favorites of the pieces I’ve learned.
It’s a tiny leap of courage. Probably a laughable one, yet for me, it’s a leap none the less.
I’m only four or five measures in when my unseen neighbor joins me. At the sound of the notes echoing mine through the wall, my fingers falter for a moment, but he keeps playing, smoothly working my discord into the melody as he layers the familiar tune with new intricacies.
By the time the piece is over, I’m grinning from ear to ear.
I’m sure as hell my elation over this ridiculously antisocial socialization means that Alex is once and for all right about me needing to get out of the little bubble of solitary predictability I’ve built for myself, but that’s really neither here nor there because the reckless buzz of courage isn’t gone.
Unfortunately, courage is apparently not something thatkeeps well overnight. That, or its antidote happens to be a certain pair of warm hazel eyes and a somehow simultaneously cocky and sweet one-dimpled smile.
Either way, all it takes to choke on every shred of my intention to throw myself off the deep end and invite Tristan to dinner is his cheery, “Hey, sunshine,” as I step into the rich, spicy warmth of the coffee shop the next afternoon.
The sound I force out in response might be considered a greeting. Thank god he at least seems to take it for that, based on the way his smile splits into a friendly grin. That, or he’s laughing at me, which, once again, is a distinct and miserable possibility.
“Another quad soy latte for you?” He tilts his head slightly, the eyebrow with its silver ring rising questioningly.
“Impressive.” Christ, that didn’t sound patronizing, did it? At least today I’m apparently able to make myself say something other than the bare minimum, robotic ordering of a drink. “You remember everyone’s orders in just one day?” There, that was friendly, right?
The dimple in his cheek deepens. “Nah,” he shakes his head, those black bangs slipping rebelliously down into his dancing eyes. “Only the cute ones.”
I don’t need a mirror to know that my face—my goddamn traitorous face—is as brilliantly red as the stop sign visible through the corner of my eye out the window. All I want to do is hide it where neither Tristan nor the other barista, the one with the curly red hair who I like because she’s always reading on her Kindle between orders, can see.
I can’t though. Instead, all I can do is stare at that gorgeous smile with its goddamn dimple and those laughing hazel eyes that feel like they’re searing right through me to expose thehopeless crush I’m nursing.
From behind him, I canfeelhis coworker’s eyes pinging between us.
“Or the ones I have to make twice,” Tristan goes on with staggering nonchalance and innocence, except this time I know I’m not mistaking the twitching of his lips.
Goddammit. Heislaughing.
“Easiest to remember though are the ones I wear home on my shirt. Those Idefinitelydon’t forget in a hurry.”
He has to work at it because I’ve fixed my mortified gaze down on the wood of the counter, trying futilely to will the blazing heat in my face away, but by some sorcery he manages to catch my eye just the same.
“Now, you put all three of those together?” His voice drops slightly as his grin shifts into a coy smolder that has my mouth going dry and my palms breaking out in a sweat, “And there’s no way in hell I’m ever forgettingyourdrink, sunshine.”
And then, instead of having the decency to wait around for the fifteen or so minutes that it would have taken for me to rearrange my thoughts back into anything like logic enough to formulate an acceptably clever response, the bastard just flashes me a devastating grin. Before I know it, he’s spinning around to saunter away from me, toward the espresso machine to start making the drink I never confirmed I even actually wanted.
By Sunday night, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that a nightmarish date with Todd is inescapably set in my very near future. Every day I’ve gone back to Upshot to try to makemyself ask that small, simple question, and every day, I’ve left with nothing more than unsaid words and another perfectly made latte.
