I have a harder time with this one, only able to give him a vague “candy” description when I’m done, and as he reads off the flavor notes he got from the barista, I’m drawn to his lips, how they move, wondering how that stubble would rasp againstmyskin.
He finishes his second espresso and leans back in his chair. “How long have you lived inSeattle?”
“Eight years. I moved up here after I got out of rehab down in Los Angeles. I couldn’t stand the idea of going back to Modesto—and my family—but that’s a longstory.”
He cocks his head, and the movement highlights his broad shoulders. “I’vegottime.”
No one needs to hear about my foolish teenage years or the shit that went down right before I joined the army. Especially not on a first…whatever the hell this is. I shake my head. “I’d need alcohol. A lot ofalcohol.”
“Does that mean you’ll have dinner withmesoon?”
If my mouth is full of coffee, I won’t have to answer, right? I down the rest of the espresso like a shot of vodka, but he’s leaning forward now, waiting for myreply.
Distraction. I need a distraction, right now. “So, uh…you own your dojo, right? How many classes a week do youteach?”
Tiny lines tighten around his lips for a second before he clears his throat. “Not so many these days. I spend most of my time on paperwork andadvertising.”
“Do you miss it—theteaching?”
“Every damn day.” Longing deepens his twang, and he rubs the back of his neck. I’ve touched a nerve, and I don’t know how to soothe therawspot.
“West—“
He shifts his gaze to the “not-a-latte” in front of me. “Broadcast is famous for their macchiatos.Tryit.”
“I don’t like sweet drinks.” He frowns, and I try to stifle my cringe. Sometimes, I don’t even realize what’s coming out of my mouth until the words emerge and I’ve offended someone. This probably-a-date may prove to be disastrous at the rate I’mgoing.
“This isn’t sweet.” His tone carries an edge. “It’s a shot of espresso and just enough steamed milk to mellow thebitterness.”
The mug rests heavy in my hand. Before I can take a sip, a guy a few tables away knocks over his chair, and the loudcrackmakes me jump. My fingers spasm and the cup crashes to the floor, sending pieces of ceramic skittering across the hardwood. Hot coffee splatters my shirt, my jeans, and my right shoe. “Dammit!” I lean down to try to pick up the broken cup handle, but off balance and flustered, I slip off the chair and ontomyass.
“Fuck, Cam.” West leaps out of his own chair, then slides his hands under my arms, which only serves to deepen my embarrassment, and when he lifts me, I try to twist away. “Relax, angel. I’ve got you.” He helps me back into my chair. “Areyouokay?”
The pity swirling in his eyes raises mydefenses. “Fine.”
West pauses for a beat before he mutters something about napkins and rushes off to thecounter.
“Dammit.” Coffee squishes as I wiggle my toes, and as I glance down, the brown stain just below my breast makes me want to take a backhoe to the now-stained floor and dig a hole big enough tocrawlinto.
The barista rushes over, and she and West clean up the mess. I wrestle my phone out of my bag and then fiddle with the screen, engaging my backup plan—a workemergency.
West wipes his hands on his jeans and then stands. “I’ll get you anothermacchiato.”
“I have to go. Work…needs me.” Offering what I hope is an apologetic smile, I slide my cane off the back of the chair. “Thank you for thecoffee,but—“
West reaches for my hand. “Stay. Please. At least for another cup ofcoffee.”
“I can’t, West. I’m sorry. I’m a mess—literally.”
“You’rebeau—“
“Some people are just better online. We should stick with fighting aliens and binge watchingDoctor Who.”In the tight space, I brush the table with my hip as I stand, the empty espresso cups rattling in their saucers, West’s untouched macchiato sloshing over the ceramic rim, leaving a milky stain on the dark wood. He steadies me, his hands on my hips. His uncertain expression tempts me to stay, to wipe the slate clean andstartover.
But if I do, I’ll spend every minute self-conscious, tugging at my stained shirt, and he’ll ogle—what man wouldn’t?—until I can’t face him ever again. I won’t be able to salvage the friendship we’ve formed, and while I can tell he wants more, I can’t even get through coffee; there’s no way I could make it through anactualdate.
“I’m sorry.” Slipping out of his grasp, I weave my way around the tables, and when I pause steps from the exit, I can feel his stare. I can’t look back. I won’t. And yet, as the heavy glass door closes between us, I relent and meethisgaze.
The confusion etched on his face almost sends me back inside, but I made my choice. I shake my head as a final apology and then headforhome.
