She laughs and takes over making my drink, telling me to go sit down. I return to my stool at the front counter. Even though Marisol and I share an office in the back, I usually prefer working out front when it’s not too busy. I love watching people come and go, friends meeting for coffee, couples having dates. The chatter and laughter fills me with joy, as does watching people savor our culinary creations.
The café is quiet right now, as it usually is during the hour or so between mid-morning and the early lunch rush. A few people are seated at tables, lingering over coffee and pastries. I snap a picture of my Pump Up the Flavor sign and post it to Cravings’ Instagram feed, then add pictures of some of this morning’s selection of baked goods to our stories.
Marisol sets my latte on the counter in front of me. I don’t usually add any extras to my own drinks, but she’s topped it with whipped cream, a drizzle of caramel, and a sprinkling of pumpkin pie spice. Before I can say anything, she leans in and kisses my forehead.
“You know I love you, right? And I’m always,alwayson your side. Team Willow forever. I just want to see you happy and I think you’ll be happier—or at least feel lighter—if you deal with TJ once and for all, one way or the other. Now…” She picks up the latte again and hands it to me before taking my phone and stepping back a few feet. When she aims the camera at me, I smile and lift the drink while she snaps a few pictures. “Postthaton Insta. Apparently the algorithm likes faces, andIhappen to loveyourface.”
“I happen to love your face too,” I tell her. “And thank you. I never doubted you had my back, it’s just—”
“TJ is a touchy subject, I know. Enjoy your drink and a few minutes of solitude. I’m going to take a quick break before the next rush. Cami should be here in about ten minutes for her shift.” She gives me a cheeky little wave as she disappears into the back of the café.
I take Marisol’s advice and post the picture on Instagram, urging people to come in for a pumpkin spice latte of their own, and promising a discount to anyone who mentions seeing the post. I also contemplate Marisol’s other bit of advice about dealing with TJ. Intellectually, I know she’s right and it’s the mature thing to do. My heart is a different matter, though. It’s still bruised, even all these years later, and seeing TJ is like poking at a wound that’s not quite healed.
My attention drifts to the front window. A tall, dark-haired man is standing outside, frowning up at the café’s sign. He glances at the phone in his hand and then hurriedly reaches for the door when a woman exits the café. She smiles and says something to him, and he nods before entering Cravings. His gaze returns to his phone as he approaches the counter, giving me a chance to take in his hunter-green pullover and dark slacks. On closer inspection, I realize his pants are actually jeans with a sharp crease down the front of the legs.
“Morning,” I say brightly.
“Good morning.” He looks at me briefly before returning his gaze to his phone.
“Are you on our Instagram page? Were you lured in by the promise of pumpkin spice?”
His eyes meet mine again, this time long enough for me to see they’re a rich brown. “I—sorry? I don’t have Instagram. And I’ll pass on the latte; I prefer my pumpkin in pie form at Thanksgiving, thank you.” The words are spoken mildly in a matter-of-fact tone, despite their snobbishness. He looks around the café, taking in the fall decor. “You do realize autumn doesn’t officially begin until next week?”
Ugh, he’s one ofthosepeople. “I know, but fall is my favorite season and I like to get a jump start. And you can’t deny there’s been a nip in the air the last few days.” I gesture toward his pullover as evidence, then something compels me to add, “At least I left the Halloween decorations packed away.”
He makes a face like he swallowed a lemon. Or maybe the stick up his ass shifted and he’s uncomfortable. It’s too bad because he’s handsome in a stuffy, perfectly pressed way, especially with the threads of silver woven into his dark hair around the temples. He looks familiar, although I can’t put my finger on who he reminds me of or where I might know him from.
Looking at his phone, he asks, “What kind of milk alternatives do you offer?”
I list them off. Having worked in Toronto for years, I got used to people’s desire for dairy substitutes, so I try to carry a variety at Cravings, even though there’s less need for them. From my experience, if people want something fussy or fancy, they’ll go to a place like Starbucks, not a tiny café inside an entertainment village.
“And do you offer decaffeinated coffee?” he asks.
“Of course. I don’t have any on right now, but it would only take a minute to brew a fresh pot.”
“If it’s not too much trouble,” he says. I assure him it’s not and head for the row of coffee makers. “Oh, one last thing. Is it truly decaffeinated? Or is it regular coffeedisguisedas decaffeinated? That likely sounds like an obnoxious question, but I’ve heard from people that they’ve ordered decaf and were certain it was regular. Not here, of course, but…”
I’m not sure if the tickle in my throat is a laugh or a scoff. Either way, I swallow it down and paste on a smile. I dealt with customers like this every day in Toronto, but this is a first since returning to Bellevue. I havenotmissed people like him. “I guarantee you it’s real decaf. I can show you the container if you’d like.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” His gaze drifts to his phone, then snaps back up to mine. He hasn’t smiled once since entering Cravings, but his lips twitch the tiniest bit now as if he just caught on to my sarcasm.
“Can I get you anything else while you wait?” I ask as I add decaf grounds and water to our smallest coffee maker.
He eyes the glass-fronted shelves of baked goods. “Just a regular coffee, please. Black. And for the decaf, almond milk and one sugar, with a shot of caramel.” He glances at his phone again and says, “Actually, make that a shot of vanilla.”
A few minutes later as he turns to leave, to-go cups in hand, I say, “Thanks for stopping by Cravings. I hope to see you again.”
“Oh, I doubt we’ll cross paths again. I’m only visiting.”
I give my head a bewildered shake as he walks away. It’s something I say to everyone—that, or the standard ‘Have a nice day’—and most people simply smile and thank me or tell me they’ll be back. I should have known this guy with his ramrod posture and ironed jeans would take me literally.
It’s a shame his personality doesn’t match his looks. Then again, that’s often the case, at least from my experience. Still, I could use a distraction from thoughts of TJ and, while Mr. Anti-Autumn isn’t my usual type, I can’t say I’d mind mussing up that perfect hair and getting a peek at what’s under those pressed jeans. Especially since those jeans happen to show off a mighty fine ass.
Too bad he’s only visiting and I’ll never see him again.
