“And no, my cashier is not on the menu,” I add tartly.
“I can tell those are fake.” He’s dismissive. Then his eyes slide down my chest.
My face immediately goes hot.
“I prefer real ones,” he purrs.
I bristle.
See, here’s the thing. I can’t flirt. The best I’m able to do is be mildly insulting.
“AndIprefer men who have enough brain cells to muster a halfway-original pickup line and the honor not to flirt with inexperienced college girls, but here we are. Guess no one’s getting what they want.”
And this is why I’m still single, FYI.
That perfect mouth opens. He’s shocked, horrified, offended.
His eyes lock on me, pinning me. He leans over the counter, snarl on his perfect mouth. “I’m not flirting with anyone, Creampuff.”
“Yes, you are!” I sound shrieky.
I can hear Carolina face-palm.
No, I’m no longer that insecure teenage girl, but I did turn into a bitter middle-aged millennial woman who is so sick of men’s shit.
“Don’t just come into my café and gaslight me. You were all over those girls in the front.” I point to the young twenty-one- and twenty-two-year-olds gaping from their camp at the front of my café at the mean lady losing her shit on a customer.
“I was just being nice, which is apparently something you’re not capable of.” That large hand comes down hard on my reclaimed wood countertop.
“You’re not being nice!” I holler at him while Carolina clasps her hands and prays silently. “You’re being sleazy and manipulative. You probably have these girls thinking they have a chance with you.”
“They do have a chance with me. Every woman has a chance with me if she wants one.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Even you, Creampuff.”
I fume. “Yeah, a chance for you to string them along, promise them marriage and babies, then leave them high and dry.”
“Do I detect a woman wronged?” His tone is mocking.
“No, you do not,” I reply tartly. “You detect a woman who knows basic logic and can see a con man a mile away.”
That sets him off. His nostrils flare. “A con man? Do you have any ideawho—”
“Who you are?” I say mockingly. “Yes. A womanizer who goes after younger women because women his own age know better than to waste their valuable time on a man-child.”
“I just placed a hundred-dollar coffee order.”
I glare at Olive.
Olive giggles. “I’m still working on your order.”
“I bet you don’t even have a job. I bet you just put on that thrift-store suit and waltz in here.”
“This is a custom-made suit from imported wool of a Montclair Angora goat.” He looms over the counter.
It might be intimidating to someone else. But not me. The Guy is firmly out of attractive-crush territory. Now he is in public-menace territory.
“It’s so soft!” Olive titters and reaches out to run her hand across the sleeve of his suit.
He gives her an indulgent smile. “At least someone working here recognizes quality when she sees it.”
