One
COFFEE SHOP HOTTIE
Liv
“Excuse me,what?”Viv screams through the phone as I recount my date from the night before. I hold the phone away to save my eardrums and take a quick look around at the patrons of Bean & Brew. They appear entirely unaware of the shrieking I’m trying to avoid.
“You heard correctly. He said I’m too old for kids, and my career is cute. I think I should take a break from the dating scene. Maybe it’s time to swear off men altogether,” I say, taking a step forward in line.
Last night’s blind date was at the insistence of Viv’s little brother. This guy, Bradley, was supposed to check all the boxes. Good-looking, driven, working in a field similar to mine—financial end for him, marketing side for me. I can’t say I’ve had a ton of dating success lately. Well, for a long time. Okay fine, ever—so I gave it a shot.
Bradley showed up to the restaurant clean-cut, with chocolate brown hair effortlessly pushed to the side. He wore a slate-gray suit tailored perfectly, complemented by a gleaming Rolex on his wrist. Handsome as could be.
Turns out he was also an asshole.
First, he was late. Not five minutes late. No. I’m talking twenty. No excuses, no apologies, just late. Right there—that was a problem for me. Being on timematters.
It was the beginning of the end when he kissed my hand—becauseick.Red flags were flying like confetti, and I still tried to stick it out. Was I desperate? Maybe.
I tried to overlook it when he ordered a bottle of wine for us without consulting me about my wine tastes first. This wouldn’t be a problem, except it was a Merlot, and I despise Merlot. Or when he orderedmydinner for me. He had the audacity to insist he knew how I’d like my steak more than I did. The final straw was when he told me my marketing and branding career was nothing more than a pretty hobby of making mood boards and Instagram highlights. Oh, and a woman’s role was to stay home with the children and look pretty. That’s about the moment I walked out on his ass.
“Please,pleasetell me you threw a glass of wine in his face orsomething,” Viv says.
“On my way out, I swiped the nearly full, absurdly expensive bottle of wine he ordered off the table and tossed it in the garbage outside.”
“That’ll do,” Viv says.
The soft music of the coffee shop plays behind the buzz of the morning patrons. Though long, the line moves steadily forward, and I take another small step as the person who ordered slips off to the side of the counter.
The everyday people are here. Sharp Suit Guy, who comes every morning dressed in a suit that is so outside the norm—today it’s a solid blue blazer and blue plaid pants with a yellow button-down. It somehow works for him. He’s always on his phone, always. Talking to someone but saying nothing that discloses what he does for a living. It’s unreal how curious I am to know what he does for work.
At another table is Writer Girl. She’s constantly tapping awayat those laptop keys, clad in leggings and an oversized shirt, large glasses framing her face. Then there are a few pop-in customers—a mom and her daughter, who’s maybe about ten, chat away at a table by the window. Watching them laugh together, a familiar ache twists in my chest. I cast it aside like I always do, but I’m aware my gaze lingers on them a little longer than it should. The line moves forward, and my attention snags on a man in the corner who’s looking out the window.
Dressed in a black, fitted, long-sleeved Henley with the sleeves rolled up, he has forearms that hint at a lifestyle involving the gym or some form of fitness. His shirt is open at the collar, with three buttons left unbuttoned. It hugs his chest and shoulders perfectly, as if tailored just for him. My gaze snags on the double-H logo on his shirt, a brand I don’t recognize. Dark vintage-wash jeans seem to be glued to his muscular thighs, paired with worn brown shoes that complement the overall look.
Woah.
Wavy light brown hair, accented with natural blonde highlights, falls effortlessly over his forehead—longer on top, shorter along the sides. Coupled with a tightly trimmed beard, his whole appearance gives off a clean-yet-rugged look. My heart stutters as I take him in. He has one arm draped across the back of the chair while the other holds a coffee in a to-go cup. Lifting the cup, presumably to take a sip, he shifts his gaze away from the window.
Afraid of being caught staring, I glance down at the woven rug.
“So, what’s on the agenda today?” I ask Viv.
“Oh! I meant to tell you! I have a call with the new potential owners of The Hotel EdenReed today!”
“Ho-ly shit! Are you serious? LiketheHotel EdenReed? Up in the Berkshires?” I ask, trying not to let my excitement get the better of me.
The Hotel EdenReed is a luxurious boutique hotel that wepartnered one of our travel influencers with in the early years of our agency, Liv + Viv. They’re in talks with a new, up-and-coming investor who wants to purchase the hotel and expand.
Understandably, its loyal following is concerned that the hotel may lose its unique, small-scale charm and the highly sought-after personalized service it offers. If we gained this account for the rebrand and launch campaign, it wouldn’t just be our first client in that area, but one that could put us on the map for bigger accounts in the future.
“What time is the call?”
The tug of temptation pulls me toward the corner where the stranger sits, but I refuse to let my attention wander. I’ve spent the last five years building a portfolio and client list for Liv + Viv, and focusing on the goal is what I do best. A gorgeous face in the corner won’t be my downfall—not today.
“Zoom at 11 a.m. Do you want to be on it with me?”
The distinct feeling I’m being watched snakes across my skin. Try as I might, I can’t help it—I glance toward the corner where the man sits.
