Page 65 of The Trouble with Flings

“Hi. Yes, but can you make it half-caf, please?”

“Half-caf?” She looks between me and Fitz curiously, her gaze landing on his hand on my hip as she says, “Sure thing. Are you two ordering together?”

“Yes.” Why does that feel so big?

Fitz reads her name tag and says, “Hi, Paisley. What a great name. How’s your morning going?”

“Pretty well,” she says in a way that tells me she doesn’t get asked that often, and I realize I’m probably one of many customers who are always in too much of a rush to think beyond my order.

“You’ve got quite a menu,” he says. “What flavor latte do you recommend?”

Paisley’s eyes brighten. “Caramel is my favorite. It’s as smooth as butter.”

“That sounds good to me,” Fitz says, and studies the chalkboard menu. “I’d also like an egg-white bagel sandwich with veggies, cheese, and turkey sausage.” He glances at the glass pastry case. “And I’d like two of those.” He points to the salted caramel cinnamon rolls I was just drooling over. “One of the fruit-and-cream pastries, and one of those delicious-looking pastries with the chocolate drizzle.”

“Excellent choice. That’s kouign-amann,” she says. “It’s hard to make, but the crisp caramelized outer layer and soft, flaky inside are worth every painful second.”

“In that case,” Fitz says. “Give me two and one of whatever else you think we shouldn’t leave without.”

“The lavender honey croissant,” she says excitedly, smiling at me like I’ve found the greatest guy on earth.

“Sounds good to me.”

“Is this for here or to go?” she asks.

I say “To go” at the same time Fitz says “For here.”

“We can eat on the way to the laundromat,” I explain.

“Why rush through breakfast?” he asks, but he doesn’t wait for an answer. He looks at Paisley and lifts his chin. “The coffees and her usual for her, pastries to go, please.”

As he pays, Paisley says, “The omelet might take a minute.”

“That’s okay. We’re not in a rush,” he says.

“Great,” she says. “I hear hints of Boston. Where are you from?”

“Silver Island born and bred,” he says, pocketing his wallet. “My sister has a coffee shop there, the Sweet Barista. You should take the ferry over sometime and check it out.”

Paisley plants a hand on her hip, giving us a teasing look, and says, “Is that why you’re ordering so many pastries? To give our secrets away?”

“Market research,” he says. “I’m kidding. They just look too good to pass up.”

Paisley hands him the receipt and says, “Here you go, All Frills No Rush. Enjoy your day.”

All Frills No Rush. He’s just won over my favorite barista.

“Why did you order so many pastries?” I ask as we move to the pickup area.

“I saw you eyeing them.”

“I wasn’t eyeing them,” I say as if it’s the most ridiculous statement in the world.

He pulls me closer, his breath warming my ear as he says, “You looked like you wanted to climb into the display case.”

I open my mouth to refute that, but why bother?

He kisses my cheek. “You shouldn’t deny yourself the little things in life.”