“Large decaf, no-foam, brown sugar oat milk latte for Lizzie?”
I took two uncertain steps forward, eyes darting between the coffee cup bearing my name on the counter and the new tattooed barista at Steep & Shot Coffee—apparently named Heinrik—who’d shoved the cup in my direction.
“Um, yeah… that’s not right.”
Heinrik raised a pierced eyebrow, though the rest of him appeared unaffected. “That’s what you ordered.”
I tried not to wince. The bored affect/vocal fry was high with this one.
I shook my head. “No, you just said ‘decaf’. What I ordered was extra-caff. As in, an extra shot of espresso.”
“Sorry… that’s not what I heard.”
What kind of psychopath orders decaf coffee at seven-fifty in the morning?
Taking a deep, steadying breath, I willed myself to remain calm. “Heinrik… please, help a girl out. I mean, do I look like someone who needs a decaf right now?” I gestured dramatically, shaking the plastic bag containing the box of tampons I’d just picked up from the drugstore. Combined with my rumpled appearance, today’s hot-mess version of Lizzie Blake left little room for doubt that caffeine was an absolute necessity.
Though if Fate had proven anything to me over the last year, it was that it had a really twisted sense of humor.
Because not only had I been handed an overnight power outage, leading to a way-too-late wake-up time—but I woke up slammed with pre-period cramps, several days early.
And, yet again, the incomparable baristas at Steep & Shot had given me the wrong freaking coffee order.
Oh, and I was already twenty minutes late to work. Again.
But Heinrik just shrugged as he moseyed on back towards the cash register, clearly not here for hysterical women or self-righteous coffee demands. “Beth can make you another one, but…” he said, craning his neck to look past me, “it’s gonna be awhile.”
I followed his gaze towards the lineup of people also waiting on their orders, which had grown exponentially during the past fifteen minutes I’d spent sucked into another romance novel on my e-reader.
And like me, not a single one of them looked thrilled to be there.
It was like a tragic scene out of what would likely be the worst—or most accurate—book ever: Death by Nine-to-Five Grind.
Though I was pretty sure none of the other patrons had been up until two a.m. for the fifth night in a row, trying to make progress on a manuscript that seemed determined to unwrite itself.
Probably because I’m more qualified to write the Death book than my own.
“Ugh, just… never mind.” I was already late enough for work as it was. Snatching my cup from the counter, I shifted the strap of my bookbag further up my shoulder before elbowing my way through the crowd towards the door.
For the fourth time in as many weeks, I grumbled to myself about finding a new coffee shop—but who was I kidding? This place was only a block away from my second-floor walk-up apartment. I knew I’d be back again for the same torture on Monday morning, if not sooner.
I rolled my eyes, annoyed at my own sad-sack internal monologue. I was better than this. Mostly, I was tired of feeling so… stuck. And the last few months since losing my mom and grandmother had only managed to amplify all of it.
With a sigh, I pushed open the door to step out onto the sidewalk. Suddenly there was a shout—and the door immediately swung back, smacking me square in the face. My coffee—along with everything else I’d been carrying—flew out of my hand. Cursing loudly, I felt the hot contents of the paper cup spill down the sleeve of my light gray blouse, tumbling down to land amongst the tampons that had, of course, fallen out of their box and across the cement.
Eyes tearing up from the pain (both from my third-degree latte burns and the giant goose egg forming on my forehead), I tried to shake off the shock as I bent down to gather my coffee-soaked feminine products, praying nobody saw me.
But of course—of course—my request was denied, as I discovered most of them were scattered around a pair of scuffed-up sneakers.
“Jesus… you ok?”
The smooth tenor of the man belonging to those shoes rang out above my head. Looking up, I was met with gold-flecked hazel eyes and a smile that was equal parts sexy and disarming—perfectly framed by a smattering of brownish whiskers and a single dimple that I itched to run my fingers over.
Grabbing the last few remaining tampons and throwing them into my bag, I quickly stood to face him, my traitorous cheeks already ablaze. Fully upright, he still had a good eight inches on me, tall and lean with decidedly better muscle tone—at least, based on what I saw outlined through the thin fabric of the t-shirt and shorts he was wearing.
To sum it up, the guy was hot. Like, really hot—in a ruggedly handsome, Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse, sent to deliver my doom with a side order of humiliation, sort of way.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, dabbing at my soaked sleeve with a tissue I’d pulled from my bookbag, but it was pointless—the stain was already set. Sighing, I tossed it into the plastic bag, along with the rest of the coffee carnage. “I just… somehow ran into the door.”
Smirking, he ran a hand briefly through his sexy-scruffy golden-brown hair. “Yeah, I figured as much… so did I.” He gestured a few feet behind him, where a few boxes lay spilled open across the sidewalk. “See, I was carrying a load of my friend’s stuff—that is, until your door swung open and shoved everything into my face.”
My eyes drifted towards the welt over his right eyebrow, feeling the teensiest pang of guilt—nevertheless, I bristled at the insinuation that somehow all of this was my fault.
But getting upset wouldn’t help a dang thing right now, much less get me to work more quickly. Just keep it breezy and be on your way, Ms. Blake...
