I managed to snag a small corner table in the bustling coffee shop. It was still slightly dark out as the sun started to pool through the wide front window. The workers behind the counter were like a well-oiled machine with each rush of hot air from the espresso machine to addressing people tapping their toes while waiting for their morning pick-me-up.
“Hot chocolate for Carol! Extra whip.”
“A warmed cardamom bun for Ashlyn!”
Baristas called orders one after another as customers headed in and out of the door, which was coated in a gentle sweep of fog and condensation.
I lifted the lid of my laptop open, a half-empty cup of black coffee beside it. It was early—barely eight thirty a.m.—but the place was already buzzing with people ordering their morningfix before heading off to work, which made me feel like I was kind of doing the same thing right along with them.
I figured I might as well clean myself up after last night’s disaster date at the dive bar and arrive for this one early so I could start the day off well, however date number six was going to go. If he showed up considering there was only a few minutes until our planned meeting time. Plus, I actually had a few writing jobs that had come through the other day that I needed to finish by the end of the week.
Though still, no full-time positions had magically pinged in my email.
It just made no sense. I was smart and practiced. I had a master’s degree, for God’s sake!
What else do these people want?
I had done everything I was supposed to do! Even if, yes, I could’ve chosen a more normal major with more job options, I now realized. Did I need to attach a song and jig to my next application, begging them to hire me?
At the very least, I was certain it would help me stand out.
My fingers, lightly covered with powdered sugar from the pastry I couldn’t deny myself while I had been in line, hovered over the keyboard. I stared at my screen, squinting at the headline for my latest article. At first, I had thought the job was a scam. But, nope, it was real. A website wanted someone to write an article about lawn furniture.
And that someone was now me.
I stared at the untouched “Five Tips to Make Your Lawn Furniture Last Longer.”
The title alone was making me feel like I was writing the world’s least inspiring piece.
Have I really stooped this low?
I had thought maybe after that fun website gig I’d had from before, things might be looking up. This said otherwise. I kept writing, trying to watch as I hit the word count requirement.
But freelancing was a grind, and I needed the money. Between this, a few articles for lifestyle blogs, and some copy for a local restaurant’s website, I was scraping by fine enough. Still, I’d gone to school for writing. Studied it. Practiced it. Did it for free for the sake of exposure. I didn’t want to be typing about plastic chairs and Adirondack sets for the rest of my life.
My phone buzzed in my bag. It was Gina.
I was just told he’s running a little late, but he’ll be there soon! He’s cute though! Promise!
My eyes drifted over to the door of the café, as if I expected to see him walking in right at that moment.
To be honest, I didn’t care as much as I probably should have, mainly because I didn’t have high hopes. After a string of disappointing blind dates, my expectations were about as low as they could go at this point.
As if my never-ending job search wasn’t keeping me humble enough.
And he’s cute, huh?I thought skeptically. I’d heard that one before.
At exactly nine a.m., the door chimed, and a man in a sharp business suit entered. He was tall with short, dark hair and a confident air about him that immediately caught my attention. He looked like someone who had his life together—way more than I could say for myself, honestly.
He was scanning the room, probably looking for me.
Well, at least he doesn’t look like a serial killer.
Standing up, I waved. After taking a second, he moved toward me with a smile I could only describe as warm.
“Hi. You’re Brielle?”
“That’s me,” I agreed, shaking the hand he’d offered. No awkward hugs—thank God.
