The couple was too far away and too quiet for eavesdropping purposes. But when Hector paused after putting away his wallet and spoke to Charlotte, her lips parted in seeming surprise. Then she smiled back at him and responded. His own smile widened, and he ducked his head.
Once another customer approached the register, the young man moved away with an awkward wave, his heart in his eyes. And assoon as he turned his back, Swinging-Teal-Ponytail Bez grinned, elbowed her pink-cheeked colleague, and—if Molly’s lipreading could be trusted—said, “Told you so.”
Something inside Molly’s chest warmed. Twisted. Ached. Maybe the tiny, tiny portion of her heart that cynicism and painful experience hadn’t hardened to flint.
She wasn’t sure she still believed in happy endings. But she was wishing one for those two, cynicism be damned.
“Look at you.” With a swipe of her napkin, Lise cleaned a few stray crumbs from her mouth. “Molly Dearborn, being nosy. Just like a local.”
Molly couldn’t even deny it. “You’re a bad influence, Utendorf.”
Lise’s round, pretty face bloomed in a pleased smile. “That’s the nicest compliment I’ve gotten in ages. Thanks, Mol.”
Molly shook her head and opened her mouth to respond, only to pause when the shouting began.
Karl was the source of the shouting, of course. When she looked toward the espresso machine, he appeared to be arguing with a youngish, muscular guy in too-tight track pants. One sporting what she’d guess was an ironic handlebar mustache, twisted to sharp, gleaming points against either cheek.
“Gotta go,” she told Lise, then scooted out of the booth and approached the combatants.
“C’mon, man,” she heard the customer complaining as she got closer. “Don’t be a latte-withholding grouch. I heard about the miso-caramel matcha version you made yesterday, and Ineedone.”
That flavor combination had been conceived by Charlotte, concocted by Karl, and given to Molly in latte form. And it was freakingincredible. She couldn’t really blame the guy for wanting a taste, but—
“Like I tell you every week: Read the sign, asshole.” Karl stabbed a finger at a small slate propped on the counter, where someone had written a message in bright blue chalk:no off-menu orders during the lunch rush. thank you for your understanding!
There was a smiley face at the end too, so... Karl had probably inspired that directive, but he definitely hadn’t written it.
Mr. Track Pants’s tone turned wheedling. “I’ll double the usual price. No, I’lltripleit.”
“No.” There was no hesitation in Karl’s answer. No give.
A wiser man would have retreated at that point. Instead, the customer crossed his arms across his chest, thick biceps bulging, and stood his ground. “I thought the customer was always right.”
Uh-oh. Thatgotchatone was obnoxious enough that even she kind of wanted to punch the guy. Karl was going to lose his shit, guaranteed.
Swiftly, she rounded the sales counter and trotted toward the impending explosion. By the time she arrived, Karl had already thrust one of his glass latte mugs between him and the other man and was shaking it so hard she half expected it to rattle.
“—take this mug, break it into pieces, and use a shard to slice off your precious goddamn mustache.” The heat of Karl’s glower, if directed at the mug, should have melted the glass then and there. “Then I’ll rip out each individual hair follicle, so those motherfuckersnevergrow again. Andthen—”
“Hey, Karl?” Molly said in her calmest voice.
Karl stopped mid-profanity, swung his head her way, and—did mustache guy actually lookdisappointedby the interruption?
She carried on anyway. “Just FYI: Using a broken shard of glass as a cutting implement is dangerous.”
“Yes.” Karl narrowed his eyes at the customer. “To this prick’s mustache.”
“Well, yes, but also to you. You could seriously injure yourself during the barbering process.” Nudging her arm against his, she tried to draw his full attention. “Also, as anyone who’s ever gotten waxed realizes—”
He snorted. “We both know you’ve never waxed even a square inch of that gorgeous body, Dearborn.”
“—ripping hair out by the roots might make it grow back more slowly, but itwillgrow back. For more permanent removal, you probably want to consider professional electrolysis.”
It was, as he’d guessed, purely theoretical knowledge. But she’d read enough women’s magazines in her own dentist’s waiting room to feel confident in her information.
The pugnacious jut of Karl’s bearded jaw had softened a fraction. “What the hell is electrolysis?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Johnathan urging Mr. Track Pants toward the door. Good. Soon enough, the entire encounter would be—
