"He'll call back," I assure her, then quickly change the subject, or she'll have me analyzing his every word. “The new shipment is due today, and I have some online orders to fill. Then I'll check on the innovatory when it arrives,” I turn walking toward my office. “Let me know if you need anything else before then," I’m opening the door when she pipes up from the register.
"Where's Jess?” She looks over to the empty coffee station. I rub the bridge of my nose lightly as I scan past the tall bookshelves, over the worn-in sofas and chairs, to the area Jess usually occupies.
"Ugh, today is Monday," I state dumbly.
"Yeaahh," she prompts.
"She went to meet Tim’s family this weekend and won't be back until tomorrow," I make my way over to the coffee machine. It looks like it belongs on the cover of a steampunk novel. It is far more complicated that the Mr. Coffee I used when I began working here in high school. Mr. B upgraded the coffee machine before I bought the place from him. Damn the ever-complicating coffee culture of New York. "Shit. How does she make this look so easy?" I don't even know where to start a brew.
Anna gives me a sympathetic smile from the register across the room.
I find a traditional looking coffee maker, only larger, and muck my way through making a pot of black tar. The rest of the intricate contraption goes unused through the dayshift. I make a note to give Jess a raise after fiddling with the machine for an hour trying to make a latte. A few customers are disgruntled by the lack of choices, but most seem to be bemused with my increasingly coarse language and continual abuse I give the behemoth machine.
The entertainment is at my expense and so is the tar coffee. I can’t imagine making anyone pay for it.
Jude, the pm shift barista, comes in at three, allowing me to abandon the coffee cart for the back room so I can complete the online orders and finally check the status of the new arrivals. I leave the store just after six in old George's capable hands. He’s been working here far longer than me.
I sigh softly in relief as I enter the small grocery store nearest my home because my day is almost over. I pull the list that I managed to write during my lunch break from my purse and begin to gather the items, and even pick up a few that just look good as I shop.
I'm bending over looking at a display of California strawberries, when I feel the front bar of a shopping cart slam into the back of my ankles. I immediately straighten and jump forward to get away from the achilles killer. My leap causes me to knock countless cartons of berries to the ground, a few of the red fruits burst forth from their packages and roll onto the floor.
My groan of embarrassment is quickly followed by a deep masculine chuckle. I whip my head around to find a young boy, about thirteen years old, pushing the cart directly behind me. That certainly wasn’t him chuckling. If his red face is anything to go by, he’s nearly as mortified as I am. I instantly feel equal parts pity and confusion, as my brain is trying to connect the deep timber of the laugh I heard with this rather timid looking kid.
"I'm so sorry," he stammers just above a whisper. My face softens, and I smile at him.
"No problem sugar," I drawl. The accent I've fought hard to cover pops out unbidden by me. He looks down with a small smile that immediately falls when he notices the massacred fruit near my feet.
"Oh man, my moms gonna kill me." There's no fear behind the statement, so I know he won't really be in any trouble.
"I got this buddy, you go on and find your mama. No worries." I tell him anyway.
He looks torn between helping and running, "Are you sure? I really am sorry."
I nod and make a shooing motion with my hands, "I'm sure. Go on now."
I crouch down and begin stacking the unopened containers back onto the display. Only two opened, I start to grab the berries from the floor and drop them into the open boxes, someone kneels across from me and grabs a couple berries from the floor.
"Thank you," I utter quietly as I finish my task keeping my eyes down. I don't need to see whoever it was that witnessed my embarrassment.
"No problem sugar," a deep voice smoother than sin says. Damn, even while he's making fun of me, he sounds delicious.
My eyes are slow to travel up his crouching body. Dark boots cover his feet, strong legs encased in pair of well worn jeans, knees spread wide. I swallow thickly. A dark long-sleeved tee shirt is pushed up past powerful forearms, showing off a tan as out of season as the strawberries. He stands, before my eyes can reach his face. I sigh, now eye level with his boots. I'm not sure if it's relief or loss, but nonetheless I'm happy he'll be on his way, so I can get out of here with a little dignity.
I expect to hear footsteps, but instead I see a large hand drop in front of my face.
"You gonna stay down there all day?" He jokes. I place my hand in his so he won't think I'm rude, but I heave my weight up myself, overly conscious of my size compared to his fit physique.
I drop his hand quickly, but not fast enough to not notice how his big hand felt wrapped around mine. The warm and callous roughened skin makes me wish I didn't have to let go. It feels intimate, intoxicatingly so.
Now standing, it's easy to see he towers over my five-foot four-inch frame. My eyes raise, and I notice his hands clinch at his sides. My stomach twists. My thoughts spiral to the past as my eyes dart up to his face which is mostly covered by a baseball cap. I take one step back creating a safe distance.
"I think that kid will remember that encounter for the rest of his life. You made his day." He says his voice low as it plays across my alert nerves. He still sounds playful. Relaxing a bit, I realize he's not threatening me.
"How so?" I ask politely while trying to conceal the anxiety of my tone.
The stranger’s lips, the only part of his expression I can read, turn up a little more causing a salacious grin.
"You don't know why he ran into you do you?" he questions with a tilt of his head. I shake my head in denial.
