“Sure.” I walk over to the couch and take a seat, watching him as he goes about adding the beans and water to his ancient coffee maker. He’s in a navy T-shirt, and I can’t help but notice the definition of his arms and shoulders as he handles things in the kitchen.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee overpowers the smell of the wood stove, and I lean back into the couch andget comfortable. He grabs two red ceramic mugs from the cupboard to the left of the coffee maker. He pulls down the sugar from up high, adding two spoonfuls to one of the cups. After putting the lid back on, he opens the fridge and grabs a mason jar with some kind of liquid in it. I assume milk, at first, but then notice that it has the slightest tinge of orange to it. He places it on the counter and pours us each a cup of coffee. Then I watch as he unscrews the lid from the mason jar, gives the liquid a mix with a spoon, and adds a hearty splash to what I am assuming is my coffee. Walking over to me, he places it on the end table to my left.
“Gimme, gimme,” I say jokingly as I take a sip and am immediately swept away by hints of cinnamon and sweet pumpkin flavour. “Oh my god, this is amazing. Did you buy a pumpkin spice creamer? What brand is this? I need to get it!” I look at him, waiting for his answer.
“I still don’t know what that is,” he starts. “But I heard the words ‘pumpkin’ and ‘cream’ come out of your mouth, so I got some canned pumpkin and whipping cream and tried to make something.” He pauses, a small blush creeping across his cheeks. “In case you came back.” He clears his throat before adding, “I couldn’t take any more whining from you.” A grin appears as he says it.
I am in awe right now. I can’t believe he went to the trouble on the off chance I’d be back here. “This is better than any creamer I’ve ever bought. Thank you, mystery man.”
“Dylan,” he responds calmly.
“Hmm?” I ask after swallowing my second sip of the delicious and sweet coffee with creamer that should be bottled and sold at every store.
“Myname.”
I almost choke on my third sip.His name is what?“Your name is what?” I repeat out loud this time.
“Dy-lan,” he enunciates slowly, that smirk growing wider on his lips as he does. He finds this amusing.
“You’re joking?” I place my coffee on the table beside me and stare at him, eyebrow cocked.
“Why would I joke about my name?” He looks and sounds truly confused once again by my reaction.
“I just can’t get over the odds.”
“The odds of what? Can you please elaborate a little more for me?” He walks over to the matching lounge chair and sits down.
“Your name is Dylan,” I start.
“Yes.”
“The same name as the old lighthouse keeper.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“And you don’t find that strange?” He quirks his mouth to one side before taking another sip of his coffee.
“No, it’s a common name.”
“Okay. Well then.” I curl my legs up on the couch and stare up at the mystery lighthou—Dylan. Stare atDylan. “I’m Lucy.”
“Nice to officially meet you, Lucy.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-two, how about you?” There’s that smirk again. It grows into a wider smile, flashing his very white teeth. For the first time, I notice when he grins that he has two slightly longer canines peeking out, giving him the kind of smile that feels equal parts charming and troublesome.
“Twenty-five. This past May.”
“I see.” He gets up and walks over to his desk, grabbing a notebook from the coffee table on his way. “You distracted me,Lucy,” he says as he sits down and pulls a pencil out of an old cup.
I feel my stomach erupt in butterflies at those words. Could I be distracting to him?
I think I’d like to be.
“How so?” I crane my neck to see what he’s doing.
“I almost forgot to write in my log.”Oh. I hear the scratching of his pencil on the paper as he jots down his notes from memory.
