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I laugh.
Me: Miss you guys too! Go swallow your cheese. PS Can you ask dad if the grass is supposed to turn brown?
Mom: *eyeroll emoji*
The door of Roots opens and Kyle, the mailman, walks in. He’s been the local mailman ever since I was a little girl and nothing points in the direction of him having a retirement plan whatsoever. He’s just going to deliver letters until the day he dies and then we’ll only find out he’s dead because nobody’s mail gets delivered that day. He always wears bright red shorts, no matter how hot or cold it is and he has always fascinated me. He greets Shelby as he gives her a few letters before turning around and going on his merry way. Shelby thanks him and flicks through the stack of letters she received. She picks one of the letters out and leaves the rest on the counter before walking over to the kitchen which I can see perfectly from my spot and she opens the door.
“Got a letter for you chef,” she says as she sticks it out into the kitchen. It’s one of those half open kitchens, and I can see part of it from where I’m sitting. “And I’m taking a smoke break, so can you get my newest friend some tea?”
A hand grabs the letter and grunts. Shelby walks through the kitchen, probably to go out through the back. It surprises me when Dean walks out into the café. He’s staring intently at the letter and doesn’t notice me. He mumbles something and throws the letter in the trash. Still oblivious to my presence, he walks over to the counter to make me another tea. I observe him while he fills a mug with steaming water. He’s a big man. Tall. I like that. And the observation also stands for his physique. The guy is buff. But not in, like, that freaky way where you could see the veins on top of the muscles, like The Rock has. I shrug at the thought of that. I mean, I really like the actor as a person, as far as I could like someone I’ve never met, but there’s such a thing as too muscular. Dean has no such issues.
He finishes grabbing everything he needs for my tea, and walks over to where I sit with an assortment of teas. It’s then he finally notices me.
“Hey!” he says, looking genuinely surprised while he puts down the tea on the bar. “I almost didn’t recognize you without a stack of boxes.”
“Back at you, chef. Almost didn’t recognize you when you’re not looking like the contestant of a wet t-shirt contest.”
“The only reason I was soaked was to save your books,” he says with a scowl.
I hold my hands up in defense. “I never said it was a bad look on you.”
He suddenly looks very pleased with himself. Can’t say I blame him. Soaking wet is a very good look on him for sure.
“So, you’re my sister’s new friend?”
“Your sister? You mean Shelby?”
“Yeah, she’s my oldest sister. I’ve got three in total. I’m the baby.” He then proceeds to wink at me.
“I’m learning so much about you today. You’re a chef, you’re the baby of the family. And you don’t like letters.”
My eyes find the trash can he has just thrown the letter in.
“I don’t like that letter. I have no problem with correspondence in general.”
“What has it done to you to earn such treatment? Insult your mother?”
He laughs. “Might as well have. But I don’t really want to talk about it.”
There’s a short silence hanging in between us. He looks at me with kind blue eyes and smiles.
“So, you and my sis?”
“Oh yeah, it's new. We met this morning. She brought me food and drinks, so we'll probably be besties for life.”
“In that case, we're in it for the long haul as well, I make the food.” He suggestively raises his eyebrows while saying it.
“The four words to a woman's heart. I make the food. You're so smooth Dean,” I answer while clasping my hands and holding them over my heart.
I pick out a tea, and hang the teabag in my water. A citrusy smell fills the room.
“So, you're hanging out in coffee shops on Wednesdays?” Dean asks while staring at my laptop.
“Working. This is me working. I've written at home for the last few days, and I needed a change of scenery.”
“Right, O mentioned something about you writing books.” He tries to look at the screen of my laptop, making me weirdly insecure. I have some experience with people disapproving of my writing and I don’t want Dean to disapprove of me. Even though I’m a published author and can even make a living out of it, I’m still afraid I’m not good enough to make it. I’m not certain exactly as to why I want his approval so much, I’ve only ever met him once before after all.
“Feels more like the characters are ruling my life at the moment than me writing theirs. Assholes.” My comment manages to make Dean snicker.
