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The man waves me off and marches out the door.
I walk back behind the counter and my manager, Tamira, says, “What was that about?”
I shrug. “There’s always somebody who’s not happy.”
That customer reminded me of my struggle when I had the idea for this shop.
No mainstream bank would give me a loan. The bankers all said the same thing: I should not offer health benefits, but I just couldn’t budge on that. I will admit, this passion has taken its toll in more ways than financial. I’m so obsessed with coffee that my girlfriend of six months left because I could rarely talk about anything else. Or so she claimed.
What spurred her on to leave may have also been the meathead she met at the gym. I shielded Pops from that detail. No hard feelings, though. I wish her well; we were not a good match.
I’m so obsessed I am probably not fit for any relationship at the moment anyway.
Still, it might be nice to take a breather, sit down and have a real conversation with a woman. I glance around at loving couples sitting together at my tables, drinking my coffee. I wonder if that’s ever going to be on the menu for me.
“Shep, we got a live one.”
I look up from my espresso machine and ask Tamira what’s up.
She nods to the line of customers.
I follow Tamira’s gaze and that’s when I see her.
Holy. Shit.
A blonde bombshell just exploded everything I thought I knew into smithereens. A vision of pink with legs for days. Haunted, serious eyes.
The world stands still as I watch her. She’s biting her lip and straining her eyes, trying to make sense of the menu on the wall. There’s a story behind those eyes and by the end of the day, she’s going to tell it to me.
I hear Tamira’s voice ask, “You know her?”
I shake my head no. “But I’m going to marry that girl.”
“I’m sorry, what now?” Tamira replies. I can tell from the tone of her voice she thinks I’ve just lost my marbles.
“I’ll be right back,” I say. “Maybe.”
As I approach the woman with some free espresso samples, I notice the frilly pink nightie and matching satin robe that barely falls mid-thigh on her. Does she know she’s wearing pajamas out in public, or is she a model trying to pass off this flimsy outfit as a dress?
Technically, she’s covered—all the very important secrets are covered anyway, but the satiny material accentuates every curve, highlighting every dip and mound of her breasts so thoroughly that it should be illegal.
It should be illegal how badly I want to do things to her in that nightie.
People around the shop are glancing over and smirking at her and I don’t like it.
I’m normally a “live and let live” kind of guy, but something has just flipped a switch I never knew existed.
That switch is on, and it can’t be turned off.
Whoever she is, she belongs to me now.
Chapter Three
Jane
People in line behind me are snickering a bit.
I know why, but it’s not like I chose to be half naked in public.
