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He hands me one of the small cups.
“Here, try this one first.” He holds it up to my nose. “Smell first and decide if you want a taste.”
I inhale and the steam caresses my face. The scent is deep, rich and with a hint of berries. “What kind is that?”
“Blue mountain peaberry from Jamaica. Harvested by hand. Grown in the shade.”
My gaze snaps to his as I take a sip, and he’s still talking about coffee beans like they are a holy thing. But is he talking about coffee beans or is he talking about me now?
We are both now indifferent to the fact that the line of customers is moving along without me in it.
“I like it,” I say after I taste the espresso. And I do. It’s elevating, but not bitter. I recover a childhood memory of a chocolate-covered cherry. No context, just a taste memory.
“Awesome, try this one,” he says, handing me the other cup.
This time when he holds the cup out, I clasp his hand inside mine and bring the cup to my nose. Our eyes stay on each other while I inhale and then sip. His hand is hot and big and hard. His forearms are so strong and lovely. I glance down at the tattoos. I see an old-fashioned compass, the constellation of Orion.
This cup tastes earthier, nuttier. Dark and rich. Life affirming.
“I didn’t expect to appreciate something without sugar.”
“What were you expecting?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. See, the problem is…”
Suddenly a feel a hard lump in my throat.
He must see the worry on my face because he asks me what’s wrong.
“I…I don’t know where I am or how I got here. I don’t know why I’m wearing this. I think I’m lost and I don’t know who to call.”
And then, the beautiful man makes things happens in about five seconds.
He is at my side, his arm around me, swiftly walking me into the back, past the kitchen and into a small, brightly decorated break room. He opens up a locker and unzips a gym bag. “Here, you can put on my hoodie and shorts. I promise they’re not sweaty, I was planning on hitting the gym after lunch.”
He waits for me to pull the hoodie and shorts on over my nightie.
I expect the Spanish Inquisition next. And I would not blame him.
But no, he just invites me to sit at the break table. He brings me a cup of water and sits down next to me, so close our legs are touching. His hand is on the back of my chair, protecting me. From what, I don’t know.
He waits for me to talk.
“Tell me your name,” I say.
“Shep.”
I smile. “I’m Jane. I think. You have a dog’s name, by the way.”
He smiles and it makes me feel calm. I can tell he is one of those people who are good in a crisis.
“Jane? You don’t know if that’s your name? Have you been in an accident? Do I need to take you to the hospital?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure.”
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
I think again. “I remember music. Champagne. Cheering. Lots of cheering. And then the next thing I know, I’m sitting on a park bench outside of your shop. That’s it.”
