Page 1 of Do That To Me

ChapterOne

Nate

“I ordered a skinny latte, Nate. This is full fat.”

The correction comes from one of the local real estate agents and caffeine addicts. Brow furrowed, Joyce eyes me like a teacher who’s disappointed in her favorite student.

I’m distracted, waiting for a short, perky reporter to breeze in at 7:55 a.m. on the dot, as she always does.

Meredith Poole invariably graces my entire day with an excited smile that reaches her warm brown eyes.

But not today.

So now, I’m distracted and worried. And everything has snowballed; I’ve let myself fall behind, complicating everything.

“Sorry, Joyce,” I say, taking the cup back from the real estate agent, dumping the contents in the sink, and starting a new drink for her.

A few of the people in line behind her grumble and sigh.

I’m off my game this morning; this is the third drink order I’ve flubbed in the last twenty minutes. And now the shade-grown beans I brought back from Costa Rica will be doomed to burn in the roaster.

I haven’t fucked up this bad in five years, ever since I debuted my half-assed espresso kiosk with a broken, pilfered machine.

“Here you go, Joyce. On the house,” I tell my most loyal customer. Surprised, Joyce tilts her head.

“Are you feeling okay, Nate? You seem preoccupied.”

Shooting her a professional smile, I lie through my teeth. “Didn’t sleep well.”

What am I supposed to do, tell her I’m in love with someone I can’t have?

Joyce drops a folded tip in the jar, then scurries out of the shop, probably late for her first house showing of the day.

I somehow manage to pull my shit together and get through the rest of my morning rush without too many more mistakes.

The only problem now is I’ve got a batch of burned beans. Shit.

I text the regional manager of the big-chain coffee stores in Bozeman. They love burnt beans over there and charge a premium for that hot garbage.

When things slow down at the coffee shop around 10 a.m., I switch off the “Open” sign on the door, and tell that loiterer, Charlie, with the laptop, to hit the bricks.

I’m halfway up the street before I realize this behavior could be considered stalking—showing up to the newspaper office to check on a customer.

But it wouldn’t be close to the weirdest thing I’ve ever done.

ChapterTwo

Meredith

My head pounds.

Every click of the keyboard in this newsroom is like a stab to the brain.

That’s what I get for developing a caffeine addiction, then trying to quit cold turkey.

On top of quitting caffeine, I’m dehydrated from crying instead of sleeping.

Unable to focus on my notes from last night’s planning and zoning meeting, I pick up the phone and dial the dreaded number—again—keeping my voice low so my editor, Donna, can’t tell I’m making a personal call.

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