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Like the tables out front, each one was painted a different color with mismatched chairs. The long wall along the side was covered in art of different sizes, styles, and frame colors. Busy, but in a purposeful way that felt cohesive.
It was nice.
To the right was a counter with a dessert case and coffee machines. Likely for quick eats on the go.
“Hey! Just give me oneeeee second,” a voice called from somewhere behind the counter that I couldn’t see. “Just trying to… fix… something,” she went on, and there was a hammering sound that had my brows raising.
“Take your time. I’m in no rush,” I said, picking up one of the menus sitting on the counter, a long, handwritten thing in a thick laminated case.
“Get in there, you utter pain in the. rear. end,” she went on, punctuating each word at the end with another whack of whatever tool she was using. “There you go,” she said.
Then she was popping up right in front of me, all bouncy blonde hair pulled into two high pigtails with a mushroom-printed bandana wrapped around the top of her head.
I couldn’t claim it was often that a woman damn near knocked the wind out of me when I first saw her, but that was exactly what happened right that moment as she looked up at me with these big fucking eyes the color of forest moss and framed with thick light brown lashes.
Her face was feminine with a sharp jaw and pouty lips. Or, at least, I figured they might be pouty, if they weren’t turned up into the biggest, most welcoming smile I’d ever seen.
“Secondhand items are great,” she declared. “But sometimes, they need to be beaten into submission,” she informed me, waving around her pink child’s size hammer, before placing it on the counter, and putting her hands on her hips. “So, are you in a rush, or planning to stay a while?” she asked as I tried not to let my gaze drop below her face.
Where she was wearing a sunshine yellow apron over a white tee and wide-leg cream linen pants.
And the body?
Fuck.
Curvy in the thighs, hips, and chest.
The kind of body that said she moved it on occasion, but she damn sure wasn’t going to turn down pasta or dessert.
“Think I’m gonna stay,” I said, holding up my menu.
“Great! How about right over there?” she asked, waving toward an empty table. I mean, they were mostly empty, save for one by the window.
“Sounds good,” I agreed.
“Awesome. Get yourself seated, and I will bring over some Pretty Water.”
I had no idea what the fuck ‘Pretty Water’ was, but I was going to go ahead and play along with it, sitting at the table with my back to the door. Mostly so I could let my gaze move toward her as often as possible.
As it turned out, Pretty Water was an entire mini glass pitcher filled with water, lemons, limes, cucumbers, and some sort of floating flower petals.
And it was, you know, pretty.
“Is this your place?” I asked as she dropped it off, noticing a small tattoo on the inside of her wrist, and the almost fucking intoxicating smell of her.
Something earthy and familiar.
Like rosemary and bergamot mixed with some cypress and mint.
Not overpowering and fake-smelling.
Light and teasing, begging you to get another hit of it.
“Yes. Well, mine and my mom’s. We opened it together. She’s more the one with the cooking skills. I’m slightly less prone to spilling things, so I get to be the server. Savannah, by the way,” she said, giving me another of those big smiles that seemed to come so naturally to her. “I used to ask for customer’s names until one informed me that it was ‘kind of creepy,’” she said, doing little air quotes.
“Nino,” I told her. “I don’t think it’s creepy at all.”
“Well, good. So, Nino. Can I get you some coffee? It’s early and you seem like you’ve been up for a while already. Which isn’t an insult,” she rushed to add, upset at the idea of offending me. “I, myself, have been up since just before five. And have probably had way too much coffee myself. But it’s fresh. And we have every kind of creamer known to mankind. Yes, even goat’s milk. That’s on my mom. She swears it’s better for you. So…coffee? Yes?”
