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“Thank you.”
“Aren’t you going to ask for my name?”
“Nah, I thought I’d just call you Brutus’s dad.”
He shrugs. “That works.”
“I’m kidding. What’s your name?”
“Darius.”
“That’s different. I like it.”
“Thanks, but since I didn’t choose it, I’ll give the credit to my parents. Here we are.” He stops outside the cafe. “If you don’t mind sitting out here with Brutus, I’ll go in and get everything.” He hands the leash over to me and I choose a seat at one of the small iron tables out front. “What would you like?”
“Ooh, a venti iced coffee, with extra ice, skim milk, white chocolate mocha, caramel drizzle on the inside of the cup, and vanilla cold foam.”
He shoots me a questioning look and I feel compelled to answer. “What can I say? I really love coffee.”
He nods, gripping the door handle.
“My mother told me to never accept a drink from a stranger,” I tease.
He peers over his shoulder. “You’ll have a clear sight line of me the entire time if that helps.”
“And I’ll be watching you.” I point two fingers at my eyes and turn them toward him.
He smiles. “Take care of my dog.” He opens the door, then pauses. “I’m not going to come back to zebra printed legs or anything, right?”
I wave my hand at him. “Hush yourself and get my coffee.”If he gets my order right it will be a small miracle.
The sound of his laughter gets cut off when the door swings closed.
“Brutus, don’t listen to your dad. You’re just as badass with your new look. You’re a Pit Bull, you’re going to look intimidating no matter what. I think your new dye job makes you look more approachable and you should get more belly rubs from strangers. Isn’t that every dog’s goal?”
Darius returns with his hands full. I take the drinks from him and set them on the table. He rifles through a bag and gives Brutus a cookie before sitting across from me.
“This one’s yours.” I set his coffee in front of him.
“Thanks.”
“No, thank you. I appreciate this.” I tap my fingernail against the plastic cup.
“It’s the least I could do after upsetting you.” He sips his coffee, watching me over the rim.
“It wasn’t really you. It had more to do with my day being rough as a whole.”
He lowers the cup. “Want to talk about it?”
“No, thanks.” I pop the straw through the hole in the cover and take a sip of my coffee. Swallowing, my eyebrows pop upward. “You got the order correct,” I breathe out in awe.
“Come on. Brutus is a fantastic listener. And as you can see”—he gestures toward my coffee—“I’m not bad either.” His smile is charming and, as surprising as it is, I find myself wanting to share.
“Okay, but you’ll probably regret asking. I graduated last spring and I can’t find a job. Well, a job using my degree,” I clarify.
“Which is?” he asks.
“Bachelor of Fine Arts.” I take another sip of my sweet coffee and lick my lips. “Go ahead. You can say it.”
