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Would it be weird if I kept this cup?
What am I even thinking?Yeah, it would be.
As bad as I want her, I’m not a stalker. After the last six months of being on her shit list, I better play this out carefully, because I can’t wait another three years to get my shot at being with her.
The rumors are already flying around town about us after Saturday night. The worst part about it is a few more of Colt’s exes have chimed in on the drama. Claiming he is an abusivepiece of shit, which has only fueled my rage toward him and what he could’ve possibly done to her that night if I wasn’t there.
All the more reason why he’ll be getting his ass beat down a few more times by yours truly.
By the time Friday came around, I bailed on asking Cassidy out since I knew I’d be working the boys overtime Friday and Saturday. It wasn’t ideal, and I hate making them work weekends, but there was an order that needed filling that I couldn’t pass up for the pay. So we worked.
It’s been another whole week, and we’re finally wrapping up on this Thursday right on time. Cassidy’s been leaving me little messages on every cup for the last two weeks, and I think I’ve memorized every last one.
Monday: Thank you, C.
Tuesday: Enjoy a good morning with a Cup O’ Joe.
Wednesday: Have a nice day!
Thursday: Don’t sweat the small things.
Friday: Work hard until your good is better than your best.
Monday: Wake up & live your dream.
Tuesday: Don’t worry, be happy.
Wednesday: Your best day is yet to come.
Thursday: When life gives you lemons, throw ‘em!
I’d be lying if a few didn’t make me grin from ear to ear.
I was surprised they weren’t something frilly or lame, they’re genuinely meaningful—to me? Which is weird, because before the whole flower cup incident, the quotes were pretty girly for my taste. Stan swears she’s custom writing these for me. Even Duke chimed in on the conversation, saying there’s no way she’s not because the other day, his said;Wake up and feel pretty.
Could she really be thinking ofmewhen she’s writing these each morning? The thought alone is giving me a bit more confidence in this. Whateverthisis. And what it could turn into.
Packing up for the day, Stan makes his way over. “So, is tomorrow going to betheday? Are we asking Cassidy Clark the breakthrough question?”
I scoff. “I don’t think asking what she’s got goin’ for the weekend is a breakthrough question.”
Stan crosses his arms over his chest. “Man, you’re slow, aren’t ya? I’ve read every cup, same as you. You can’t give me that shit. She tells you good morning when you walk in, and have a good day when you leave. What more do you want? Because your caveman grunts ofyou tooback to her are lamer than watching Tanner try to score.”
I cock a half grin. “And watching you is any better?”
Stan scoffs, waving me off. “Whatever, you’re a lost cause. I was hoping to play Uncle Stan someday, but I guess that’s a damn pipe dream.”
“I’ll ask her,” I grumble, tossing my hard hat in the back of the truck.
“You’ll pussy out.”
“I said I’d fuckin’ ask her, I’ll ask her.”
Tanner comes over with that eavesdropper grin. “There’s another live band this weekend at Tavern Nine. Jack told me they’re doing the margarita special again. Said they made bank last time.”
Stan snorts. “I bet they did.”
“You really think after last time she’ll want to go there of all places?” I ask. “Because I highly doubt it.”
