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I’ve gone in every morning, Monday through Friday for the last three years since she came back to town and started working at Cup O’ Joe.
I used to get a “Good morning” or a “Welcome to Cup O’ Joe” with some bullshit message written on the side of my cup when Peggy had her start doing it for all her customers a year ago—but not the last six months. Not since I apparently insulted her to the highest degree. No, now it’s eye rolls or long aggravated sighs.
But in my defense, I was having a shit morning that day.
“Tell me you knew that was there,” Stan chokes out, wiping away tears of laughter.
“Looks like Cassidy Clark finally found a message that works for ya, boss,” Tanner, one of my younger employees who’s weaseled his way under Stan’s wing, chimes in. “I got one the other day, something about having asunny day, but nothing with a heart.”
I grunt, ignoring them both. “Get to work. Nobody leaves until we make quota. And before you say it, I don’t give a fuck that it’s Friday. So you better get moving.”
My crew nods and heads off to work the mountain. Stan pushes his hands in his pockets, smirking like the dipshit he is. “You going to make me ask, or what?”
“Ask me what?” I grumble, playing dumb even though my mind is reeling. I chug down the remaining bit of coffee and reach into the back of my truck to grab my hard hat.
“Don’t give me that shit, Butch.” He smirks. “What’d you finally do right to get a custom cup from Cassidy?”
“I didn’t do shit,” I say, and it’s the truth. “And I don’t think I’d call her writingassholeon my cup worthy of something I did right.”
Stan shrugs. “Maybe not. But it’s better than nothing.”
I huff, not bothering to have this conversation with him right now. Stan knows about my secret obsession with Cassidy—not willingly on my part. One night aftera lotof whiskey at the bar, I opened up about it to him. And as drunk as he was, he hadn’t forgotten the next morning. How it’s stayed between us and not hit the gossip line back to her, is beyond me.
Or maybe it did, and that’s why she still hates me?Fuck.
All I want is a damn chance. Maybe take her out to dinner or some romantic bullshit. I know I’m not helping my case any with the quick hookups here and there I bang out at the local bars. Half the time, I go just to see if she’s there, but she never is.
Somehow, even in this small town, I can’t seem to run into her outside of the coffee shop. I’m a professional guy myself, I wouldn’t want my employees trying to pick up a hot date when they should be working. So yeah, that’s more or less been my excuse for not trying to get my shot in.
I’m not a shy guy by any means, but I’m not used to making the first move. Women throw themselves atme—not the other way around. I’m not a desperate man. You won’t catch me on my knees begging for a woman’s company. If anything, I might need a stick to pry them the hell off me.
That’s probably why I’ve been named the town asshole by every woman in Whitetail. Not that I mind the title. I usually end up popping off my mouth with some rude remark in hopes they’ll get lost. It either ends in them storming off, or they’re fucking into it.
A guy can’t win when he wants to lose.
And I guess I can’t win Cassidy without trying, right? I just need to find my moment. My shot to say more than my morning order to her.
Hell, I might even apologize for the damn flower cup.
Three.
Cassidy
Alison:Do you think he noticed??? It’s been a whole day.
Me:No idea.
Alison:You should keep doing it until he does.
I shake my head at the ridiculous message. Sliding my phone back into my purse, I lock up the front door of the coffee shop and make my way over to my car. Digging for my car keys, a loud beep comes from behind me. I jump, dropping my keys.
I spin around, my heart pounding in my chest as I’m greeted with the unfortunate sight of my brother, Garrett, and his two drinking buddies. All crammed into a rusted-out, two-door pick-up truck.
Garrett may be my older brother by six years, but at thirty, you’d think he was some college frat boy with how much he parties. It’s a wonder his liver hasn’t given up on him yet. He’ssix-foot-two, with shaggy brown hair, and a sharp jawline like our father.
He looks so much like him…it pains me to look at him sometimes.
Garrett sticks his head out as I bend down to grab my keys. “Hey, sis, you coming to the bar tonight? They’ve got some new Saturday margarita special going. I know how you love your tequila.”
