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“I’m just not ready,” I say.
“Can you cover me while I run to the bathroom?” she asks.
“Sure.”
I’ve taken two orders—and made two perfect lattes—when a well-dressed woman with dark-rimmed glasses and a messy blond bun approaches the register. She’s carrying one of the paintings from the wall that displays all the art for sale.
“I’ll take this and a small black and white,” she says, carefully setting the painting down on the counter.
“Oh, good choice. That one’s my favorite,” I say, pointing at the painting she picked out.
She smiles at me and raises her brows. “Really? That’s interesting. What do you like about it?”
I pause for a second, because it’s the first time a customer here has asked me for my opinion about something. And not just something—art.
“That artist is exceptionally good at painting eyes,” I say. “Even though this one is technically abstract, she conveys so much emotion in the eyes. It’s impossible to look at it and not feel. I love art that makes you feel like there’s a story behind it, and you wish you knew what it was.”
“Yes.” She puts a palm to her chest. “This one almost evoked a Francisco Goya sensation for me.”
My heart races with excitement at her mention of one of my favorite artists.
“Saturn Devouring His Son is one of my favorites,” I say. “It’s dark, but it’s a great painting for discussion since it can be interpreted in so many ways.”
Angie comes back around the corner from the restroom and I breathe a sigh of relief, because I still haven’t mastered black and whites.
“Hey, I need a small black and white, please,” I tell her.
“You got it.”
“I’ll wrap the painting for you,” I offer to the customer. “We have some packing materials in the back room.”
“Thanks.” She passes me a credit card. “And a question for you…do you happen to know of any local galleries that carry original LGBTQ art? I’m looking for everything—paintings, sculptures, multimedia.”
“There’s an amazing gallery just off the Strip. I’ll look up the address for you.”
She passes me a business card. “Can you text it to me? And—” She looks over both shoulders, seeing if anyone is in earshot. “I’d love to sit down and talk to you about a job opportunity while I’m in town. I’m here through Tuesday. Let me know if you can meet me for coffee sometime.”
“Me?”
I look down at her card, which says, Cynthia Wright, Owner, Wright Design. The card also has a Los Angeles address and phone number.
“Yes. My business is growing much faster than I expected, and I have several clients in this area. I hope you’ll reach out.”
“Thank you,” I say, automatically running her credit card through.
My mind is racing, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself. If I could land a job in the art world, I could make more money while also doing something I love.
Don’t get ahead of yourself, Indie. She may just want you to clean her office or make her coffee.
Which I would happily do to support my son. And Cynthia seems much nicer than Virgil, who is approaching us now with a frown on his face.
“I’ll wrap up that painting, Mindy,” he says. “Move on to the next customer.”
Cynthia looks at my name tag, and then at me. “Isn’t it Indie?”
“Yes.”
She scowls in Virgil’s direction and says, “Call me, Indie.”
A couple hours later, my conversation with Cynthia is still running through my head as I mop the coffee shop lobby area. During my break, I tucked her business card into my wallet. I haven’t decided yet if I should call her, though.
I don’t want to get my hopes up. Because of Nolan, I need a job with a lot of flexibility, and I’d still have to put in thirty hours a week at Just Brew It if this job with Cynthia isn’t full time.
But still. The fact that she wants to talk to me about a potential job feels amazing, whether it leads anywhere or not.
“There’s my favorite barista,” a deep voice says.
I look up to see Pike walking through the front door. He’s wearing black shorts, a gray Kansas City Royals T-shirt, and a black baseball hat. Even though I’m not technically divorced yet, I can’t help but appreciate his defined legs and arm muscles.
Forcing myself to look away, I wring the mop out with the handle on the water bucket and say, “I’m not a barista yet. Just a Padawan cashier.”
“How’s your day going?”
I smile. “It’s actually really good. Something…nice happened earlier.”
“Good. As long as the nice thing wasn’t some other guy asking you out.”
I shake my head and laugh. “I’m not as in demand as you seem to think.”
“Any guy who isn’t blown away by how beautiful you are is an absolute moron.”
My pulse races, because damn, it feels good to be complimented by him. I spend all my time either wearing a green visor and smelling like coffee, or wearing an old T-shirt and leggings, one of which is probably stained.
