What If (If Only.... #2)(10)

His brows knit together.

“Asking for something stronger than espresso?” I remind him.

His hands find the front pockets of his jeans.

“Right. Yeah, no. I, uh… It’s been a long day. I was hoping for a drink, but no one wanted to head back to campus with me. So, here we are.”

This time I’m confused. “None of your friends are in school with you?”

He sighs. “I took some time off to travel. I’m a year behind. Means all my buddies are back here now, working. Apparently drinking coffee instead of something stronger.”

“Griffin! Dude!” One of his friends stands up from their table across the shop. “What’s taking you so long? She can’t go home with you unless you stay until she closes the place.”

Griffin’s eyes close, and he mutters a “Fuck” under his breath. Then he lifts his hand, flipping his friend off without turning around to answer him.

“Double cappuccino, right?” I ask, moving toward the espresso machine.

“What? Oh, yeah. Sorry about Davis. He’s a dick.”

I ready the shot and contemplate my words. “That’s what you do?” I try my best to make sure there’s no accusation in my question, but I ask it anyway. “I mean, if you’d made it to a bar tonight, that’s what your plan would be. Looking for someone to take home?”

His eyes widen but only for a second before he relaxes into a smile. He rakes a hand through his hair, and I focus on the shot, on locking it in place before brewing. Because his answer doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. I don’t know him, other than he’s the kind of guy who wakes up with a shiner and picks up hitchhikers, and he sure as hell doesn’t know me.

“Yeah.” He laughs. “I guess that’s what I’d be doing.”

I’m so prepared for him to explain his way out of the question, but he doesn’t even try. He simply admits it.

“But I’m not at a bar,” he continues. “And plans change. Davis is still a dick, though.” He pauses, yet I can tell he wants to say something more, so I wait. “And if I knew I’d be seeing you again, I’d have gotten here sooner.”

I laugh, loud, and my hand jerks the small pitcher of milk I’m trying to steam, spraying a good volume of it onto my apron.

“Shit,” I say, giggling even more at what a complete mess I am in front of this guy, this stranger who wears pressed khakis and drinks cappuccino. A double shift, waves freeing themselves from my braids, milk sprayed across my apron, and the frayed hem of my skirt hanging over my tired-looking, sensible clogs—that’s the mess he can see. What’s going on underneath—inside—I can’t clean up.

He peeks over the espresso machine. “You okay?”

His bruise will heal quickly, but me? I’m a continual work in progress.

I set the pitcher down and turn off the steamer, patting my apron dry.

“Perfect,” I say. Then I pour the two shots I just pulled into the drain.

“Why’d you do that?”

“Because.” I dump the brewed grounds and start the process over again. “They’ve been sitting too long already. By the time I do the milk, they’ll be way past their prime.” I look up at him. “Sorry. You don’t need to wait while I make the new drink. I can ring you up and bring it over when it’s done.”

He glances behind him at the nearly empty shop, grabs a stool, and drags it to the counter. “I’d rather wait,” he says, easing onto the stool and extending his long legs in front of him. “And I don’t want a cappuccino. Make me your favorite drink. But make two.” He nods his head toward the table of friends behind him. “Those *s are fine without me. I’m drinking with you tonight.”

That’s when I see the frayed ends of his jeans resting atop a worn pair of black Converse.

Nope. Not so fancy at all.



“Pour one more,” Griffin says, and I sigh.

“We’re closing. There’s no one here to even drink it.”

Griffin’s behind the counter with me now, and I’m not even sure how this happened. His friends left ten minutes ago, and he didn’t feign an excuse for staying.

I’m gonna hang with Pippi for as long as she’ll let me.

When I tried to protest, Miles somehow put him to work straightening the counter.

“What’s all this, Pippi?” he asks, eyeing the sticky notes and photographs that line the back of the counter. My sticky notes and photos. I collect them quicker than he can read, stashing them in my apron pocket.

“Trainee,” I lie. “But she shouldn’t need these anymore.”

He shrugs, hopefully thinking nothing of it, while I work to steady my breathing as he infiltrates my safety zone. Leaning in closer with a lazy grin, he asks me to make one more latte so he can see how I draw with the milk.

“Last one?” I say, half questioning, half telling.

“Last one.”

“You want to try it with me?” I ask, and he perks up, brushing his hands on his jeans, though there’s nothing to brush off them.

He nods, and I ready the espresso and start the milk steaming. When the shot is pulled, I pour it into the cup and explain.

“The light brown stuff is called the crema, and if you don’t have that, then you don’t have your canvas.” I raise my brows, waiting for him to tease me, but he doesn’t. “Then you have to make sure the milk is ready.” I point to the thermometer that’s nearing one-hundred-forty degrees. “You have to lift the steam wand out so it’s close to the top of the liquid.”