What If (If Only.... #2)(9)

Miles grabs a hand, pulling me into an unexpected twirl that ends with a dramatic dip.

“Besides,” he says, his words for George but his eyes bore into mine, “who would I dance with if Maggie wasn’t here?” He straightens me up, kissing me on the cheek as he does.

“I don’t feel like a kid anymore,” I say quietly in Miles’s ear.

“‘Course you’re a kid, sweetheart. Don’t grow up on me so fast.”

I hear the reassurance he tries to infuse into his words, but I’m unconvinced. My eyes leave his, trailing back across my secret stash taped to the counter. In addition to the sticky notes are photographs of some of my regular customers, many that Miles took when I was too embarrassed to ask. Each photo is captioned with the customer’s name. Now, at least with the regulars, I’m more consistent with names and drinks.

“Mags…”

“It’s just, before…this isn’t where I would have spent every Saturday night. I used to do some stuff, Miles. Freshman year I finally started to let go with stupid things like drinking too much and staying out too late…even forgetting to study.” He fakes a gasp. “I know that’s hardly wild and crazy by anyone’s standards, but it’s stuff I took for granted that I can’t do anymore.” I huff out a breath. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Miles knows I’m full of shit, so he twirls me again.

“You’re you.” He presses his cheek to mine, chuckles in my ear. “Kid.” Then he kisses that same cheek. “Plus,” he says, “we’re gonna do the thing tonight, right? One night of wild and crazy?”

I shrug. “Within means. My own brand of careful crazy.”

“Careful crazy. Just the way I like it,” he says.

The door opens in time with our movement, and I groan at the thought of new customers. It’s after eleven, less than an hour before we close.

George slides the mug off the counter and heads back to Jeanie, and I watch with annoyance as the group of five, all guys, head toward the counter. Before anyone notices, I paint on my smile and greet the first one with, “What can I get for you tonight?”

Miles hip-checks me, knocking me away from the register and in the direction of the espresso machines. “You’re pulling,” he says. “You’re faster than me.”

“That’s what she said,” I tease under my breath.

He retaliates. “Or maybe he.”

Miles begins to rattle off the orders, most of them regular coffees, which doesn’t give me much to do. With my back to the counter, I pour the simple beverages. Then I hear the last order.

“Got anything stronger than espresso to put in those drinks?”

Miles laughs. “Sorry, man. Not while I’m on the clock, but if you want to wait around…”

He hesitates, and so do I. I put down the mug I’m filling, my hand finding its way into my apron pocket. My thumb rubs over the edges of today’s photos.

Fancy Pants. F, G…G…Griffin. His name is Griffin. Griffin who drinks a double cappuccino.

I slide the pictures out, thumbing through them quickly to confirm my guess, and I’m…right?

“On second thought,” Miles starts as I turn toward the customer, “off-limits.”

“I don’t…” Griffin says, and then his eyes find mine.

“Fancy Pants,” I say, my voice a little short of breath. I bite back my grin when I notice his worn jeans and hoodie peeking out from under his jacket. He watches me size him up, his eyebrows rising as I do.

“Not so fancy, Pippi. Am I?”

Miles, an I-told-you-so look in his glinting eyes, interrupts.

“Pippi? Oh, honey. So off-limits.”

I suck in a breath, even though I know Griffin has no idea what Miles means.

“Black eye or not, the boy has got some serious swoon-making going on.” Miles winks. Griffin laughs, and I wait for a hole to open up in the floor and swallow me. “I’m gonna let you finish out this order.” He scoots past me to grab the regular coffees, passing them, one by one, to the other guys. Griffin and I watch as they make a beeline for a table, leaving him alone at the counter.

“Heading to the storage room to grab some more napkins,” Miles says, his eyes darting from mine to Griffin’s. “And while I kind of love the naughty innocence of the nickname”—he flicks one of my braids—”she also answers to Maggie.”

This is the last thing he says before disappearing.

I pivot to face Griffin, my cheeks warm with—embarrassment? Anticipation? Whatever stirs inside me, I let it settle to the bottom.

Griffin chuckles before speaking. “Maggie.” He says it with realization, as if he should have known the whole time. “Maggie,” he says again, and my hands start to fidget.

“Yes,” I say, ready to rush into some sort of action that will give my hands something to do, like pull a shot or steam some milk. Because when my eyes leave his, they go to his mess of sandy waves, and I want to brush them off his forehead so he can see better. So I can see him better, despite the livid bruise staring back at me.

No. No, no, no, no, no. I shake my head, willing away the thought that will be gone by morning.

“I take it you weren’t in the mood for coffee tonight?”