Served Hot

by Albert, Annabeth

  “No, it’s not. I’m sorry . . .” He brushed his hands off on his pants. “I . . . I can’t.” He walked away at a fast clip, away from the festival, away from me, away from any chance of this being something more than the strange little dance of two dudes over coffee, a counter forever between us.

  Chapter 3

  My coffee—fair-trade, hand-roasted, and god-awful expensive in bulk—tasted like it was dipped straight from the Columbia River. The sounds of people passing through the building grated against my ears like a whining weed eater. But Monday didn’t care that I had a splitting headache and the worst hangover I’d had in years.

  I had still rolled out of bed at 4:30, rolled up the cart’s metal grating at 5:45, and served my first customer of the day at 6:14. That’s the thing I hated about owning my own business: I couldn’t call in sick. Of course it would have only made me feel sicker to bail on work because I was heartsick over some guy who’d been little more than a crush and was now...

  Nothing.

  Monday came and went and Tuesday should have been easier but wasn’t. No big surprise that David stayed away. Then Wednesday, just before noon, I spotted him holding the heavy brass door open for some older ladies. He’d cut his hair and his shirt looked brand-new—icy blue, starched into submission, and topped with a silver tie. Tiny changes.

  When he approached the cart my chest got tight, my heart clattering with ridiculous optimism despite dark clouds of logic swirling around my brain.

  As luck would have it, I had three customers ahead of him. The wait to talk to him felt torturously slow, made worse by him not meeting my gaze. Not that our eyes could say everything that needed saying, but I wanted some sort of sign as to how this was going to go down.

  Finally. His turn arrived and thank the goddess there was no one behind him.

  “Hey.” He met my eyes. Sunday hung between us, heavy and cold, like laundry someone had been stupid enough to hang outside in November.

  “What’ll it be?” I struggled to keep my voice even, keep this casual.

  He glanced at my specials sign. Berry season had officially arrived and I had a blackberry smoothie on offer, as well as a blackberry mocha. Personally, I wasn’t one for mixing fruit with coffee, but they’d been among my better-selling specials.

  He took a very long moment, breathing hard, like a test loomed. And maybe it did—not from me but from himself. I waited. And waited.

  “The usual?” I sighed as I grabbed a cup. “Hot?” The teasing June weather had slipped back to cool.

  “Yeah. Wait.” He held up a broad hand. “I’ll try the blackberry thing. Hot. And a short.”

  I’ve got hot and short right here. I wished I could be that kind of flirty. But I wasn’t, so all I managed was “Really?”

  “Sure.” His shoulders straightened, making him seem taller. “I think it’s time for something new.”

  “Yeah?” I had to busy myself with making the drink to keep my hands from shaking.

  “Yeah. Look, I’m sorry about Sunday—”

  “No biggie,” I lied. My heart thumped out a beat worthy of a dance track.

  “Yeah. It was. Or at least to me it was.” He raised his eyebrows, his shrewd gaze calling me on the lie. The queasiness in my stomach increased, but behind it was a pleasant tingle. He wasn’t going to let me escape behind bland niceties. He cared how I felt.

  “Okay, it was. But it’s also okay that you weren’t into it or into it in public or whatever . . .”

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking the last few days. I’m sorry if I’ve led you on.”

  “You haven’t.” My heart attempted to touch my toes—emotional yoga. I hated this. Hated everything about this. I accidentally gave him too much syrup, but my hands shook too badly to fix it.

  “I like you. A lot.” He was a shade of beet red that my complexion could never manage, but on him it looked adorable, making him more vulnerable, more touchable than his always-professional exterior.

  “Yeah?” I grinned at him. “I like you too.” I tossed the drink and started over. When he didn’t say anything I said, “But?”

  “But I was with someone for twelve years.”

  I did some fast math. He’d likely been a teenager when he got together with a nameless guy he’d obviously been deeply involved with.

  “And?” I nodded, encouraging him to keep going.

  “And now he’s gone. Dead. And I’m here. And I’ve spent two years and a whole lot of cash on grief counseling, trying to make sense of that. And coming here the last few months . . . it helps.”

  Dead. He’d said the word in a rusty voice that seemed to scrape against his throat on the way out. My Brian problems suddenly felt ridiculously self-centered and petty. So what if I had a lousy ex I’d never loved quite as much as I’d pretended? I’d been the one to walk away.

  “I can’t imagine . . .” I whispered.

  “I don’t think anyone can.” His laugh was as brittle as sugar crystals. “And we weren’t out. Not until after . . .”

  “Geez. That sucks.” A whole bunch of things started making sense.

  “But he was a sheriff’s deputy and I was an accountant and . . . it made sense at the time. But now . . .” he trailed off.

  “Now you’re here.”

  “Now I’m here. And the grief counselor my sister found for me—”

  “Your family knows?”

  “Everyone knows. Now.” He rolled his eyes like that distinction wasn’t supposed to matter, but it kind of did to me, and the heaviness of his words suggested it wasn’t exactly a small deal to him either.

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s . . . it is what it is. My grief counselor says I should start small. Ask you out for coffee—”

  I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing, big peals that helped erode my nervous energy.

  He smacked his head. “Heck. I rehearsed what I’d say all the way over here. All the good it did me. Obviously going for coffee would be completely stupid—”

  “Hey, just because I sell the stuff doesn’t mean I can’t drink it recreationally.” I reached across the counter and touched the sleeve of his crisp dress shirt. Man, I loved him in dress clothes. Blood rushed south and I had all sorts of ideas that had nothing to do with “starting small.” I told my overeager dick to behave.

  “Yeah. So maybe we could . . . uh . . .” He inhaled sharply.

  “Brunch? Is that small enough? My friend Chris—ex-boss, actually—his place does a vegan brunch buffet on the weekends. Still coffee, but with scrambled tofu.”

  “That is so Portland.” He laughed. “I think that might work.”

  “It’s a date.” I smiled up at him. He smiled back, revealing his perfect white teeth. I wanted to feel them sinking into my shoulder.... Oh hell. Behaving was going to be a tall order.

  “Yeah.” He looked both terrified and excited, not unlike how I was feeling. “It’s a date.”

  “It’s on the house,” I said as I handed him his drink. After all, he wasn’t only a customer anymore. I could take on the risk of giving away more than I should. He’d be worth it.

  August: Turtle Mocha

  Chapter 4

  I officially hated TriMet. Thanks to stupid construction on MLK, I was over twenty minutes late for my Sunday brunch with David. Narrowed lanes and slow drivers were screwing with what should have been the best day of my week. I drummed my fingers on the cool glass of the bus window.

  I didn’t think he’d leave; we’d been doing this too many weeks for him to worry I’d stand him up. But he hadn’t responded to my text about the bus being late. Little things like delays made David twitchy. The last thing I wanted was David uncomfortable; I had big plans for this week’s date.

  Finally, the bus pulled up to the stop near People’s Coffee. As I’d feared, the line stretched past the entry of the narrow brick storefront. David and I liked to get there early enough to beat the worst of the brunch rush. For six Sundays now this had been our
thing, and my heart did a happy little thump as I spotted him.

  He was hanging to the side of the line like he couldn’t quite decide whether he wanted to join the queue or not. I waved, but David was on his phone and didn’t look up. He was scowling, his phone jammed between his shoulder and his ear, but the sight of him still made my chest lighten.

  His hair was in a growing-out phase, and the August breeze made the fluff dance. He was way overdressed for brunch on Alberta, but I secretly loved him in preppy stuff like today’s baby blue short-sleeve dress shirt. I didn’t like it on him so much as I wanted to unbutton it with my teeth, slide my hands against his warm skin. I wanted—

  “Hi, you!” David finally spotted me and waved me over. Giving me an awkward one-armed hug, he wrapped up his phone call with an “I’ll call you later” and a heavy sigh.

  “Everything okay?” I stepped closer to encourage him not to drop his arm.

  “Sure.” His eyes followed the traffic on Alberta, where cars jockeyed for the few remaining parking spots. “Just my sister. Usual family drama. And she’s coming next week.”

  “Your sister’s coming?”

  “Her biannual trek.” David rolled his eyes. “She says it’s for back-to-school shopping, but really it’s to check up on me. Make sure I haven’t withered away. Food in the fridge. Typical bossy big sister.” Affection underscored his complaints.

  “She’s staying with you?” I knew what neighborhood he lived in, but I didn’t know his address. Six weeks into our erstwhile relationship and I still hadn’t seen the place.

  “God no.” David laughed. “Her husband’s a surgeon. She’s staying at the Sentinel Hotel. Her husband’s lucky Melanie doesn’t come shop more often.”

  “My mom does the same thing. Always brings a cooler full of food for my fridge and acts like I can’t tie my own shoes.”

  “Mel was great right after . . .” He wiggled his hand and I knew he meant the seldom-discussed death of his lover. “She’s the one who encouraged me to move and make a fresh start. But now she acts like the rest of the family—like I’m a million miles away and in constant big-city danger.”

  “My folks live outside of DC. Way more congested place than here, yet they act the same way. Mom’s sure everyone here is smoking pot and in poly relationships.”

  David laughed, rich and full. Looking into his brown eyes felt like sinking into my favorite leather easy chair.

  “You want me to testify that you’re eating your veggies and locking your doors?” I worked hard to keep my tone joking. After all, we were hardly in the meet-the-family stage, no matter how much I wanted it.

  “You would?” His eyes popped wider. Then he seemed to shrug off his startled reaction, his shoulders slumping. “Trust me. You don’t want to be anywhere near Mel and her endless game of twenty questions.”

  “Sure I would.” But my reassurance only seemed to make David more antsy; he craned his head to see the front of the line and shuffled his feet forward.

  “Never mind.” I squeezed his arm. Being around him felt comforting, like butterscotch candy, and I didn’t want to crunch up that feeling by being too pushy.

  “Yeah,” David said, his attention diverted by the moving line. A group of college kids exited the restaurant, tasty aromas wafting from their reusable coffee cups and plates overflowing with baked goods. They claimed one of the wrought-iron tables in the outdoor seating area. The clatter of dishes and the hum of voices made me more impatient to get inside.

  My muscles felt heavy, like I’d slogged through a rainstorm despite the happy, sunny Sunday crowd, my shoulders stiffened with familiar misgivings. Was I ever going to see David’s place? Was I ever going to meet his family? Was I the world’s biggest chump for holding on to hope with this guy?

  “Um, David . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  He looked down at me and, like he knew I was about to blurt a bunch of worries about what the hell we were doing here, he did that David thing that always kept me hanging on. He sent me a smile. The smile. The one where his lids went droopy and his eyes went dark and his mouth quirked in a sly smile. There was nothing “just friends” about the quiet seduction in his eyes.

  My rigid shoulders went limp and liquid and I swayed toward him. He took my hand, squeezed my fingers, and, okay, I wanted a lot more from the guy, but holding David’s hand made me feel as bright and sweet as the fresh-squeezed orange juice on the end of the buffet.

  “Sorry again for being late,” I offered.

  “It’s okay.” He shrugged, his big shoulders tugging on the cotton of his shirt in a way that made me want to see that shirt on the floor. “Hopefully we don’t end up squished in with a big group.”

  “Hey, I don’t mind being squished in with you.” Understatement. I’d love to be squished in with him in my ancient single bed.

  But that wasn’t happening anytime soon. Six weeks of brunch, the occasional quick dinner, three movies, and a few games of disc golf, and the best I could hope for was some passionate parting groping.

  David moved at such a glacial pace that he seemed almost indifferent to sex. Me, though? I was going nuts. My palms sweat, my dick hurt, and my brain played a never-ending loop of porno-riffic possibilities.

  I knew that David was slowly winding his way past his grief and out of his self-imposed closet. Each week brought something new—like us holding hands right there on the middle of Alberta. And David hadn’t even turned pink. With David, I was learning to savor the little things like the weight of his hand in mine, the slide of his thumb against the sensitive groove above my wrist.

  “You find a spot to park?” Where he’d parked dictated what sort of good-bye I could expect. Right then, with his hot eyes and delicious spicy scent, I needed something more than scrambled tofu to look forward to.

  “Right there.” He pointed, and I saw his Civic a block down the street.

  “Great job scoring a prime spot.” Too bad the spot on the busy street meant the most I was scoring was a quick peck. This stretch of Alberta was a gentrified mecca for weekend foot traffic, Salt & Straw bringing in the tourists and the little restaurants and shops claiming the locals. Maybe I could talk him into an afternoon movie. The dark theater should be good for some quality groping.

  “You wanna catch a movie after this? That new superhero-in-space thing is supposed to be good.”

  “Can’t. Got a report due tomorrow.” He made a sour face.

  We finally got inside the coffee place. It had a distinctly northwestern vibe—long narrow space, with big wooden communal tables lining one wall and a few smaller tables shoved to one side. The vegan brunch buffet was set up in the space usually occupied by two ancient couches.

  “Want to come over tonight after you finish?” Please. As we approached the battered wooden counter, I put on a puppy face that had worked to get me laid in the past. “My roommates might be gone.”

  I’d managed to convince him to come over twice, but both times we hadn’t ventured farther than the living room couch.

  “Ah. Uh. I’ll probably be late. In fact, I think I’d better order an extra shot in my coffee.” He stepped up to the counter, oblivious to having cock blocked me. Again.

  He paid for my coffee and food—something he’d done from the beginning. No matter how many times I offered, he always gently shoved my wallet away.

  “Hey! They have the raisin toast you like so much.” Making his way down the buffet, David leaned over to load three slices onto my plate. That. That right there was why I put up with my dick being in knots. Didn’t matter if it took us another three months to get to second base. David took care of me in a way that no other boyfriend ever had. He was sweet and old-fashioned and held open doors and remembered my favorite foods. He shepherded me to a spot at the end of one of the tables. He fussed, making sure I was happy with the spot before seating himself. No one had ever really fussed over me before, and I liked how warm and squishy it felt to let him take care of me.

&n
bsp; “So. Tell me more about your Mom.” He leaned forward, his eyes bright over his coffee. “What sorts of food does she bring?”

  Yeah. He really was the best part of my week. My dick could wait.

  On Monday I had a line five deep when he stepped up to the counter, so all I could manage was a sexy smile and comping his drink. He went over to his usual table, but I knew he would keep his eyes on me through most of his lunch. We’d gotten to the point where we could hold entire conversations with our eyes.

  Like when a young secretary placed a seven-drink order, David’s eyebrow quirked as he watched me scurry for the cup holders. He glanced back at the bank of elevators leading to the upper floors and shot me a look that said, Law firm upstairs must be working on a big settlement.

  Too bad they never tip. I sent a rueful head shake back.

  At least you don’t have to work with them all day. He smiled and toasted me with his cup.

  We both watched her juggle the cup carriers across the atrium.

  David and I spent a lot of lunches like that, people watching. It made me feel connected to him in a surprisingly good way. Made me feel . . . well, bonded felt like a silly emotion for such an ordinary exchange, but I was used to working on my own. I had a college student assistant a few hours a week, but otherwise my days were largely my own. Having someone to share even a small slice of my day felt like an indulgence. With David I had someone to tell funny customer stories, someone who would counter with stories of eccentric donors, someone who genuinely cared about the answer to “How’s it going?”

  Things quieted down toward the end of David’s lunch. He came back over, tossing his garbage in the can near my cart.

  “Busy day?” I asked.

  “Crazy. And not just work. This thing with my sister has thrown a wrench in my week. I swear, one more text from her and I’m going to toss my phone. And this without her even here yet.” He sounded exasperated yet affectionate—the sort of way people talked about beloved siblings. I wouldn’t know. Life as an only child had been lonely, and I envied him the siblings, even meddling as they appeared to be.