Then, waiting in line to check his luggage, he thinks the rest of my life is going to suck.
California’s full of earthquakes and mudslides and hippies, and Phil doesn’t even like the beach very much. The job pays well, but how much is that going to matter once he’s living in LA and spending 40 dollars for a cup of coffee? He doesn’t know a soul out there- not one single person- and maybe that’s a selling point, but then again... maybe not.
A few years back, Phil’s nana was supposed to take a cruise to Jamaica. She’d been talking about it for months, spent a fortune on a new “cruise-wear” wardrobe and a video camera to record the entire trip, and got as far as the boarding dock before turning around and taking a cab back to the retirement village.
“I just had a feeling, bubbela,” she told Phil at the time, and he thought she was crazy, but sure enough when the two friends she’d been planning to travel with returned from the trip, they were full of horror stories. Terrible food, rough seas, and a highly contagious stomach flu on board all conspired to make the so-called “FunShip” seem more like a deathship.
Phil’s never had “feelings” like that, not that he’s paid attention to, but standing in that luggage line he thinks he finally understands what she was talking about. He feels it everywhere in his body, down to his bones. It’s more than dread, different than fear. It’s a sense- a certainty- that this is wrong. Just, completely and totally wrong. Like he’s trapped in a nightmare and can’t wake up. A nightmare where he’s about to drive his car off a bridge, or jump through a plate glass window.
Still, he passes his tagged suitcases to the man behind the counter and wanders over to the security line, because that’s what comes next.
While he’s waiting, he starts flipping through his phone. There’s a new, guilt-trip email from Michelle with attached photos of Luna sobbing (she already misses you!), and something from his new supervisor welcoming him to the company and detailing his training agenda. Both of them make him feel a little bit sick, and after reading them he scrolls down a bit, stopping on the last email from Conrad.
He opens it up for the first time since that horrible night and stares at the words, reading it over five or six times, allowing himself to linger.
I’ll be here when you’re ready, Conrad said.
Call me if you change your mind.
Thinking of Conrad meeting his mother (he saw how bad it could be, he saw what Phil could become and still, he said that- call me if you change your mind), Phil sends a simple text message.
Are you there?
He doesn’t believe in fate, doesn’t believe in following his instincts, but there’s one very fundamental fact that he can’t make himself ignore anymore: he doesn’t want to go to California. He ought to go. He has to go, but if Conrad responds before takeoff, he’s not going to get on that plane.
Feeling strangely, perhaps stupidly, at peace with that decision, Phil goes through the security scanner and makes his way to the waiting area. He tries to read the book he brought, but his concentration is for shit- he’s not feeling quite that peaceful.
About forty-five minutes (and three trips to the Starbucks kiosk) later, the plane starts boarding. First class, people with special needs, then Phil. He checks his phone one last time.
Still nothing.
Too late, he thinks. I waited too long.
On the boarding bridge, the phone starts vibrating in his pocket. He stops to look and a woman with a baby stroller nearly mows him down.
I’m here, the text reads. Where are you?
Phil presses the call button and starts walking the wrong way back through the tunnel. Conrad answers after one ring.
“I’m at the airport,” Phil says. “I don’t want to go.”
“You... what?” Conrad asks. “Which airport?”
“Logan. My plane is boarding. Conrad, I really don’t want to go. I wanna be with you.”
He’s practically jogging through the tunnel now, bumping shoulders with disgruntled travelers who give him dirty looks and mutter things like “Wrong direction, asshole,” but it’s not the wrong direction. It’s totally not.
“Hm,” Conrad says. “You sure that’s not just cold feet you’re feeling?”
“No,” Phil says. “I mean yes. Yes, I’m sure. They’re not cold. Nothing’s cold.”
“Phil...”
“Look, I know you probably think I’m a giant flake and I’m gonna change my mind again in like, ten minutes, but I won’t. I promise you, I won’t. I’ve been so stupid, I--”
“Phil, it’s--”
“I’m so sorry, I just- I’ll do whatever you want. I mean, if you want me to wait I can do that. Or if you need me to prove myself. I could, like, walk through hot coals. Or tattoo your face on my ass, or--”
“Phil!” Conrad barks. “Good Lord, it’s all right.”
“It is?”
“Just... stay put, I’m coming to get you.”
“You are?”
“I was on my way to New York,” Conrad says. “I was going to visit my sister, and then just... you know, drive.”
“Cross country?” Phil asks. “Like we talked about?”
“Yeah, like we talked about. How does that sound?”
“It sounds amazing!”
“All right, well, I’ll be there in a couple of hours. You can wait that long, hm?”
“I’ll be here,” Phil says.
He’s back at the waiting area now, and he slides into a chair and watches his plane take off. His legs and arms are shaking. His luggage is on that plane. His car is on the back of a truck, probably halfway to California by now. Phil starts to laugh.
Chapter 19
When he sees Conrad's car pulling up to the arrivals’ area two hours later, Phil starts to cry. He’s never been so fucking relieved in his entire life.
Conrad throws open the passenger side door and Phil climbs in. Conrad is wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and tacky aviator sunglasses. Phil grabs his face and kisses him before he can say a word. Conrad groans in his throat and pulls Phil closer by the front of his shirt.
“I’m sorry,” Phil says between kisses. “I love you.”
Penelope’s in the back and eventually she sticks her head between the two front seats and bumps her nose against Phil’s shoulder. Someone starts honking at them.
“We’re blocking the lane,” Conrad whispers breathlessly against Phil’s mouth.
“Take me somewhere,” Phil says.
And Conrad does.
THE END
More Books By Marina Lander
Short Stories:
Hold Me Down
Caught On Camera
Finally Full of You
Soft Kiss
More Than A Taste
Quick and Dirty
Full-Length Works:
Pushing Boundaries
Coffeeshop Kisses
Finding Truth
Om Is Where The Heart Is
Exclusive Excerpt From Marina’s Book
Find more sensual pleasures in Marina Lander’s sweet story of lattes and love, Coffeeshop Kisses.
Find it here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01JTR9ZP0
Jacob may be incredibly successful, but he is lonely. Until his barista wins his heart.
Jacob is a high-powered lawyer at a corporate firm in New York. He spends his days and nights reviewing case files and has no time for love. That is, until Callum, the handsome tattooed barista at the new coffee shop, catches his eye. His British accent only adds to his charm.
Like all the best love stories, this one begins with a quadruple shot latte.
This is a sweet story with a HEA and no cliffhanger.
Read on for an exclusive excerpt!
Jacob is going to make partner and then his life will be better.
Jacob is going to make partner and then he won't mind so much that he hates his fucking job, that he feels every day like his soul is being leeched out through his eyes. Jacob
is going to make partner and the fact that he doesn't really remember what solid REM sleep is like will be worth it; Jacob is going to make partner and it won't matter that this is not what he'd fucking thought he was getting into by going to law school.
Jacob is going to make partner, and he's going to be the youngest one in the history of his firm. Jacob is going to make partner because he's the most dogged and he works the hardest and he's the best. Jacob is going to make partner because he's killing himself, he's just killing himself to do it, and if he doesn't manage it he might just throw himself in front of a fucking train.
So it doesn't matter that the firm has just brought on Anthony as Of Counsel, Anthony who was a partner at his last firm and is clearly only missing the title now because the higher-ups have to wait a bit to avoid ruffling feathers. It doesn't matter that he's heading up a case for big tobacco and his fucking sister won't speak to him because his father died of lung cancer. It doesn't matter that he doesn't bring in new clients, choosing instead to wrack up so many billable hours that half the other attorneys think he's a robot. It doesn't matter that he comes home every night to his empty apartment and his empty life and doesn't have the time or the energy to look for anything more--it doesn't matter that he has screaming fucking nightmares about dying alone amidst piles upon piles of legal paperwork.
Jacob is going to make partner and then his life will be better. It has to be true, because it's all he's fucking got.
--
He is sitting in the boardroom on a Monday morning the first time he sees Callum.
He's allowing himself the luxury of staring out the window, because if he doesn't stop looking at this deposition his eyeballs are going to catch on fire. There's not anything particularly interesting going on outside, except that that new coffee place that just opened across the street is getting a sign put in.
There's a guy on the ground calling directions to the man operating the forklift. Jacob's seventeen floors up, but even from this distance he can see a few details--broad shoulders and big arms, stains that look like tattoos peeking out from underneath his tank top, a hat of some kind. He's probably Jacob's type, to the extent Jacob has a type other than "confirmed, notarized and printed in triplicate" these days.
He goes back to his deposition, and then he decides that he might need a coffee.
The man is standing behind the counter when he gets in--Jacob can tell it's the same man, because there can't possibly be two broad-shouldered tattooed guys working here wearing a hat like that. It's a beanie, it's a fucking beanie, who the hell wears a tank top and a beanie in the middle of May in New York, and it's…striped. There are so many colors in it that Jacob's already overtaxed eyes hurt, taking it all in. It is appalling.
"Nice hat," he says, because he's more than willing to admit that he's kind of an asshole.
The guy, to his credit, takes this in stride. He raises his eyebrows and offers Jacob a grin, pulling it off his head and twirling it around his finger absently.
"Thanks," he says. "Gift from my mum. I'll be sure to pass along your compliments."
"You do that," Jacob says, trying not to stare. Now that the monstrous hat is out of the way, Jacob can take this guy in--and yes, yes, definitely his type. Cocky grin, sharp blue eyes, and that mouth, Jesus Christ. The darker swaths of skin Jacob had seen from his window are indeed tattoos, and that accent, and his forearms are--they're--
"I'm Callum," says Callum, holding out his hand. Jacob blinks, taking it. "I'm trying to introduce myself, seeing as it's our first week and all. I'd love to establish some regulars."
"That makes sense," Jacob says faintly. Callum' hand is very warm. Jacob is very warm, suddenly. It's been a long time since he's been this attracted to someone, and it's not like he's been getting laid much--he is, after all, a man of limited time.
"Might I inquire as to who you are?" Callum asks. His eyebrows are at his hairline now, and he looks like he's trying to decide if he's charmed or deeply, deeply amused. All in a rush, Jacob realizes that he is still holding Callum' hand, has been holding it for far too long.
"Shit," he says, pulling back at once, "shit, sorry--I'm Jacob, I--sorry, I'm working this case and I haven't really slept, I didn't mean to be all…sorry."
"No worries," Callum says cheerily, and it's clear that he's decided on charmed. "You're a lawyer, then?"
"Yeah," Jacob says, still trying to recover from his mortifying display, "yeah, I work across the street."
"What firm?" Callum asks, sounding genuinely interested.
"Saito Fischer & Cobb," Jacob tells him, trying not to sound completely pissed off about it.
"Ahhh," Callum says. "Corporate, then?"
Jacob rolls his eyes. "Yes. I'm that blood-sucking fiend your mother always warned you about."
He doesn't know why he said that. Callum' eyebrows, which had been settling back down, shoot up again.
"I don't know," he offers, still smiling at Jacob like Jacob is his personal entertainment for the day, "you don't seem so frightening to me."
Jacob has got to get out of here. This is getting wildly out of hand. "You don't know me very well."
"I don't know you at all, actually," Callum corrects, "though we could certainly rectify that. For starters, I'd love to know what kind of coffee you prefer--unless you were just dropping by to comment about my hat?"
"Oh, Jesus Christ," Jacob says, embarrassed all over again. "No, I do actually want coffee, the hat thing was just a bonus. Sorry, I wouldn't have come out to interact with humanity if I'd realized I was this out of it."
"Not a problem, darling," Callum says. "I'm in the business of providing chemical stimulants, after all. What'll it be?"
Jacob is torn between being offended and oddly pleased by the endearment; he decides to ignore it. "Soy latte," he says, "with as much espresso as you can legally put in it."
"Brilliant," Callum says, and moves to the machine. "You don't have any allergies, do you? Coconut intolerance, anything like that?"
"Just the lactose thing, and it's mild," Jacob says. "But I didn't order--"
Callum winks at him. "Trust me," he says, "I'll fix you up right."
Jacob watches with narrowed eyes as Callum pumps some sort of syrup mixture into a cup and steams the soy milk, though his trepidation is eased somewhat when he puts not one, not two, but four shots of espresso into the mix and hands the whole thing over.
"Go on," he says. "If you hate it I'll make you another."
This has easily been the weirdest coffee order of Jacob's life, but he sighs and take a sip. The noise of pleasure he releases is more than a little involuntary.
"Fuck," he breathes, "why is that so good?"
"I take my business very seriously," Callum says, grinning at him. "Glad you like it."
Rather than replying, Jacob takes another long sip. He can feel the caffeine rush in his toes. "Oh, fuck, this is the best thing that has happened to me all day. How much do I owe you?"
"On me," Callum says, waving a hand when Jacob opens his mouth to protest. "No, no, none of that. I'm just starting out--I'd rather have your repeat business, I assure you."
"Really, I--"
"Enjoy the coffee, Jacob," Callum says, still smiling. "And maybe I'll see you in here again, yeah?"
"Yeah," Jacob says, "that's--yeah."
He has, more or less, made a complete idiot of himself, but he grins all the way back to the office.
--
He starts going in to pick up a coffee every morning. On Tuesday, Callum makes him the best mocha he's ever tasted; on Wednesday it's some kind of cinnamon-spiced marvel that makes Jacob's mouth water just looking at it. Thursday he makes Jacob try three different dark roasts before he hands him a cup of a fourth, and on Friday he makes that four-shot latte again and sends Jacob off grinning.
Jacob is still grinning three hours later, savoring the last now-cold sip, when Anthony steps into his office.
This is the thing about Anthony: Jacob should h
ate him. Jacob wants to hate him, actually. Anthony is more experienced and more qualified and is clearly only Of Counsel because the firm didn't want to bring someone new in as partner straightaway--his presence at this firm makes it that much less likely that Jacob will get the promotion he seeks. He'd tried in vain to despise the guy when he started, but Anthony is friendly and calm and brilliant and competent, and Jacob can't help but enjoy his company.
"You're smiling," Anthony says, blinking.
"Yes," Jacob agrees. "People do that sometimes."
"People do, yes," Anthony says. "You, on the other hand…have we won a case that I don't know about?"
"If we have, it's new to me too."
"Did you win the lottery?" Anthony presses. "Did you get laid? You're making me nervous, Jacob."
Jacob laughs. "Sorry, I didn't realize it would be unsettling."
"You laughed," Anthony says, stunned. Then a knowing look enters his eyes, and he lowers his voice conspiratorially. "There's someone under the desk, isn't there?"
"What?" Jacob--well, he doesn't quite shriek it, but it's a close thing. "No, of course not, why would you--"
"You can tell me," Anthony says quickly. "I'm very discreet, I know how these things can happen."
"There is no one under my desk," Jacob says, rolling his eyes. "If you must know, my coffee is particularly good this morning, that's all."
"Your coffee," Anthony repeats dubiously.
Jacob raises an eyebrow and his cup, pulls in the last sip, sighs a little in satisfaction and tosses the empty in the trash. "My coffee," he confirms.
"Well," Anthony says, "I think it's only fair that I try some of this life-changing brew for myself."
--
"Back so soon?" Callum grins, when Jacob and Anthony come through the door. "And you brought me a new customer, Jacob, I'm touched."
"Don't let it go to your head," Jacob advises. "I'll have another one of the same, and Anthony wants--Anthony, what do you want?"
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