Her Nikes are working hard, hitting the pavement with impressive force, and her hands are pumping alongside her for added momentum to her strides. I almost pull the car over to watch her, but realize that’s even more creepy than running through the backside of a cemetery at dawn.
She’s in the zone with earbuds in her ears, and I wonder what she’s listening to. It’s my day for the coffee run and I told Emma she had until eight to get in on it, so instead of heading to Perkfection, I go straight to the shop.
Emma
After my run, I shower and head to my first day at work, hoping the nervous feeling flitting around my tummy will subside sooner rather than later. I decide to be as professional as possible because even though Tristan’s father is technically my boss, Tristan himself is a very close second.
My thoughts on professionalism are admirable until I walk in just as Tristan slams my trunk closed. He wipes his hands, which are covered with streaks of black grease, onto his jeans and flashes me that panty-dropping smile of his. To make things worse, he follows that with a wink and says, “Hey Peaches, your car is finished.”
I can feel the familiar prickle of my skin as my temperature skyrockets. Peaches? I should’ve opted for the gray T-shirt. Keeping Tristan as far away from me as possible is going to be a job all in itself.
“Thank you.”
“No problem. So you decided you wanted in on the coffee run, huh?”
I look at the clock. Truth be told, I didn’t show up this early with any real intention aside from not being tardy on my first day here. “Yeah, sure.”
He stops rubbing his palms on his jeans, snatches a white towel from a table, and finishes wiping his hands clean. “You want to come with me? Mateo will be here in like twenty minutes or so and I’ll never hear the end of it if he has to wait for his coffee.”
I must look confused because he continues. “We alternate days on who gets the tab, and me, Mat, and my dad have coffee every single morning before work. It’s kind of like a tradition, I guess.”
I stop walking, not wanting to intrude on their man-date. “Oh. I don’t need to come, then. I mean, it’s your thing and all.” This is partly true; I don’t want to invite myself to sit with a bunch of guys and talk shop. It would just be awkward.
Tristan ignores me and pushes the door to the front of the shop open before he stands to the side, his arm outstretched. “Don’t worry—it’s invite only, but you’re cool and my guest. C’mon. It’s the fastest way to fit in.”
I climb into the cab of his truck and am rewarded with the same smell I’ve been inhaling like an addict since I kept his jacket. Eau de Tristan, and it’s perfect. Mint and aftershave. We drive to the coffee shop in silence, which should feel strange but doesn’t. It’s comfortable.
The cashier at Perkfection is a different girl from the dreadlock-wearing barista working the register last time I was here. She beams when she sees Tristan approach. “Morning, Tristan. The usual?”
He glides up to the counter and presses his palms down. “Good morning, Rose. The usual for me, Mateo, and the old man, please.” He turns to me. “What’ll it be, Peaches?”
I should have left this damned sweater next to that discarded black vest of Marley’s, because I’m certain my skin has morphed like a chameleon to match it at the continued use of Tristan’s pet name. It adds to the shaky feeling in my legs and the knot in my stomach. I look up at the menu to pretend I’m considering anything other than a two-dollar coffee, which I’m not. I can’t get into the habit of five-dollar lattes. “A small black coffee,” I tell the girl before adding, “please.”
“That’s it?” Tristan asks, surprised.
The girl behind the counter looks at me to answer his question before she finishes the transaction.
I smile. “Yes, please, that’s all.”
He pulls out his wallet and retrieves a twenty, handing it to Rose. “That’s it,” he says. “Thanks, cutie.”
Querida, sweetheart, peaches, and cutie. The pet names. Is it a Stonefall thing? Small-town hospitality, or is it a Tristan and Mateo thing? No matter, I suppose, but at least I’m now in good company because the hue of Rose’s skin matches her name. She mutters, “A pleasure.”
I’m a little surprised at Tristan’s flirtatiousness, to be honest. Rose is not what society would deem beautiful. She’s not unattractive by any stretch, but she’s rather plain. The girl next door. She has a little extra weight, her hair pulled back in a simple, low ponytail, and a warm and friendly smile.
She finishes making Tristan’s Vanilla Thriller latte and a Crazy Caramel Cap for his father. Mateo, like me, seems to prefer simpler things because he’s got a black coffee too. As we head back to the truck, Tristan says, “I apologize in advance for Mateo.”
I smile. Mostly because he’s not apologizing for something Mateo might say or do, but for Mateo himself, as if his existence may offend me. “It’s all right. I really like him.”
Tristan holds the tray with one hand and my door with the other while arching a brow. “Do you mean you like like him, or you like him as in you think he’s an all right kind of guy?”
“Second one,” I say, climbing into his truck. I wait until he hands me the tray, rounds the vehicle, and slides in beside me before I add, “Besides, it takes one-tenth of a second to realize he’s crazy for Marley.”
A curious smirk crosses Tristan’s face. “I told him it did him no good to try and hide it. He’s got it bad for your friend.”
“He should make Marley work for it,” I reply. “Don’t get me wrong—she could use a guy like Mateo, but if she has to work a little to get him, she’ll appreciate what she has more.”
He turns the ignition over. “I appreciate your logic.”
I settle into the seat and lean my head on the window. “Not logic. It’s just common sense.”
Tristan turns enough to face me. “Which is not quite as common as we’d like to think it is.”
Tristan
Mateo is on his bike this morning and pulls up at the same time we do. Emma is slouched against my window. Her lips are slightly parted as she stares out into the world like she’s seeing it for the first time.
There’s something about her that is so painfully fucking sexy that I end up ejecting myself from the truck in an effort to adjust and hide how my body reacts to her closeness. I may be able to hide it from her, but Mateo calls me out immediately.
“What’s up?” He emphasizes the word up, which I suppose is karma’s way of telling me to fuck off for doing anything in my power to irritate him. Not so fun when the tables are turned, but I dish it right back at him.
“Nothing, muchacho,” I reply with a grin, forking over his coffee and setting the tray on the counter.
“Are you sure there, buddy? You’re looking a little, ahh, perkier than usual this morning.”
I turn my attention to Emma, praying to God she hasn’t noticed my little problem or Mat’s attempts to mock it. I’m getting it under control real quick with Mateo being such a douche.
“Really, I’m feeling rather down,” I tell him.
I know I’ve picked the wrong words when Emma’s face falls, her brows knitting together. She walks over to me, her lower lip in a sympathetic pout, and places her palm on my forehead to check my temperature. “Are you all right?” she asks. “I mean, are you queasy or anything like that?”
I wrap my fingers around her small wrist and gently move her hand off my face. “I’m okay,” I tell her. “Just a bit tired is all.”
Suddenly she’s flushed, like she’s embarrassed, although there’s nothing she should be bashful about. She looks away and then to her shoes, so I gently run a knuckle down her arm and say quietly, “Thanks, though.” Not wanting to make her nervous or any more uncomfortable than I already have, I don’t linger, instead grabbing the tray of drinks and yelling, “Dad, java!�
�
My dad comes through the door looking more chipper than I’ve seen him in ages. This is why I love that Emma is here. I mean, aside from the obvious fact that she’s scorching hot, her presence means my dad can relax. Her face lights up when she sees him and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything so flawless in my life. Her broken smile is beautiful, and when she’s not lost in her own head it’s downright stunning. The kind of smile that starts in her heart and can be seen in her eyes.
“Hi, Mr. Banks.”
Mateo and I both smirk, knowing what my dad’s answer will be. “Please, call me Louis. Mr. Banks was my father and I am not like him.”
Mateo pulls out a stool for Emma to sit and I want to kick myself for not being the one to do it.
“Thank you,” she says.
“Welcome,” Mat answers.
Before he can scoop the spot next to her, I take it.
“You fit in with our morning,” Mat says. “I wasn’t so sure how it was going to go.”
Emma picks at the no-spill lid of her coffee cup, while I give her a small nudge. “Yeah, it’s like you’ve been here all along.”
EIGHT
Emma
I almost fall over when Tristan touches me. What makes it worse is that it isn’t so much a touch as it is a brushing, a grazing of his knuckles, yet the barely there action sets fire to the nerve endings in my body and makes me wish he hadn’t stopped. Not a reaction I want or want to allow myself to have. Off limits. Off limits. Off limits. Off. Limits. I must repeat this mantra to myself, to make it crystal clear in my mind that men like him are not allowed. Strictly prohibited.
Once we are seated, Tristan’s father removes the lid to his coffee carefully and takes a small sip. “Did you see the game last night, son?”
Tristan shakes his head. “Fight was on.”
Mr. Banks waves his hand as if he can somehow wave away the fact that Tristan had watched the fight. “That’s nonsense,” he says. “You missed a great game.”
“You missed a great fight,” Mateo says.
Louis turns to me. “What do you think, Emma dear, football or this fighting nonsense?”
“Football,” I reply with an enthused faux flag wave. “Go Cowboys!”
Tristan looks at me with equal parts fascination and disdain, his lips forming a straight, forlorn line. “You may have just gotten me disowned.”
His father beams. “Welcome to the family, Emma.”
Tristan drinks his coffee with remarkable speed given that the thing is hotter than the surface of the sun. When he’s done, he stands and says, “Well, I’d love to stay and chat, but some of us have work to do.”
I have no idea if it’s an intentional jab at me, but I stand too, afraid that I might look like the new girl taking full advantage of sitting around. Tristan peeks over my shoulder at my cup, which is still half full. “Sit and finish your coffee, Peaches.”
I’m sure my color has darkened a few shades now that we have an audience. I could start a makeup line, my own palette called Shades of Rouge. “I can just bring my coffee with me.”
“Sit,” he says. “I’m going to take your car for a spin real quick, make sure everything is running all right. Besides, the old man likes you better than me now anyway. May as well keep him company until I get back.”
“Are you sure?”
Mateo grins. “Don’t worry ’bout Tristan. He has a fire under his ass sometimes—doesn’t mean we all need to.”
I point behind me, to the door leading to the reception and office area. “I should get to work.”
Louis finally pipes up. “And you will, in good time. Start your day off the right way, Emma dear, and finish your coffee.”
At his words, my body automatically folds and I sit down again. It’s easy to disagree with Mateo or Tristan but with Mr. Banks, my boss, not so much.
“See?” Tristan says. “Besides, you need to wait for me anyway. Someone has to train you.” He walks away without looking back, looping a finger through a key chain on the wall and tugging it off the hook as he goes by.
I spend the time that he’s gone trying not to hyperventilate over the fact that Tristan is training me and not his father. Thinking it would be his father was a reasonable assumption given that it was Mr. Banks who was hidden behind a stack of papers, not his son. When Louis stands up to leave, he explains that he came in today only to ensure he didn’t break tradition, but that he had the full intention of taking a day off for the first time in weeks.
Mateo says something I don’t understand in Spanish.
“Are you leaving too?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “I have a fight tomorrow. I have to train.” He bids me farewell and Mr. Banks waits for Tristan’s return. They have a quick discussion and then he’s gone too, leaving me alone with Tristan.
Mercifully, Tristan seems to be done teasing me, at least for the time being. My keys are dangling off his ring finger and he smiles. “Good as new,” he says, removing them and throwing them in my direction.
I shock myself by catching them and jam them into the pocket of my jeans. “Thanks.”
“No worries.” I wait for him to add “Peaches,” but he doesn’t, thank God. “Hey listen, do you think you can keep busy for an hour or so? I have to finish a car because I told its owner I’d have it ready for a road trip she and her kid are going on at noon.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Great.” He holds his hand up, palm forward, as if to pledge. “After that, I’m all yours.”
I swallow the lump in my throat at the implication of his words and spend the next hour in the reception and office area, tidying the magazines, wiping down the desk and countertops, and restocking the Dixie cups near the water cooler. I’d begun organizing files alphabetically when I hear him call my name.
I peek my head around the corner. “Yes?”
Tristan glides out on a wooden slab with wheels from the underbelly of the car, wrench in hand. His shirt rides up enough to give me a glimpse of his abdomen. Ugh. It’s like the rest of him. Picture perfect and enticing. I stare shamelessly. “Can you call Sharon MacDonald to tell her the car is done? Her number is on the calendar on the desk, in red ink.”
“Yeah,” I say, eyes glued to his waist. “Sure.”
Tristan
By the time I’m done with Sharon’s car, I conclude that Emma has some kind of nervous energy that makes it impossible for her to just relax. I wash my hands and head to the front where she’s adjusting magazines that have already been stacked, using the length of her fingers to tap each side of the paper until they’re perfect.
She turns when I come through the door. “Hey,” she says. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?”
I smile back. “You’re sweet, but you don’t need to get me water.”
Her face drops and I feel like mine is mirroring hers. “I mean, I can get us water. Myself, water.” I just need to shut the fuck up. I change the subject. “Did you call Sharon?”
She nods. “Uh-huh. She says she will be down in a jiffy.”
“My favorite measure of time.”
“What’s that? A jiffy?”
“Sure. A jiffy. It’s freakin’ vague, right? I mean you know it’s a short period of time, like less than a day, but there is no real commitment there, so it could be five minutes, could be an hour.”
She laughs, and immediately I decide laughing is something she should do far more often. “You’re right.”
“You ready?” I motion to the stack of unfinished paperwork my dad left behind. “We have a lot of work to do.”
“Yep,” she says, “I’m ready.”
A couple of hours later, I know that hiring her was one of the best decisions we have ever made. She picks up on the software we use for invoicing right away. I’ve hardly repeated myself once and she’s entering t
he invoices into the system faster than I think my father or I ever have before.
Sharon picks up her car—in about a jiffy. Shortly after she leaves, my stomach begins to growl.
“Hungry?” Emma asks.
“Always,” I say. “Did you bring lunch?”
She pulls a crumpled five-dollar bill from her pocket. “I have to buy my lunch. Didn’t have time to put anything together this morning.”
“Is that because you were too busy running?” Fuck. I shouldn’t have said that out loud.
She blinks. “Yeah, I guess.”
I need to recover. “I mean, I drive by the cemetery on my way to work every morning. I saw you.” Why does this confession make me feel like some kind of utter creep?
“Oh.” She considers what I said, then asks, “Do you run?”
My stomach lets out a demanding growl that I cover with my hand, and I smirk. “Not unless it’s after a food truck.”
She laughs again. “Gross.”
“Gross? As in delicious?”
“Gross as in gross.”
“Food trucks are not gross.”
“Yes,” she says. “They are.”
“Then you’re going to the wrong ones.”
“Is there even a food truck in Stonefall?”
“Ah, young grasshopper,” I say. “So much to show you.” I extend my arm as if we’re guests at a formal affair. She takes it and as she slides her arm in mine, I can’t help but think that she fits there pretty well.
Ten minutes later we’re standing in line for Baron of Bacon, the best food truck in town. Emma’s grin is wide. “Okay, so I’ve never been to a truck where they serve bacon.”
“Everything’s better with bacon,” I say. “I saw this show on TV where they visited a doughnut place that had maple bacon doughnuts.”
Her face screws up and her nose crinkles in disgust. “Ewww.”
“Ewww? No way. It’s a goal of mine to consume a maple bacon doughnut.”
“Is it also a goal to have clogged arteries?”
I shrug. “Time on this planet is finite,” I say. “May as well clog your arteries while you can. No one makes it out alive anyway. Besides, they don’t make bacon salad.”
The Enchantment of Emma Fletcher Page 7