Green Tea Latte To Go

by Ellis, Aven

  “I love the passion you have for medicine,” I say after he finishes speaking.

  “You have to be passionate to be a vet,” Brooks says. “It is a time-consuming job. Very long hours. Emergencies. You’re on call sometimes. It impacts your personal life. Which is part of the reason I’ve been so career-focused these past few years.”

  My brain kicks into puzzle-solving mode. I instinctively know this comment, along with the previous one about people not wanting to hear about the details of his work, are related to someone in his past.

  Specifically, my gut tells me there’s an old girlfriend who didn’t like his career and the lifestyle Brooks has had to lead as a result of it.

  “Well, the right person will not only understand your career, but support it because it’s part of what makes you who you are.”

  A surprised expression fills his face. “You see it that way?”

  I quickly nod. “I absolutely do. People have to follow their hearts. And the right person will support the sacrifices and choices you make.”

  “And what about you? Are you following your heart with blogging?” Brooks asks softly.

  “I am. Although my family thinks I’m crazy.”

  A crease quickly forms in his brow. “Why?”

  Okay. I know I’m supposed to be polished and fun and listening, all the perfect things for a first date. But sitting here right now, with Brooks across from me, leaning forward with interest for me to speak truthfully, makes me want to ignore all the perfect things I’m supposed to be at this very moment.

  For the first time, I don’t want to be perfect.

  I want to be me.

  I nervously trace my finger around the rim of my latte mug. “My family thinks it’s ridiculous that I’m a blogger.”

  Brooks doesn’t say anything, but waits for me to continue.

  “I have explained to them over and over that I have a career plan,” I say softly. “I’m completely supporting myself with my blogging and my concierge job. I have laid out a business plan for the next five years. I make sure I pay for the rights to all my photographs, I’m securing advertisers, and I’ve even had some companies ask if I want to feature or review their products. I am a businesswoman. But not to them.”

  I turn away for a moment, wondering if I shouldn’t have said that to Brooks. I’m supposed to be light tonight, not serious, not sharing my hurt over this cup of tea on a first date.

  “But you haven’t been deterred.”

  I turn back to Brooks, who is studying me.

  “No. I’m going to be successful.”

  “I’d say you already are, Payton.”

  I blush from his compliment. “Thank you, but I want to prove to them that this is the perfect career for me.”

  “There’s that word again.”

  “Huh?”

  “Perfect. The one thing you can never achieve.”

  “Oh, I strongly disagree with you on that,” I say, smiling at him. “Things can be perfect.”

  Like this moment with you right now.

  “Someday you’ll learn that perfect is highly overrated, in addition to being unattainable.”

  I raise an eyebrow at him. “Or someday you’ll learn that being perfect is perfect and completely attainable if one works hard at it.”

  A huge grin passes over Brooks’ face. “We’re at an impasse here, aren’t we?”

  I pause to take another sip of my tea. “Indeed.”

  Brooks rubs his hand along his solid jawline and my heart flutters in response.

  “Would you mind if we continue this debate over a sandwich?” Brooks asks. “I didn’t eat dinner, and I’m starving.”

  “Brooks! Why didn’t you say that? Of course. We can even go somewhere else so you can eat. I can’t believe you didn’t have dinner.”

  “I was already late so I ate a bag of crisps on the way home. I didn’t want to keep you waiting any longer than I already had to.”

  Cue the butterflies to dance again.

  “A bag of potato chips,” I say, going American on him, “is not dinner. You’re in medicine, you know how important the diet is.”

  “I also know how important it was for me not to keep you waiting.”

  Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh!

  “Well, you have to eat a decent meal. But not that full English breakfast you all eat. Beans for breakfast? Ugh, no.”

  “What? The full English is brilliant,” Brooks declares, his eyes dancing at me. “You get eggs, toast, baked beans, tomatoes, bacon, sausage, hash browns and black pudding. It’s amazing.”

  “No.”

  Brooks bursts out laughing, and I join him.

  “Well, I know it’s not Peanut Butter Cheerios, but I had to continue to eat breakfast despite that tragic fact.”

  “I still say no. What about a crumpet?”

  “What, I’m supposed to eat tea and crumpets?”

  “Better than beans and black pudding!”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  I laugh. “Oh, I do, and I’m happy with that fact.”

  Brooks leans across the table, and I immediately get a whiff of his wonderfully spicy citrus scent.

  “You haven’t tried the full English, have you?” he asks, dropping his deep voice to a murmur.

  Oh, God. He flipped from being teasing to sexy within seconds.

  And I like it.

  I lean closer to him. “No, I confess that I haven’t.”

  His eyes lock on mine. My breath catches in my throat.

  Eggs and hash browns have never been hotter than they are right now.

  “Then we can’t really have a proper debate about this here, can we?”

  “What are you suggesting, Dr. Martin?” I manage to say over the hammering of my excited heart.

  “I think we should head back to my place and I’ll make you a proper full English,” Brooks declares. “If you are brave enough to try it, that is. So what do you say? Are you game?”

  CHAPTER 8

  *Mental Note* Today’s plan to improve myself item (cont.): I should not accept Brooks’ offer of going back to his place. According to every dating article and blog I’ve ever read, which is numbering 1,203,206 the past few days (or at least it feels like it), I should be coy. Make him wait. Have him ask me for a proper date and not appear too eager.

  But dating blogs don’t know everything.

  And they definitely don’t know what it’s like to gaze into beautiful eyes that are waiting for my answer.

  Screw that.

  I’m going for the full English.

  ***

  I purposefully furrow my brow and stare back at Brooks.

  “So you are asking me to come back to your place?” I ask, setting him up. “After only a half cup of tea? Don’t you think that’s a little forward?”

  And it’s all I can do not to laugh when I see Brooks’ face change to one of complete horror.

  “Wait, what?” Brooks asks, sitting up straight and putting out his hand. “No, no, no. Not for that. I mean, I should have worded it d—”

  “You asked me if I wanted to come back to your place for the full English,” I say, cocking an eyebrow. “Surely you didn’t mean eggs and toast, Brooks.”

  Brooks quickly reaches up and rubs his hand across the back of his neck back and forth, as if he’s extremely uncomfortable.

  “I did mean eggs and toast,” he says.

  “So no sausage?” I quip, raising my eyebrow.

  Brooks’ eyes nearly pop out of his head at my comment and I can’t take it anymore. I burst out laughing, and I have tears in my eyes.

  “What?” he asks.

  “I’m totally playing you. I know you meant breakfast. And I would prefer smoked salmon to sausage anyway.”

  An expression of relief passes over his handsome face. “Thank God.” Then he pauses for a moment. “Although my ego should be gutted if you prefer smoked salmon to my sausage.”

  We take one look at each other, and w
e burst out laughing at the same time. Brooks laughs so hard his voice echoes in the coffeehouse, which makes me laugh harder. I’m wiping tears from my eyes, grateful that I chose waterproof mascara because I’m crying and I know I would resemble a raccoon if I didn’t.

  Finally, we compose ourselves.

  “I’m so daft, I totally bought that,” Brooks says, grinning at me.

  “I’m sorry, it was too easy to pass up.”

  “Don’t be sorry. I like that you have a wicked sense of humor. You’re full of surprises.”

  Joy fills me. “So you’re not mad at me?” I ask, smiling at him.

  “Mad? No, I love it. You’re surprising me, and that’s something new. In a good way.”

  “Really? I’m surprising?”

  Brooks rises, and I follow suit. We make our way toward the door, and as we walk, he answers my question.

  “Of course. You’re an American fascinated with Camilla’s fashions and Her Majesty’s handbags s—”

  “Would you stop with that tomfoolery?”

  Brooks stops walking and stares at me. “Did you really say ‘tomfoolery’?”

  “Yes, it’s an appropriate word for your ridiculous statements.”

  Brooks grins. “Once again, surprising. I haven’t heard that word in forever.”

  Warmth fills me, as I like that I’m the woman surprising Brooks tonight, even if it is with antiquated word choices.

  “It’s a word that should be used more often,” I declare.

  “Yes, perhaps,” Brooks concedes, opening the door for me.

  We step outside, and the drizzle is still falling from the sky, but being that we both live in Seattle, neither one of us cares.

  “Right. Well, we need groceries. Are you okay with accompanying me to the supermarket, despite my previous tomfoolery?” he asks, his eyes shining at me.

  My breath catches in my throat. This. This is what I’ve wanted to find. Someone funny and sharp, just like Brooks is being right now.

  I like this.

  I like this a lot.

  “I trust you,” I say truthfully.

  Brooks smiles, and I find myself smiling back at him.

  “Very well. Well, normally I like the Public Market, but they’re closed.”

  “And they probably don’t have baked beans,” I tease.

  “I don’t need those, I keep a supply on hand in the cupboard.”

  “Of baked beans? Like there will be a crisis if you run out?”

  Brooks laughs. “Yes. Not having beans with the full English would be a tragedy.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is,” he declares. “I parked down the street, are you okay coming with me? Or do you feel more comfortable meeting me there?”

  I study his face, one so earnest in making sure I’m comfortable with him, and happiness fills me.

  “I walked over here, so I’ll ride with you, if that’s okay.”

  “I’d like that,” Brooks says. “This way.”

  We fall into step next to each other, heading down the street toward his car.

  “I should warn you, I don’t drive a fancy car,” Brooks declares.

  “Fancy isn’t one of my requirements,” I say.

  “I’m practical,” he says as we move down the sidewalk. “I work with animals, I take Angus everywhere, and a sports car is impractical.”

  “Take Angus everywhere? What do you mean?”

  “Angus comes to the clinic with me,” Brooks explains. “He’s our ambassador pig, so to speak.”

  I smile. I love the fact that Brooks loves his pet so much.

  “Is Angus your only pet?”

  Brooks laughs. “Oh, no. I have two rabbits, Sherlock and Dr. Watson.” He pauses and cocks an eyebrow up at me. “Though I dare say you think Wills and Harry would have been better names for them than characters from Sherlock Holmes.”

  “I love Sherlock Holmes!” I cry, delighted to learn this about him.

  “Yeah?” Brooks asks, smiling at me.

  I giggle. “I’m a huge fan. But please tell me you have a cat named Camilla. Or Pippa,” I say, referring to Kate’s sister.

  “I hate to disappoint you, but no,” he says. “I do have a cat. Called Mycat Holmes.”

  “That is brilliant,” I declare.

  Brooks stops on the sidewalk. “Yes, but is he called after the book version, the movie version, or the Sherlock BBC version?”

  I furrow my brow. “I’m going with two answers here.”

  “Fascinating. Go on.”

  “I’m going to say the book version, skip the movie one, and say the one played by Mark Gatiss in the TV version were your inspirations.”

  “Why two?”

  “Because I’m betting you’ve read the books. And I’m assuming you’re a fan of the modernized version of Sherlock.”

  “But not named after a movie Mycroft?”

  “No. Definitely the book and the TV show. I never found a movie Mycroft memorable.”

  “Tough critic.”

  “I’m a woman with opinions. And theories.”

  Brooks stares at me for a moment. “I like that.”

  A shiver whips down my spine in response.

  “So am I right?”

  “Indeed.”

  I grin, and he smiles back at me. We begin talking about Sherlock Holmes, and we’ve both read all the books and love the TV version of Sherlock, as well as the movie ones. As I’m about to give my opinion of Stephen Fry’s version of Mycroft, Brooks stops and inclines his head toward an old Ford Excursion parked next to the curb.

  “My vehicle,” Brooks says, hitting his key fob and unlocking it. “Not a sports car, but rugged in case I have to go out to a farm or ranch on a call.”

  The SUV is so him—practical and reliable, as my instincts tell me Brooks has those qualities, too.

  And after years of dating immature idiots, I find these traits extremely attractive.

  “I didn’t know you made calls,” I say honestly.

  He strides over to the passenger door and opens it for me.

  “Oh, yeah,” Brooks says as I climb in. “I’ve gone out to treat llamas, alpacas, pigs in a sanctuary, elk, and reindeer.”

  He shuts the door, and as soon as he’s climbing behind the driver’s seat, I follow up on that comment.

  “Reindeer? For real?”

  “Reindeer. Not fake,” he quips.

  I laugh as he turns the key in the ignition.

  “I would love to see one up close,” I say truthfully.

  “You can,” Brooks says easily, turning on his car. “There’s a reindeer farm a few hours from here. During the summer you can take a tour and get up close with them. As in actually feed them. And you can feed the elk and they have rabbits, too.”

  “Oh, I would love that,” I say.

  “So you’re an animal lover?” Brooks asks as he fastens his seatbelt.

  “I am. My parents have dogs at home.”

  “I can’t imagine growing up without animals,” Brooks says, easing his car into the street. “We always had dogs in the house when I was growing up, too. My mum and dad are huge dog lovers.”

  “Were they Corgis?” I tease, as this breed is a favorite of Queen Elizabeth II.

  Brooks gives me a side-eye. “I’m sorry, but my mum isn’t called Her Majesty,” he says.

  I laugh, and he does, too.

  “Believe it or not, my parents have a Corgi. And a Beagle,” I say. “And random luck on Mom picking a Corgi.”

  Brooks grins. “Right. You strong-armed that choice.”

  “Ha, no, I did not.”

  “Mum and Dad always got our dogs from a rescue,” Brooks continues. “Then my granddad had a farm, so I was always following him around, asking him endless questions about the sheep, pigs, chickens, the cows—you name the animal, I loved it. I spent every weekend with him, wanting to be his shadow as he tended to all his animals. He knew so much, I wanted to be just like him.”

  I lov
e hearing how his voice picks up an excited tone when he talks about animals.

  “Sounds like you are,” I say.

  “I can only hope,” Brooks says softly. “He was a great man.”

  Was.

  “Did he pass away?” I ask quietly.

  “Yes, while I was in vet school in London,” Brooks says as he turns down another street. “He died of stomach cancer during my last year. That was a rough year. On several levels.”

  I absorb his words and tone, which has grown serious. There is more to that statement than his grandfather passing. But I elect to save that question for later.

  My phone buzzes, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Oh, sorry, I should have shut this off,” I say, changing the subject.

  “Is that a friend seeing if you need to be rescued?” Brooks teases.

  I laugh. “Um, no, I would text her if I wanted to be rescued. Which might still be in play depending on if you make me eat beans with eggs.”

  A sexy smile passes over his face. “You’re highly underestimating the full English.”

  I smile and glance down at my phone. And I see it’s a text from my mom:

  Payton what are you doing with a pig on YouTube? Have you lost your mind? Are you urban farming? Raising your own bacon?

  I crease my brow. What is she talking about? I’m not on YouTube, I don’t even video blog!

  “Everything all right?”

  I glance at Brooks. “My mom is asking what I’m doing on YouTube with a pig.”

  “You’re on YouTube?”

  “No!” I declare as Brooks swings into the supermarket parking lot.

  I text my mom back:

  I am not urban farming, Mom. What are you talking about?

  Within seconds my mom sends me a link and a note:

  Felicia Williams said you have gone viral on the news tonight with their funny “Pet of the Week” video clip. What are you doing with a pig on a leash? I never knew you liked pigs. Please tell me this isn’t another one of your weird interests.

  Suddenly, I remember all the people in the shopping center parking lot when I was with Mr. Not Bacon.

  With cell phones.

  “Oh, no,” I gasp.