Page 2 of It's a Brewtiful Day
Instinctively, although it was becoming a bad habit, I stared at his undecorated ring finger, not thatit meant anything. My father had vowed not once, but twice to love and honour my mother, and failed. Miserably. I blamed his hurtful escapades for causing my mother’s broken-hearted death a few years back.
I sat up straighter and put both my feet on the ground, locking my knees together as I leaned forward to stare up and memorize his mossy-green eyes. Under the house lights, they were brilliant with flecks of dark amber. But it was his hair I really envied. Thick, lush, and with a type of curly wave you knew was natural, and not the result of a big-barreled curling iron. I longed to run my fingers through it and ask what type of conditioner he used, but I wasn’t sure if his girlfriend would appreciate that. It probably wasn’t even an acceptable question to ask my favourite barista either even if it was just out of morbid curiosity or a reason to talk about something other than coffee.
“Whatcha reading today?”
I flipped the cover over to read the title as a spark of excitement built. This was so much better than small talk. “The Duke and his Maid.”
“Sounds scintillating.”
“I think that’s the point.” I had a modicum of sass on the tip of my tongue as I was no stranger to the disdain people gave romance novels.
“Where should I set this?” He glanced to the table and in that moment, I was sad he’d broken our connection and fell back to the safe java-infused conversation.
I pushed the stack to the side and made room on the tiny table for the mug. “Here, I can grab it.”
I reached for the handle, gently touching his finger as I slipped mine into the same space. However, as he retracted his finger, I still hadn’t managed to grip it properly, and in slow motion I gasped in horror as the mug slipped.
The purpleFRIENDScup tipped downward and the creamy brown liquid, foam and all, waterfalled over the lip, splashing onto my stack of books. My attempt to right the mug only resulted in it cresting over the other side and covering my hand.
“Oh no!” I cried out, not sure if I was more upset with my clumsy mishandling or the devastation it caused.
The books!
The handwritten note I was going to pin to the board in the bookshop!
The remaining liquid in the mug wasn’t worth a sip as I set it down mostly empty and stared crestfallen at the rest puddled on top of the books and the tabletop. The drips onto the floor were slow and taunting, almost as if laughing at my misfortune.
“You’re covered.”
“What?” I cast my gaze from the destruction up to Elliot, who had produced a cloth from the pocket on his Coffee Loft apron and quickly wrapped it around my stinging hand.
“I hope you’re not burned.”
Then the pain softly hit a little harder, and I bit my lip.
“Oh, beans. The coffee really did a number.” His voice was crestfallen.
I followed his gaze from my hand to my lap. As I took note of my condition, the heat from the coffee was warming my skin through my soaked leggings. The top of my feet, exposed in my ballet flats, were also covered in warm liquid. All of that could be replaced and any singed skin could be healed, but the books? My shoulders sagged. The note and the books were ruined. There was no way I could make anything out of them now.
Elliot handed me the dry cloth and scampered over behind the counter.
I dabbed at the books, wiping off what I could while quickly inspecting the pages. Maybe when they dried, they’d be salvageable. Time will tell. They would have a maple scent to them which may, or may not, be ideal.
In a heartbeat, Elliot returned, squatting near me with a couple of damp cloths. He passed me a fresh, yet cool one. “For your hand.”
Expertly, like this was something that happened many times a day, he wiped off my mug and cleaned the table. With the edge of the towel, he ran it over my feet and gave the toes of my shoes a little polish.
Why was my heart stammering like a teenager? He was just being nice.
“The books are ruined?” His voice had a ribbon of concern.
“Probably. I’ll see when they are dry. I may be in luck.” I lifted the note, which sagged and tore. It was pretty thin paper.
“I’m so sorry about that. I thought you had the handle.”
I looked into his eyes, ringed in sympathy. “I thought I did too, but it’s not your fault.”
“Well, I should’ve confirmed that you had it.”