It was about four PM, the slowest hour of the day, and the place was empty save for an old gentleman nodding off in the far corner over his cup of tea. Rory usually spent this time arranging chairs, mopping the restrooms and wiping the counter. He was in the middle of the latter when the bell over the door rang. He straightened up, damp cloth in his hand, and froze at the sight of Emerson stepping in.

“May I?” Emerson lingered on the doorstep.

Rory gestured around the almost empty restaurant. “Pick a spot.”

“I figured you might be closed or something.”

“Nah, just a slow hour.”

Emerson walked over to the table he’d previously occupied with his friends and placed his wallet and sunglasses on it.

“Not reserved, I assume?”

“Nope,” Rory said. “You’re a man of habit, I see.”

“What, picking the same table?” Emerson chuckled, then walked around it to the chair on the other side. “See, I’m taking another stool. I still have some surprises in me.”

“Mind-blowingly unpredictable,” Rory said, coming closer with the menu.

Without his entourage, Emerson seemed more approachable, and bantering with him came naturally. He had a puzzlingly friendly expression, too. Rich boys didn’t usually look friendly. Politeness was usually the closest they got to friendliness, and not all of them bothered with that, either.

“So, what’s up, Rory?”

“All’s fine,” he answered, irrationally flattered by the guy remembering his name. “How’re you, Emerson?”

He smiled and nodded. “Fine, thank you. Usually, people just call me Em.”

“Do I have to?”

“If you like.”

“I kind of like Emerson. It’s… unusual.”

Emerson bowed his head in agreement. “All right, then.” He accepted the menu and glanced over it before handing it back. “Just a coffee, please.”

“What kind?”

Emerson shrugged. “Cappuccino?”

“Large or small?”

“Large.”

“A heart or a tulip?”

“Pardon?”

“Latte art. What would you like me to draw on the coffee foam? I can only do hearts or tulips.”

“Oh.” Emerson nodded thoughtfully. “Is this a new service? I’ve never been asked that before.”

Rory shrugged, his cheeks growing hotter. He decorated coffees when he felt like it, but had certainly never asked a customer what they preferred. He wasn’t sure why he did so now. Maybe because Emerson remembered his name, or perhaps he just wanted to go on talking to him.

“A heart,” said Emerson. “Wait, no—a tulip. Although…” He spread his hands. “Whatever you like.”

“Okay.” Rory turned on his heels and headed back to the counter. Even without his giggling friends, Emerson was still throwing him off balance. He usually didn’t engage in small talk with customers, but that was partly because they never initiated it with him. It was both refreshing and unnerving to have someone break the invisible wall, asking him how he was, making jokes, remembering his name.

Lost in thought, he went through the motions of preparing a coffee, his hands knowing the job all too well, and by the time he was paying attention again, a perfectly shaped heart adorned the foam. He stared at it, contemplating making another cup, with a tulip. A heart felt inappropriate, all of a sudden. It might be fine for a stranger but seemed too personal for someone he knew. Yet if he started making another, Emerson would notice, and ask him what was wrong with the first one, and then…

Stop this. You can’t get this worked up about a coffee.

He brought it to the table and turned to walk away.

“You’ve got quite a big heart here.”

He looked to find Emerson smiling at him. He smiled back, relieved and yet feeling like he needed to explain himself.

“Hearts are easier to make,” he said.

“We’ll try a tulip next time.”

“Yeah. Next time.”

He escaped into the back room and got busy there, moving boxes and dusting shelves that hadn’t been dusted in months. If he remained behind the counter, he would have to talk to Emerson again—not that he didn’t want to, but yes, he didn’t want to. With only the two of them present, not counting the sleeping gentleman, it felt too intimate, almost like a date. He’d never been on a date, but he could imagine he would probably feel like this if he did. Why on earth did this guy make him feel so stressed? He just came in for a cup of coffee. Sometimes Rory just wanted to open his own head and tear the overthinking wiring out, leaving him blissfully unaware of all the possible things that could go wrong at any given moment.

The bell rang again. Hoping it announced the arrival of a new customer, he glanced out of the utility room, but there was no one by the door. Emerson was gone, too. It stung a bit, that he’d left without saying goodbye again, although the rational part of him knew it was his own fault. Emerson might have said something if Rory had remained behind the counter.

He walked over to the table to pick up the mug. It was empty, and a twenty-dollar bill was stuck under the saucer. The coffee was $4.50, so leaving such a generous tip was pretty impressive, but it still felt like a poor substitute for a goodbye.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I hope you've enjoyed the first chapters of this book!

You can find the rest of it through the link in my BIO!

Hope you'll enjoy it!