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She swivels, all remnants of her awkwardness disappearing as she folds her arms. "The owner thinks tips deter customers from returning."
I scowl. What the fuck??? How does she make any money, then? She's supposed to work retail, in the city, without any tips? "What kind of backwards, twisted shit is that?"
She shrugs, seemingly saying it is what it is.
I fish out my wallet again. "Then I'll tip with cash, and tell your punk-ass boss I'm returning with more." I press three bills flat on the counter.
"Thank you, I'll make sure to tell her." She giggles, reaching for them. "But you really don't have to—" She stiffens. "Uhh... did you mean to do that?"
"Do what?"
"Hayden, those aren't singles." She hands them back, a genuine laugh echoing between us. "Seems someone is used to tipping at other establishments."
I look at the bills with confusion. "I don't see the problem."
She blinks. "You tipped me three-hundred dollars, in cash, for making a latte... You're aware I'm not a stripper, right?"
"I am. Because if you were, I'd let you keep my Black Amex instead, only if you promised to leave on your apron."
To say the way she gapes at me is like I hit her with a ton of bricks would be an understatement. More like I threw the entire house. But as much as I'd like to stay around and soak it up a little longer, I need to keep her wanting more.
"Is your lunch break soon?" I ask her stunned expression, taking a sip of my coffee. Slurping sounds bounce between our silence. "Oh, good. Let's bump our meeting to today, then." Another taste test, this one coupled with a smoldering gaze. "I'll be expecting you at my table."
NINE
JULIANA
Thank God it's Tuesday, Mei's shortest day of the week. Which means I won't have to endure her prying gaze during my lunch break while I'm negotiating my terms for fake dating my brother's best friend.
Yikes. How could I ever say that out loud, especially to her? She'd check me into a psych ward.
It was bad enough that she yanked me right back into the storage room the instant Hayden went to his table, then shot me question after question. Did he come all this way for you? Does he work nearby? What did you two talk about? When's your next date? I dodged each one, offering vague answers, even though all I could hear were his words to me.
Sure, the whole comment about the stripper and my apron was just regular old Hayden Kingston shenanigans. Creative, straight-forward, and overtly sexual, meant for maximum shock factor—which he achieved and then some. But that's not what stuck with me; isn't what's been replaying in my mind on an endless continuum since and even now, as he sits across our tiny bistro table, sporting his signature smirk.
I like the sight of that.
You, swiping my card.
Before the butterflies in my stomach flap their wings, I shove the idea of being Hayden's spoiled plaything as far back into my consciousness as humanly possible, instead focusing on how ridiculous he looks in that chair.
While Hayden isn't excessively bulky and tends more toward a lean-muscle physique, he is rather tall. Six-foot-three, he'd say, even though I know he's actually six-two and a half. A detail he'll deny to his grave.
I bite back a laugh, noting how far his knees jut upwards, his legs much too long for that chair. But the farther my gaze rises, the more my grin falls and heartbeat escalates. Resting his chin on a clenched fist, he gazes out the window, his hair disheveled and wild yet somehow effortlessly stylish. And worst of all, his coat flaps open, the long fabric kissing the floor while his Rolex peeks out of his sleeve. Looking kind of like—no, exactly like—a model you'd spot on the cover of Men's Vogue or in a mainstream music video.
And he's here. Sitting across from me. The girl with four-day-old hair, chipped nail polish, and a stained apron to show for.
And no experience, that little devil adds.
I clear my throat, hoping to kick it off my shoulder—and curb my distracting thoughts. But when he turns his beautiful head, they come rushing back, anyway. I bury my face in my backpack, rummaging for my notebook.
"Well, dollface, you called for this meeting, so I think it's best you lead."
My cheeks burn. Does he really have to call me things like that?
When my nail catches against a dark blue color, I pull out my notebook, which I now realize looks like it belongs in a middle schooler's backpack—and honestly might've once been in mine. Donned in space suits, happy animals with oversized eyes dance across constellations, alongside planets, friendly aliens, colorful spaceships, and a smiling sun.
His eyebrow ticks skyward. "Space shit. Nice."
