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It feels good to be watched over.
I twist and glance over my shoulder, already knowing what I’ll find. Devon behind the counter, preparing a beverage for a thirsty regular. Like magic, he peeks up, sensing my presence. Our gaze connects, and the familiar sparkle flashes to life in his eyes. It does every darn time.
My lips part, and I hold my inhalation. I’ve never had this effect on another man. No man has ever made me feel this way. Devon winks at me before focusing on the drink order, dropping ice from the scooper to the cup. Of course, a few cubes miss the cup and fall to the floor. Of course, he continues as if it’s aregular occurrence because it is. At this point, Mrs. Whitehead has propped the mop from the storage unit behind the counter for easy access. He’s a café disaster, but he’s so beautiful to watch.
I spin and tap on my keyboard again. A different tab on the spreadsheet, a different chart. This number rises from two hundred and seventy-four to two hundred and seventy-five. The accompanying bar is red. When it rises, it triggers a GIF of heart bubbles exploding. This graph is also trending directionally correct—upwards. This chart I’ve yet to share with him.
It’s been less than ten seconds since I’ve had the pleasure of his profile, yet I miss him. He’s quickly become my favorite café addiction. I resolved myself days ago that I’m perfectly fine being called a stalker. But I don’t turn.
I swipe at my phone for my Devon fill. He’s perfect. I sort my photos from the shoot by outfit, starred selections which I return to again and again. Last night, Devon completed his model assignment, the last outfits in the collection: a varsity style sweater, a tie with the team’s logo, hoodie, sweat suit, and collared shirts.
Everything except the mascot uniform.
The repairs to the head are nearly complete. Tomorrow night, Devon is set to close at the café and will be trying on the uniform here. The head has limited visibility and having Devon stumbling around my small apartment is a disaster waiting to happen, so we’ve agreed to this. A place with enough space for him to stumble and recover without hurting anyone or anything.
All he has to do is walk four feet without falling, then I’ll be set for the pitch. We’re close.
A hand slaps against the café window, causing me to jump in my seat. Through the glass, I see Stacy with a mischievous grin on her face, her lips moving, but I can’t make out what she’s saying through the glass. She waves a hand in laughter towardthe parking lot and skips toward the entrance, her microbraids bouncing in perfect synchronization with her steps.
That’s when I see what she was waving at. Rather who she waved to—her friends.
All of them.
She leads a procession of a dozen classmates like she’s the Pied Piper. I meet her at the entrance, where she holds the door open with her foot, high fiving each of her friends as they enter. “What are you doing?”
“You’re going to love this.” She giggles, and I know immediately I won’t love this. “Some doofus in the chem lab set off the sprinklers. We had to evacuate the entire building; classes are canceled for the rest of the morning while they clean up the mess.”
I’m confused. “What does that have to do with…” I wave a hand at her mob that continues to stream into the café like an endless procession of clowns from a tiny car. “…this?”
“You keep telling me your boy crush barista is doing much better. I thought I’d come and see for myself.”
I ignore her boy crush comment and focus on the impending disaster in front of me. Visions of me updating the bumble spreadsheet for the next three hours float in my head. “And you brought the entire campus with you?”
Stacy finally releases the door after the fifteenth person enters. Yes, I counted. “I may have mentioned to a few friends that drinks were on me if they drove. Next thing I knew, we had a campus caravan.”
I follow Stacy, who pushes through the scrum of college classmates, working her way to the counter. She slams her palms on the top of the glass, where a bewildered Devon glances at me for assistance.
I shrug my shoulders.
“Everyone, this is Devon, the incredible barista I’ve been telling you about.” Stacy milks the moment, stepping to the side and waving her arm as if presenting the wonderful wizard of Oz. “Everyone, this is Devon.”
Her classmates chime out in perfect harmony, “Hello, Devon.” No way they didn’t rehearse that on the drive over.
“Ladies.” Devon shoots them a Cheshire cat grin as if facing nearly twenty half-dressed co-eds is an everyday occurrence. “I appreciate you making the trek. What can I get you?”
I take a step back. For three days, I’ve watched every move of this man. One minute, he’s clueless, staring at the register as if it holds the nuclear codes. The next, I catch him balancing three cups of steaming-hot drinks and perform a Zac EfronHigh School Musicalsidestep when a kid in the stroller unexpectantly tosses their bottle in front of him.
He’s an enigma, that’s as entertaining as he’s mysterious.
I take in the scene even as I stride backwards to my stool. The café fills with giggles and booming whispers. The regulars stop what they’re doing to observe. Crestline is a quiet town, and anything out of the ordinary instantly takes center stage. I spot Mrs. Whitehead poke her head out from the hallway, something she’s done all week.
Whenever the café gets slammed like this, I’ve seen her pop out from the office and pitch in. A smile spreads across her face, and she crosses her arms, pressing one shoulder to the wall. Her body language is a clear signal to Devon—you’re on your own, kid.It’s a curious reaction on her part, and Devon’s concern about being on probation snaps to the front of my mind.
“You can relax.” Stacey gives me a shoulder bump, stepping within whisper range. “I told everyone chances are their drinks will suck. We stopped at the market on the way and grabbed a few cases of Red Bull, White Claw, and Gatorades. I even threw in a Doctor Pepper for you in case his drink game stillsuffers, and you’ve been sitting here parched.” I give her a short headshake to let her know it’s not necessary. “You may believe in your boy, but I still have my doubts.”
I know she’s kidding, but her words still sting.
“I like him,” I say the words I said to Devon the other night. This time to my sister. And the words carry an unexpected weight.
