Page 23 of Christmas Coffee

Nova

This uniform, as he called it, is horrible. It’s itchy and the skirt sticks out so much that if I bend forward or reach for something on a shelf, my ass will peek out. Who the hell makes their employees wear stuff like this? The shirt is so thin that I can see my lacy bra underneath. The embroidered thick belt hugs my waist and rests just under my chest. It’s thick and overlaps the top of the skirt. To make it better—as if this outfit needs to be more brazen—there’s a hat. It’s white fake fur with two pompoms that dangle from a string on either side of my head, popping me in the face every time I turn my head. I feel like an idiot.

Who’s going to take me seriously dressed like this? I want to be a team player, but this? Grabbing my purse, I manage to get out of the car without flashing anyone. I’m thankful I decided on the white tights because, holy fuck, it’s cold today. The sky has that look to it—like the thin gray clouds are ready to release a deluge of snow. The air has that sharp, crisp scent like it might snow. I love that smell. I forget everything that plagues me for a brief moment, tip my head toward the sky, and breathe in deeply. The freezing air fills my lungs and makes me smile softly. But there’s something coupled with it…cookies? I glance around, not seeing where the scent could be coming from. I frown. I’m too young to have a stroke, but I swear to god that I smell vanilla and brown sugar. Great. As I get closer to the shack, I see the little sign blazing and squirm.

Wonderful. I’m an attraction. Quin failed to mention that yesterday. If I didn’t need the job, I’d walk in and tell him off. But I do. Screw that, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind anyway. This isn’t cool. I expected to pick up a uniform suitable for a manager, not a slutty leftover Halloween costume. I stomp up the steps and kick open the door.

“This is so not cool.” I’m shouting before I look up. “I specifically asked about attire and you said a uniform. You failed to mention that I’d be playing the part of slutty barista.” I stand in the doorway as I shake off the cold and when I finally lift my face, it’s not Quin. It’s him. The hot guy from the other night. A smile tries to form on my lips as my eyes sweep over his beautiful body. I’m rendered speechless for a moment, my wrath forgotten. I breathe, “It’s you.”

“Yeah.” He whispers, his voice deep. He’s wearing a black sweater that looks incredibly soft. The V-neck has a white shirt peeking out from underneath. It’s coupled with dark jeans and he looks hotter than the last time we met. He’s clean-shaven and his dark hair hangs over his brow, making those blue eyes bright as sapphires.

His gaze lingers on me, a look of remorse in his eyes. His dark lashes lower like he’s uncertain. The softness that lines his features is there one moment and then vanishes. In its place is the arrogant man from the bar, the one exuding confidence with a huge-ass chip on his shoulder.

He steps toward me, and shakes his head. “What are you doing here? Did Quin hire you, too?”

Quin? I can’t breathe. There’s something in the air, a spark between us. It was there the first time I glanced up at him and it remains even now. I forget myself, forget this silly costume, and feel something I can’t identify. It swirls inside me, warming me from within. If he hadn’t walked out, I would have been happy to see him. It should be awkward, but that’s not what I’m feeling. It’s as if there’s an invisible string tied around my waist, tugging me toward him. The string pulls tight, and then snaps.

He blurts out, voice sharp, “You’re nineteen?” He folds his arms over his chest like I lied to him the other night.

My eyes cut to the side as I arch a brow at him. “Yeah, so?”

“You’re a fucking teenager?” He spits the words at me, glaring.

I bristle and squeeze my fingers tightly at my sides to reign in my temper. “Wow. Nice. Very smooth.” I don’t offer more. I don’t tell him I’ll be twenty in February. I don’t say anything. Instead, my chest tightens and I can’t breathe. The horror on his face hurts. I’m young, but I don’t feel it. There are days that I feel weary and beaten by the world. Blame it on my past, I do. There’s an old woman living inside of me. She’s seen too many horrible things to still have the youthful idealistic tendencies of a teen. I wish I felt that way, but I don’t. And I don’t like it when someone thinks less of me because of my age.

His jaw gapes and he runs his hands through his hair, tugging it. “You should have said something. I didn’t know.”

I frown and toss my purse on the counter and get up in his face. “When, exactly? We went straight from the bar to the hotel. You had plenty of time to ask about me. You didn’t. So don’t act like I tricked you or something. Besides, age shouldn’t matter.”

“It does!” Okay, he’s either really old or I’m missing something. He places his hands on the counter and hangs his head, before continuing. “I’m thirty-five.” When I don’t reply he looks over at me.

I’m still standing there in my ridiculous costume, straight-faced. “Am I supposed to say eww and gag myself? Age doesn’t matter. You’re the only one hung up on it, so get over yourself already. Ass.”

“What did you call me?” The corner of his lips twitches as if he wants to smile. I also sense a bear in there ready to rip my head off, but I don’t back down.

“Ass. Arrogant ass.” I step closer to him and feel the same current sizzling pulling between us, strung taut, ready to pop. “That’d be you.”

“You’re a kid.” The horror on his face makes me feel sick.

I haven’t been a kid for a long time. Life knocked the shit out of me pretty fast. Some people age in years, I wasn’t lucky enough to be one of them, but I’m not telling him that. “You’re a superficial arrogant prick if you can’t see past a birthdate.”

“I’m your boss.” He stiffens and stares at me.

Holy shit. I stiffen and shrink back a little as the warning bells in my mind clang together and shatter. They fall with a rapid thud into the pit of my stomach. My boss? He can’t be my boss. This is getting so messed up.

I start muttering. “I don’t know if you think I’m repulsive, or you actually think I tricked you, but…” My jaw flaps and I have no words. It seems like some distorted sense of chivalry was violated. It makes my stomach churn and something that was magical turns to ash before my eyes. The compulsion to apologize shoots up my throat, but I can’t say it. I didn’t do anything wrong. I was being me, living my shitty life, and he came on to me.

“You lied.” His accusatorial tone is sharp, unforgiving.

My right eye narrows and I spit back, “I don’t usually get proofed before sex, but then maybe you typically ask for ID. I wouldn’t know because you never came back.”

We’re standing so close that when I inhale, my chest brushes against his. Every light sensation sets me on fire. The memory of him, his touch, his taste—and his kiss, burns within me. His eyes lower from mine and lock on my lips, but he doesn’t move. Tension laces my muscles as I resist the urge to touch him, to rest my hands on his chest and press my lips to his.

He’s staring at me with that unreadable expression, a million words trapped behind those full soft lips. He swallows hard, forcing the Adam’s apple in his thick neck to bob. That’s the only sign that he might be nervous. It’s the only sign that he might believe me.

A shiver races up my spine and the pull toward him increases. I want to step forward and kiss him. I want to taste those lips again and shut him up. Maybe I would have if he wasn’t my boss, if he didn’t seem so offended by me. The rejection doesn’t sit right and sure as hell doesn’t match the look in his eyes.

The tension breaks as his phone rings. When he turns away, I can breathe again. He pulls it from his pocket, answers, and then shoves past me into the parking lot. I watch him out the window, pacing.