Hate to Date You (Dating #4) - Monica Murphy Page 0,2
ask Carter, my voice light and airy. Like I’m a sweet little barista who has great concern for my customer’s bowels.
He barely looks at me. Guess he can’t face me when we’re this close. Does he remember the last time we were this close? When his mouth came down on mine and his hand slipped between my legs…
“No. I happen to love macchiatos.” Oh, he sounds like a complete snot. It’s almost funny. “I just…prefer them hot. And definitely with nonfat milk. One less pump of caramel, too.”
Sighing, I grab a paper cup and my black Sharpie. I know where this is going. I believe we’ve had this sort of conversation before, Carter and I. Pretty sure I’ve made him a drink or two at Sweet Dreams in this lifetime. Before everything as we know it changed. “Would you rather have a skinny vanilla latte?”
The relief on his face is almost comical. “Yes.” He pauses for a moment, and I lift my gaze to find he’s watching me with a hint of smolder. Ooh, fuck that smoldering bit! I hate it! “Please.”
“Coming right up!” I scribble a little special something on his cup and get to work, making Caroline’s drink first. The line at the counter is long, as usual, and it’s midafternoon, so they’re all looking for a quick coffee break to take them through the rest of their day. Some want sweets as well, and we have plenty of those to offer.
Caroline didn’t bother going to the register because she knows my father will turn her money away. Carter, on the other hand… I’d ask my father to charge him double the normal amount, and I bet he’d do it too. Especially if I never mentioned who Carter was.
But my father knows Carter. Vaguely. My brothers definitely know Carter, and they’ll give him free wine and food too.
So annoying.
He doesn’t deserve freebies. Or niceties. My brothers should string him up by his balls. My father should sock him right in the kidneys. I’d like to smack my palm across his obscenely handsome face. Maybe kiss it first. Kiss his lips, I should add. Just once. To see if he’s still just as skilled as he was last time—
“Stella! Where’s my chai latte?”
I jolt, glancing up to find my cousin Sabina watching me, irritation written all over her pretty features. She works the front counter for us mostly on the weekends, but sometimes after school. She’s only seventeen, and full of attitude, so I glare at her, muttering naughty words in Italian under my breath as I go about finishing up Caroline’s drink order.
“Give me a minute,” I finally say to Sabina, who only rolls her eyes in response.
Our other barista—Glenn, who should be called a baristo, in my opinion—magically appears beside me, tying his apron on as he scans the line of empty cups that represents all the orders that are backed up. “Looks like I arrived just in time.”
“You’re my hero,” I say sarcastically, but I mean it. Glenn is sweet. He’s fifty-five years old, with a thick graying beard and kind brown eyes. He started working at Sweet Dreams almost a year ago, and is an excellent barista.
He’s also loaded—maybe more than my family—but he got bored once he retired after selling all of his very successful and varied businesses. His wife gave him an espresso machine for Christmas and he became so skilled with it, she started teasing him that he should work at a coffee place. That’s how he came to us. His hobby has turned into a job. A job that pays very well, but I don’t think Glenn cares about the money. He’s satisfied with making specialty coffees four hours a day, four days a week.
Whatever floats your boat, am I right?
I make Carter’s skinny vanilla latte next—I wish I could put something in it to give him hell (nothing poisonous, of course) but there’s no time—and set both drinks on the counter, offering Caroline a smile. “Here you go.”
“You are a life saver, Stel.” She leans in and gives me a quick peck on the cheek, and my heart softens. I love my best friend. I really do. She’s been there for me through thick and thin, and I’ve done the same for her.
But her brother is a complete asswipe, and if I could, I’d toss his skinny vanilla latte at his chest and pray the coffee would permanently stain his pristine white button-down shirt.