I’m just trying to work over here, you know? This is my job, and I need this to make money for the business classes I’m moving through at a glacial pace.
A new song starts playing: “Steal Away” by Robbie Dupree.
“Chloe,” Nick says, his voice a low growl.
I straighten an already straight stack of cups to avoid looking at him. Why is he so close to me? Why does his voice naturally sound like that? My mind jumps automatically to the listicle I read on Buzzfeed yesterday: “Ten Reasons Why Rick from Coffee Girl is #relationshipgoals.” Since the movie’s not out yet, it’s based entirely on the trailer, which I’ve watched approximately 9,756 times (give or take a few), mostly late at night when I’m trying to sleep and I feel like punishing myself. Reason #6: His voice sounds like he wants to argue with you and rip your clothes off. Maybe at the same time.
The stack of cups goes crashing to the ground.
Nick and I bend down at the same time to pick up the cups, our faces way, way too close to each other. He seems unaffected by my presence; maybe he hasn’t been reading the same Buzzfeed lists.
“Didn’t I explicitly ban your yacht rock playlist?” he asks. “Didn’t I tell you that if you played Robbie Dupree in this shop one more time, I wouldn’t be responsible for what I’d do?”
I stand up, and so does he. “I don’t remember any of those conversations. I only remember the vague sense of dread that overcomes me as I’m forced to reckon with my own mortality every time you play the depressing music you like.”
I smile at him, back in my element: making fun of him for his god-awful taste.
Nick sighs, then gives me another one of those looks. It’s kind of a smile but kind of a frown at the same time, which is a face he’s really good at. I widen my eyes back at him.
This is the fun part, the part I love about work. I like arguing with Nick because it’s not serious (I mean, I seriously do hate the music he listens to, but I don’t actually care that much), but we both treat it like it’s life and death. I don’t even know if I’d like yacht rock half as much if I didn’t have to defend it to him every day.
To Annie, a born-and-bred rom-comaholic, our playful banter means we’re destined to be together. Because that’s what happens in rom-coms, right? Two people who can’t stand each other are actually hiding deep wells of passion, and eventually all those pent-up feelings will explode in one of those make-out scenes where shelves get knocked over and limbs are flying and people are panting.
But listen, I get angry with Siri when she willfully misunderstands me, and that doesn’t mean I should marry my phone. Sometimes people just argue and don’t want to make out with each other, because life isn’t a rom-com (unless you’re Annie and you’re marrying a literal movie star).
Nick shakes his head and points toward the back of the store. “I’ll be in my office. Think you can handle it up here?”
I gesture once more toward the mostly empty shop. Business isn’t due to pick up for another hour. “Somehow, I’ll manage.”
I lean over the counter and pull my phone out again, but between you and me . . . yes, I do look up to watch Nick walk to his office. It’s like that old saying, “I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave,” except that it’s, like, “I hate the depressing AF music you play, but I love to watch you leave because *fire emoji*.”
Although it pains me to admit it, Nick Velez is objectively good-looking. He’s tall and thin, with light brown skin, dark hair that’s not too long or too short, and the aforementioned persistent scruff on his face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Nick clean-shaven, and I regularly see him at 5 A.M. That’s just how his face looks, apparently.
But, unlike my romance-obsessed BFF, I am not someone who gets carried away by fantasies of love. Sure, Nick is hot, and okay, maybe I’ve had a couple of daydreams where he pins me against the brick wall of the coffee shop and rubs my face raw with his stubble, but there are lots of hot people in the world who aren’t my boss. And since I kind of need this job,