Page 14 of Expressionate
“No,” I say defensively. Why am I being defensive? “I haveclass.”
He chuckles. “Where do you work?” heasks.
“Why do you want to know?” I shootback.
“Why are you so defensive?” he asks with raisedbrows.
I blow out a breath, shrugging. My eyes skirt to the side, avoiding his. I scratch the inside of my elbow. “I work at the BookWorm,” I finallysay.
He laughs, his dark eyes sparkling. “Why am I not surprised?” he shakes his head at me. “You seem like the bookstoretype.”
“How so?” I ask,frowning.
He shakes his head again before pushing into his apartment. “See you later, Love,” he calls back tome.
I don’t know how long I stand in front of my door, confused, irritated, and maybe a little curious. When I finally realize I’m still standing in the hallway, and I have been for some time, I head into my apartment and close the door behind me, locking the deadbolt and feeling the weight of the napkin in my pocket with its lyrics – Tax’s lyrics – like rocks on mychest.
* * *
BookWorm isone of those places hipster college students go to chill and hang out. Some of them actually come to buy books, but most come to sit in the tiny cafe that has all of five tables. The rest of the space is littered with plush chairs that had been purchased for bargain prices. The students and patrons don't mind. Patchy antique-looking chairs aretrendy.
My manager, Beth, strides over in one of her originally made t-shirts with a book related saying on the front. I don't read it as I normally do because today it's covered by a bookseller apron like the one I'mwearing.
"Hey Love," she says, "Darcy didn't show up for work today, and we're short over in the café. Would you mind running the counter for a few hours, at least until it diesdown?"
I sigh, glancing over my shoulder at the already boisterous group sitting in the far corner of the tiled off area before turning back to my manager. "I can do that." I reach around to untie my booksellerapron.
As I cross behind the café’s coffee and pastry counter, one of my coworkers is busy making drinks to the side while a patron stands in front of the counter, her foot tapping impatiently. I reach for one of the café aprons hanging on the back wall and slip it over my head before tying it at the waist, not bothering to remove the name tag that reads "Lauren" that someone has left behind. I approach the counter with a smile that I hope isn't as wan and brittle as it feels. I hardly got any sleep the night before because I had been up all night writing the rest of that goddamn song Tax had brought to my mind. Then I scrapped it and wrote it again – and again. Nothing seemedright.
"Excuse me," the woman snaps in my face, "did you hear what Isaid?"
"I'm sorry, ma'am. Can you repeat your order for me?" My fingers hover over the registerscreen.
She exhales with exaggerated frustration and proceeds to the herculean task of repeating her order. I type the correct buttons on the screen, run her card before handing her the receipt, and direct her to the waiting area. Then I jump in to help my coworker finish the orders he's already behind on. I hate the taste of coffee, but the smell is soothing. Soon my coworker and I finish clearing through the backed up drink orders and he manages to shakily scoot out from behind the counter to head out for his smoke break. I eye him for a moment before I turn back to wipe down the counters. I check the level of coffee grounds we have to see if I’ll need to ask him to go back into the stockroom for more when he getsback.
"I would have pictured you as someone reading to little kids in the back area," a deep, lyrical voice states from behindme.
I pause, in the process of returning a container of vanilla bean coffee grounds under the counter cabinet. Slowly, as if my head is on a spit being turned over a fire, I turn so that I'm facing the register and the handsome smirking face there. "I'm not much of a kid person," I hear the words come out of my mouth, but I don't remember giving them permission toexit.
Tax's smirk widens. "Ahh, then maybe I'm all wrong about you and you don't much care for the books either? You didn't seem like a coffee person tome."
"I don't have to be a coffee person to be able to make it and sell it," Isay.
Why am I even talking to him? I turn back around. I can just finish checking the grounds and cleaning up and ignore him. That’s what Ishoulddo. I don’t have to pay him any attention. It unnerves me, though, the way he stands there, examining and analyzingme.
"And the books?" he prompts as if reading mythoughts.
"The café was short someone today," I reply. "My manager asked me to step in. Why are you here?" Finally, I manage to get the words I really want to say out. Why is hehere?
His eyes travel down to my name tag and he laughs. A few girls talking over lattes in the corner jerk their heads in his direction, their lips curved down in scowls. When their eyes hit Tax and take him in, their scowls disappear, replaced by expressions of absolute worship. They eyeball him like he's the dessert of the last meal they will ever have and, for some reason, it makes my insides churn. I nearly stumble over my own two feet as I cross between one counter to the next, reaching for the whipped cream. I stop and take a deep breath. Turning and setting the whipped cream down, I step in front of the register and the source of myunease.
"Do you want something to drink?" I ask, forcing a politetone.
His eyes glitter with amusement. "Why,Lauren," he says, elongating the name on my name tag, "I would love something todrink."
I grit my teeth. "What can I getyou?"
"Coffee,black."
