The Relationship Clause

Chapter 1

My phone vibrates twice,and I sneak it out of the pocket of my stretchiest, most comfortable black yoga pants. Stretchy pants were an absolute must today.

If it were up to me, I’d be home wearing no pants, bundled up in a blanket, watching reruns of Gilmore Girls.

Unfortunately, the choice of pants or no pants is a luxury only the rich or remote workers can afford. I, however, am just a lowly barista making barely above minimum wage.

By the way, if you ever get the pleasure of having a near-death experience and then get the chance to return to work quickly after, don’t. Just don’t.

As it stands, I have no choice. Yay me.

After a quick peek over my shoulder to make sure my boss isn’t around, I check my messages.

Kiera: Girl. I’m DYING for an update. Is he there yet?

Kiera:GIF of Mr. Bean waiting in a field.

I smirk at the image from my best friend.

Junie:No, he isn’t here. Quit texting me while I’m at work.

Kiera:Fine. But try to get a picture of him this time.

Junie:You know that’s not going to happen. He would totally notice and awkwardness would ensue. Now stop texting me.

Kiera: Yeah, yeah, but you know, if you can’t make anything happen with this mystery man, you’re going to let me set you up with someone.

Kiera:Also, how’s your first day back?

Junie: GIF of Dwight Schrute saying “I’m not dead.”

Kiera:Hugs. Okay, I’ll stop texting. But I love your face, bestie.

Junie:Yeah, yeah, right back at ya.

“Um, hello? Junie? Did you hear me? I said one large blonde roast, please?”

My attention snaps to the woman holding out her credit card. She’s a regular, and I recognize her immediately with her dark hair graying at the temples and pulled back into a low bun. I should know her name, but thanks to my recent absence from work and the current brain malfunction I’m having, I can’t remember what it is for the life of me.

“Gotcha covered,” Pete says from over my shoulder. He hands the woman her coffee and takes the card, gently nudging me to the side with his hip.

I smile apologetically. “Sorry. Haven’t quite gotten my head back in the game yet.”

Both Pete and the woman—Margie, from the name on her cup—give me sympathetic looks. “Bless your heart, honey,” she says in her thick, southern accent. “I’m glad to see you back and in good health.” Then she stuffs a bill in the tip jar and rushes out the door.

There is a rare lull in the regular hustle of Monday morning. Several patrons sit in booths or at tables, surrounded by coffee-themed art hanging on the walls, but no new customers line up. Pete turns and throws his hand towel over his shoulder, giving me a serious look.

“How are you feeling?” he asks. “Need to take a break?” His eyes dip down, scanning the front of my apron, and I know what he’s thinking before he even says it. “Maybe you should—”

“No.” I whip around and grab the blender. “I don’t need to go home. I need to work, which is why I’m here.”

“So you say…” He rubs his neck and his eyebrows pinch together in that fatherly look of concern I’ve come to appreciate. I’ve only worked at Pete’s Perk Up for four months, but I can already say Pete is, hands down, my favorite boss ever, and that’s saying something, since I’ve had about, oh, twenty-ish bosses in my twenty-six years.

Yeah, my resume is a hot mess.

Such a hot mess that I’ve started to struggle finding new jobs, which is something that never used to be a problem for me. But now, employers take a look at my history, and suddenly, it’s a red flag. Why bother hiring and training someone they know will quit a few months later?

That’s the reason I’m a twenty-six-year-old college graduate working at a coffee shop. It’s also the reason I’m determined to hold on to this job for at least a year, despite the fact that I’m already feeling that itch to run. I’ve got to turn my life and my resume around. I’ve got to show that I’m the kind of employee who can stick around.

The fact that I got this job was nothing short of a miracle. The day I marched in here, determined to get hired, he took one look at me, one look at my resume, and threw it away.

At first, I thought he might be crazy, but it turns out, that’s how Pete is. Always looking more at the soul of a person rather than what’s merely there on paper. It’s probably why his shop is the most frequented coffee place in downtown Greenville, South Carolina. It may not be the most conveniently located, but people line up every morning for his world-class service and his wife’s even more incredible croissants and pastries.

“I don’t know, Junie,” Pete says, rubbing his neck. “I mean, you did have surgery.”

“I’m fine,” I say as I rinse the blender out. “Trust me.” But as I say it, I accidentally knock over a roll of paper towels. Without thinking, I bend to pick it up and immediately regret the decision.

Pain radiates from my stomach. I inhale sharply and clutch the lower-right side of my belly. As soon as the feeling of someone stabbing me subsides, I realize what I’ve done and glance up. Pete is watching me, a mixture of concern and annoyance on his face. Concern for obvious reasons, annoyance because he’s probably figured out by now that I one hundred percent lied about when my doctor said I could come back to work.

“Go home, Junie. Now. I don’t care how much you need the money.” He points to the door as if that makes it final. Ha. Far from it.

“Nope. I’m fine. Cool. Totally cool.”

“Junie.”

“Pete.”

“Junie!”

“Pete!”

We’re at a standstill, my stubbornness on full display. He opens his mouth, probably about to fire me—okay, not really, but he might threaten—when Pete’s niece, Marlee, breezes into the store, late as usual.

“I’m here!” she announces. Then she stands back and lets a gust of January wind inside, plus about five other people. The lull is officially over. I recognize the first man and jump to make his order, but Pete puts a firm hand on my shoulder.

“No,” he says like he’s talking to a disobedient dog. “I may not be able to make you go home, but you will not be making any more coffee.”

I let my jaw drop. “What am I supposed to do then?”

He drags over a stool and sets it down in front of the register. “You’ll sit here and ring people up.”

“But I—”

“No more buts, Junie. Sit or I will fire you.”

I sit. Not because I think he’d actually fire me—at least, I hope he wouldn’t—but because of the look in his eye as he says it. He means business, so I’d rather not test him. Plus, in all honesty, sitting sounds good.

Marlee comes in behind me and clocks in. “Dang, girl. You’re back sooner than I thought you’d be.” She gives me a once-over. Her cool-blue eyes complement her icy-blond hair, which is currently streaked with pink. “Also, you look a little pale and your face seems thinner. Are you sure you should be here?”

I roll my eyes as Pete waves at his niece, as if to say, See?! I’m not the only one who thinks this!

I give an exaggerated sigh. “I’m pale because I’m always pale—came standard with the red hair, in case you were wondering.” Marlee exchanges a look with her uncle, and I hurry on in case they try to gang up on me. “Anyway, yes, I’m back, and I’m bound to this stool. Now go make yourself useful and get Stan over there his coffee and croissant.”

Marlee and Pete are not the last to point out my reappearance at work. Several of my favorite regulars continue to bring it up. Each time they do, it’s like another nail in my “going home early” coffin that I’m sure Pete is building.

The thing is, he doesn’t get how desperately I need the money. I mean, he kind of gets it. Everyone knows hospital stays are expensive. So are antibiotics. A ruptured appendix is murder on the wallet. And the checking account. And the non-existent savings account. I mean, I haven’t gotten the bill yet, but I’m not naive; I know what’s coming.

Unfortunately, that’s just the half of it. While I was throwing money out the window at the hospital—eating five-star meals, sleeping in the finest cotton sheets, and permitting people to save my life—the pipes in my little two-bedroom, one-bathroom fixer-upper decided to burst. I wish I could say the damage was minimal, but that’s not how things go in my life. I had a guy come and assess everything yesterday. The figure he gave me to fix it almost put me back in the hospital.

So, yeah, I’m holding on to my hours here. I’m holding on to them like the kitten in that GIF dangling off a bed sheet for dear life.

Maybe I wouldn’t be in such a dire situation if I could hold on to a job for more than a few months.

The thought brings a scowl to my face. Saying I am my own worst enemy sounds so cliché, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Maybe if I stuck to one job for longer than a few months, I could have a savings account built up for things like medical and home emergencies. Maybe I would have better health insurance.

But I almost can’t help it. I’m not good at sticking around. I’m not good at long-term relationships in any form.

Hence the itch to leave Pete’s even though I love it here. It’s an itch I must, under all circumstances, ignore. I need to fix my resume.

But things are starting to get too familiar, too cozy, too good to be true. Better to leave on my own terms instead of waiting for things to fall apart.

That’s what my dad always said too…

The bell above the door jingles. I look past the woman I’m currently ringing up and nearly swallow my gum. My pulse spikes and my palms go immediately clammy because he walks through the door. The other reason I wanted to return to work so soon and quite possibly the biggest perk of working here.

Mr. TDC—Tall, Dark, and Caffeinated.

That’s not his real name, of course, but it’s what I write on his coffee cup every morning. I did it as a joke the first time he came in, and it sort of stuck. He’s never asked what it means, which is just as well because I’m pretty sure if he ever did, I’d be too mortified to admit it.

The first time he came in was only a couple of weeks after I started working here. He’d called in a large order ahead of time, presumably for everyone in his office.

Should I be using his real name at this point? Yes. But for the life of me, I can’t remember what it is. I think it starts with a C, or maybe an O? He told me that day, but I was so enamored staring into his beautiful, brown, bedroom eyes that I maybe, sort of, wasn’t paying attention to the words coming out of his bedroom lips. Didn’t know bedroom lips were a thing? Well, if you saw Mr. TDC, you would, and you’d totally agree with me.

This is why Kiera, my best friend and old roommate, wants a picture. To prove he’s as gorgeous as I say he is.

To go along with those lips and eyes, he’s also got this deliciously thick-looking dark hair, just the right amount of stubble on his beautifully cut jaw, and shoulders that look like he could bench press all of my baggage and then some. Impressive is an understatement.

He works at some office building in downtown Greenville, and he orders the same thing every day—a small, black coffee. That, plus his uncanny resemblance to Aidan Turner, is literally all I know about him. But that doesn’t keep me from dreaming of what our babies would look like.

I pop up from my stool to get to work on Mr. TDC’s order, but a pair of hands land on my shoulders from behind and push me firmly back down. “Relax, Junie. I’ve got it.”

I whip my head around, staring up into Pete’s knowing eyes. From this distance, I have a clear view of his crow’s feet and the gray whiskers in his stubbled chin. “Yeah, but I—”

“I don’t care if you’re half in love with him—”

I flail my arms around like a person being attacked by a shark, shushing to get him to be quiet. He only lowers his voice marginally.

“You’re staying on that stool. Got it?” Without waiting for an answer, Pete starts making Mr. TDC’s coffee as he gets in line behind a few other people.

I take a sneaky glance down the line of people to where he stands. He’s wearing his typical wool overcoat with a suit coat, white shirt, and tie—wine colored today. His hair looks as if it’s been recently trimmed. He’s talking on his phone, eyebrows knit together in a smoldering glare.

I have no idea what he does, but I can imagine him as some big executive, commanding an entire office building, closing deals with a tilt of his head. The images this conjures in my head are enough to make me fan myself with my hand.

Speaking of hands, I’ve checked his multiple times, and there is no ring in sight. Not even a tan line from a ring. But maybe he has a girlfriend somewhere. A man that good-looking, how could he not? At the least, he’s got to have no less than five women in his office who secretly pine for him.

The closer Mr. TDC gets in the line, the more agitated he looks, which is odd. Don’t get me wrong, he’s no Mr. Sunshine. He’s kind of growly and monosyllabic—hence the reason we’ve exchanged less than five sentences with each other in all this time—but he’s not usually this upset. It’s weird, and I don’t like it. A knot of worry twists in my gut, just behind the dull pain where my appendix used to be.

For half a second, I think about snapping a quick picture for Kiera, but quickly dismiss it. It’s too stalkerish and feels like an invasion of his privacy, especially considering the circumstances. Kiera will have to continue to take my word for it.

“Yes,” Mr. TDC says into his phone. He’s close enough that I can hear his half of the conversation now, and I do my best to make it look like I’m not eavesdropping as I take the man’s card in front of him. “I know. No. I’m not—” He cuts off with a rough sigh. “Fine. Yes, I’ll meet you tonight. Send me the address.” He hangs up without saying goodbye and moves forward in line, his hard gaze dropping to me.

Our eyes lock. Everything I want to say hangs on the tip of my tongue, but he’s holding me with the full force of his smolder, and all possible words in my vocabulary drop out of my brain.

I’m vaguely aware of a drink appearing beside my elbow. Bless Pete. Or Marlee. Whoever it was. I manage to break the staring contest Mr. TDC and I are in and drop my eyes so I can push his drink closer to him. It takes a beat or two, but he finally takes the drink out of my hand. I have to force myself and the stupid butterflies in my stomach to behave when his fingers brush mine.

“You’re back,” he says simply. His voice is deep and soft. So soft, I almost don’t realize he’s talking to me, and he has to say it again, louder this time.

My brain almost short-circuits. Inside, there’s a marching band of sorts waving flags and banners that spell out the words, “He noticed I was gone!”

“That Andrew kid could never remember my order.”

Oh.

Andrew is a college kid who normally works afternoons but took my shift for me while I was in the hospital. Mr. TDC didn’t miss me as much as he missed the convenience of having a barista who remembered him.

But I’m desperate enough that I don’t care.

“Oh, um, yeah, he’s new.” I take his money—he only ever pays in cash—and ring him up, pretending like it’s the most important job I’ll do all day.

After getting his change, I hand it and the receipt to him, but he doesn’t take it right away. There’s a look on his face I can’t quite read, and I swear we share a moment of something until the person behind Mr. TDC clears their throat.

I shake myself and practically shove his change into his hand, forcing a smile. “Have a great day.”

But instead of leaving like every other customer in the universe, Mr. TDC grabs my hand in his. It’s warm and rough and sends a shock all the way up my arm and into my brainstem. What twilight zone world am I living in? Anticipation lifts every hair on my arm as he opens his mouth.

“Thanks. You too. And, um…”

This is it. This is the moment we’ll tell our children and grandchildren about. The moment everything changes. He’s going to ask me out. We’ll—

“You have something in your teeth.”

What?!

I jerk my hand out of his and spin around on my stool, staring into the reflective glass of the pastry cabinet. There, sure enough, is something dark and not small stuck between my two front teeth.

I whirl back around to face Mr. TDC, heat burning up my face, but he’s already gone, along with all of my dignity.