Excerpt from His Coffee Shop Crush
Jack had been in Rosedale for all of an hour when he decided he’d made a terrible mistake. He never should have listened to Kingston, his agent, when he’d offered his country place for Jack to use until he finished the draft of his book.
He should have stayed in his apartment in New York, with the city noise outside his apartment window constantly present even with noise-canceling headphones, yanking each word out of his soul with a pair of tweezers.
Who cared if his apartment didn’t have air conditioning and the city had been having a mid-July heat wave? Who cared if he hadn’t been able to finish the manuscript that was due August first? New York was familiar, New York was home, or had been since he moved there from Texas for college over a decade ago.
Rosedale, Connecticut, was only two hours away from Manhattan but it could have been two continents away for all Jack found the endless green trees that surrounded Kingston’s cottage unfamiliar and unsettling. Not a single car had passed on the little two-lane road since Jack had arrived in his rented sedan. The silence was unbearable. He wanted to text Kingston that he was heading back to the city, but his agent’s words from their conversation a few days ago were still ringing in his head.
“You can’t miss another deadline, or they’ll cancel your contract and no one is going to pick you up. You can’t disappoint your readers like that. They’re all looking forward to the next Super Rupert book. And you are going to finish your draft by August first if it kills you—or I’ll kill you myself.”
Kingston was many things—a great agent, a bit of a foodie, and way too into paisley—but he did not make idle threats. Jack knew he was right—not only did he owe it to the publisher, to his agent, and to himself, but more than anything he owed it to the kids who’d made the Super Rupert middle grade series a hit. He owed them the next book about the adventures of the thirteen-year-old who thought he had superpowers but only had a really good imagination. He was also gay and had a crush on the most popular boy in his school. The fact that Rupert was gay was incidental to the plot of each story, but the way Jack wrote about Rupert’s crush, as if it was no different from any thirteen-year-old’s crush, had been hailed for its authenticity. The book series had been both lauded for its handling of middle schooler issues and decried by hate groups for sneaking a “gay agenda” into an otherwise universal story.
Jack did think Super Rupert was universal. And even though he’d been creatively blocked as he attempted to write the fourth book in the series, he still believed the books were important. He needed to write.
Kingston had sent him up here to focus and write without distraction. The problem was, Jack needed a little noise to get his creative juices flowing. He looked at his phone. Sighed. He’d never hear the end of it from Kingston if he gave up after one measly hour in the country. Instead, he opened the maps app on his phone and searched coffee shop .
He found the usual smattering of chain places on the road from Rosedale to the next medium-sized city. One place caught his eye, in the cute downtown area—yes, he could admit to finding the narrow strip of downtown Rosedale cute. Hot Brew. Open until 8. Perfect.
He grabbed his laptop bag and drove the seven minutes to town. He parked on a side street, then found Hot Brew—a narrow storefront on the main drag between a barbecue takeout joint and a secondhand clothes store.
Two young women were leaving the place as he walked in and took stock. There were a few cafe tables near the window and a few more lined the wall beside the coffee bar and register.
Promising.
Two were filled with patrons chatting and he spotted one right next to an outlet. The air smelled strongly of coffee and there were a decent number of baked goods for sale, even this late in the day. The music was audible, but not deafening. He took a minute to place the voice on the sound system. Nina Simone. Even more promising.
He walked up to the counter. A young woman with an eyebrow piercing and pancake makeup that made her pale skin even lighter greeted him with a smile.
“What can I get you?”
He scanned the white lettering on the black chalk board behind her. He usually didn’t drink coffee this late in the day, but this seemed like an emergency. If he didn’t get at least a few pages written today, that deadline was going to seem even less attainable. “Americano,” he decided. “And a bear claw. For here.”
Since his thirty second birthday he’d noticed the pastries he loved so much didn’t simply melt off him the way they used to. But again. Emergency.
“Name for the order?”
“Jack.”
He watched the woman as she rang him up, her black shirt and pants could either have been personal style, or a uniform, but the black apron was definitely mandated, because he saw another employee working the espresso machine who was wearing the same thing. Where the girl was small and pale, this guy, his back to Jack, was tall, slim, with skin tanned the same buttery brown as the top of the croissants in the pastry case. His dark hair brushed the collar of his black T-shirt, and his mile-long legs were encased in skinny black jeans. Okay, maybe black was a theme of this place.
Jack waited by the counter instead of setting up his computer, unwilling to give up an extra minute of procrastination. The woman who waited on him deposited the bear claw on a plate at his elbow, and then the guy at the espresso machine turned around, bearing a white mug.
“Jack?”
The guy’s face was a collection of angles that shouldn’t have complimented each other, pointed chin, high cheekbones, squinty eyes, and a short nose. Somehow it all combined to make an appealing, intriguing face. His mouth was pretty, and forming Jack’s name, it was even prettier. His voice was a low drawl that reminded Jack of home. Not New York, but farther back. Sun-baked sidewalks and freshly mown grass and the murmur of good-old-boys sipping beer while sitting on their trucks’ open tailgates.
But this was no good-old-boy. He was a golden-skinned god with mischievous eyes and hair that begged to be played with and pulled. Probably straight. Story of Jack’s life.
The guy’s smile faded as he repeated the name uncertainly. “Jack?”
Jack blinked. “Sorry, lost in thought.” He reached for the cup, realized he couldn’t manage it and the bear claw and his heavy computer bag all at once. The guy seemed to notice his predicament, pulled the Americano out of Jack’s reach and walked around the counter.
Pull yourself together. He saw hot guys six times a day in the city. There was no reason to get all twitterpated over the first guy he saw in small-town Connecticut. Still, as he claimed a table near an outlet and a window, the guy helpfully bringing him a napkin along with his drink, he had to wonder if he was just looking for a distraction, or if the attraction was real. Maybe a bit of both. He hadn’t been this immediately attracted to anyone in a long time. He’d almost forgotten the rush of adrenaline, nerves, and excitement, a tantalizing cocktail that made him more useless than usual at regular-person conversation.
“Thanks,” he finally muttered once the guy stepped back. “My head’s somewhere else today.”
“It’s fine. The Americano should fix you right up.” There was definitely a southern twang in the voice. Jack wondered what he was doing in Yankee country.
He managed a smile. He didn’t know why the golden man was still talking to him, but he’d take the extra distraction. “I’m counting on it.”
“Cool. I’m Pete. Let me know if you need a refill.”
Pete. It had been too long since Jack had been laid if he even thought this guy’s name was sexy.
“You from Texas, Pete?” he asked, letting some of the twang he’d erased years ago seep back in. The man didn’t try to deny it.
“San Antonio,” Pete said. “You?”
“Austin.” He’d actually grown up in a suburb, but close enough. Pete didn’t say anything back, just studied him for a second and Jack had to stop himself from looking down and making sure he was presentable. When he was in work mode, he rarely paid attention to things like what he was wearing. For the drive from the city he’d thrown on shorts and sneakers and a T-shirt that had once been the color of sage but had faded to a muddy gray. Could be worse. Could be better.
“You’re far from home,” Pete said. “Tourist?”
“Nah. Manhattan’s home now. Harlem. Just visiting Rosedale for a few weeks.”
Pete’s polite-conversation-smile grew bigger, into something positively gleeful. If Jack didn’t think he was in trouble before, now he knew it for sure. Pete’s smile was little-kid bright, but his dimples and the way his tanned skin stretched over the bones of his gorgeous face made him look all grown up and sexy as hell.
There was no way this guy was single, even if he was interested. But why else would he still be talking to Jack after delivering his rapidly-cooling coffee?
“What?” Jack said, as Pete continued to smile as if he knew something Jack didn’t.
“Just that you sound like me—and not just the accent. I came here six months ago after six years in Manhattan. I thought it would be a short visit, but I’m still here.”
“Really?” Jack looked out the window onto the main street beyond. The coffee shop was great, but this town was nothing special, from what he could tell. The usual assortment of shops and restaurants. It was less crowded than the city—he hadn’t had any trouble finding a parking spot for his rental car. But he didn’t see what was so captivating about it that would get him to give up city life.
“I guess I needed a change,” Pete said. “But Rosedale’s cool. It’s got a lot going on. The Rosedale Art Center puts on tons of events and classes. Concerts in the park all summer long. And there’s an annual winter festival. Anyway.” Pete stopped talking suddenly, as if he realized he sounded like a spokesman from the tourism board.
Jack smiled at him. “Not sure I’ll be here long enough to take advantage, but thanks. I’m supposed to be working, anyway.”
“What sort of work?” Pete asked, but Jack was saved from having to answer when a group of teenagers came through the doors of Hot Brew, making a beeline for the counter. Pete’s coworker gave him an imploring look and Pete threw Jack an apologetic smile. “Gotta go.”
Jack just nodded. He’d enjoyed his conversation with the beautiful barista, but even he had to admit he was reaching peak procrastination levels. He took a fortifying sip of the Americano, which was still hot enough, and delicious, followed by two bites of the best bear claw he’d had in a while. Okay, so he’d found his happy place while he was in Rosedale, but he still had to get to work. He opened his laptop, used every ounce of his willpower to navigate to his draft document instead of his email and looked at where he’d left Rupert hanging.
He had the bones of the first half down, but he’d been stuck trying to figure out where to take the arc with his main character, Rupert, and Rupert’s crush, Drew, who had been a sometime enemy, sometime ally in the past books in the series.
He was cutting it damn close. He’d already blown through one deadline. The publisher had reached out to the illustrator, who’d agreed to shorten his own window for getting the artwork done, and he’d been given another six weeks. These books weren’t terribly long—about thirty thousand words—so he should be able to get the story done in time.
He stared at his screen, but without the same level of dread he’d had the last dozen times he’d tried to write. He felt the caffeine and sugar surge through his blood, and he glanced up to see Pete at the espresso machine, happily working away on the delicate instruments with what Jack now noticed were oversized hands with elegant fingers. He swallowed, his stomach responding with a not-unpleasant flip to both the stimulants and to Pete.
He’d lost sight of Rupert’s goal in the story, and Rupert had lost sight of Drew. He needed to make both central again and the emotional core of the story, the thing the readers most responded to, would be restored. He smiled a little as he started typing, the words coming faster than they had in weeks. When he looked up again, his mug and plate were empty, and he’d written two chapters and gone back and rewritten a few key scenes in the first half of the book.
His shoulders were stiff and he needed to pee, but he felt amazing. For the first time he thought he was going to be able to finish the book. And it might even be good.
Outside Hot Brew’s window the sky wasn’t exactly dark—the summer days were still long—but the streetlights were lit and the traffic on the sidewalk had shifted from the shops to the restaurants. A little Italian place across the street had a small crowd waiting outside.
He glanced at the counter, but Pete was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he’d gone off shift and Jack hadn’t noticed. He stood, closed his laptop and stuck it back in his bag. He took his dishes to the counter, caught the eye of Pete’s coworker who was wiping down counters.
“Hey, can I leave these?” he asked.
“Sure. Thanks. How was it?” she asked.
“Great. What time do you open?” He wanted to ask what time Pete would next be working, but he knew she wouldn’t tell him.
“Seven.”
“Cool. I’ll be back. I’m Jack by the way,” he said, figuring he should ingratiate himself with more than just Pete if he was going to take up residence in the shop.
“Hi Jack. I’m Meadow. And you already met Pete.” She said the last bit with an amused smile, which Jack thought boded very well, though if he abided by the golden rule of don’t shit where you eat, he should leave Pete alone so he could keep using the coffee shop as his office.
“Nice to meet you, Meadow. And yeah, I met Pete.” He let an answering smile grow on his face. Nothing wrong with keeping his options open.
“He’s just taking out the trash,” Meadow said.
“Okay,” Jack said. “Bathroom?”
Meadow jerked her head to the side. “Down the hall at the end.”
He spent a minute smoothing down his hair, which was kind of a hopeless task. He had perpetual bedhead unless he used a lot of product.
When he came out of the bathroom, Pete was back, talking in low tones with Meadow. The rest of the store was empty. He thought he heard Pete say with fond exasperation, “Mind your business,” but they stopped talking when Jack appeared in the main room.
“Hey, taking off?” Pete said.
“Yeah.” Jack blinked. Pete had removed his apron and was leaning against the counter, a mile-long feast of legs and arms and skin and hair. It was all so tempting Jack knew if he ever had the chance, he wouldn’t know where to start. He cleared his throat. He needed to get it together—he needed this coffee shop. “But I’ll be back. Got more work done than I thought.”
“Must be the view,” Meadow said, and Pete cut her a sharp look.
“Or the coffee,” Pete suggested.
“Yeah, the coffee was great. Thanks. Well.” Jack shifted his bag. He didn’t exactly have anywhere to be, but he couldn’t stay here all night pseudo-flirting with Pete while Meadow refereed. “See you later.”
“See ya, Jack,” Pete said. And that was that.
Jack walked out of Hot Brew, the humidity of the summer's day backing off now that the sun had gone down. He realized he was hungry. A bear claw wasn’t dinner, and he had some vague ideas of grocery shopping earlier but had forgotten. Tomorrow, he decided, when he paused in front of the Italian place. A mouthwatering smell came from inside, and suddenly the only thing he could think of was garlicky pasta and tomatoes. He glanced back at the coffee shop, wondering if Pete had dinner plans, but he could only see Meadow inside, wiping down tables.
He suddenly had a wave of homesickness, which was extraordinary. He was thirty-two. He didn’t get homesick. And he couldn’t put his finger on what exactly he was homesick for. Not New York —he’d be back there soon enough. He glanced back and forth from Hot Brew to the restaurant—Nina’s, the sign said. He finally shook himself out of it. He couldn’t be homesick for a person that he’d just met—that was ridiculous. He was maybe a little lonely, that’s all. Kingston had promised to come up and visit him if he was making progress on the book. Otherwise, Jack had been keeping his head down and not socializing. That’s all it was.
The fierce longing to spend more time with the cute barista was nothing more than his overwrought emotions at getting something done on the book. He only felt a tiny bit sorry for himself when he went inside and asked for a table for one.