Chapter 16 #2
“I’m trying to read.” He brandishes the book. As he waves it through the air, I catch sight of a red cover that includes the words Modern Physics .
“I’m sorry! I’m having trouble getting a good signal, and I’m in a meeting.”
“And is this meeting more or less important than the discovery that nebulae can act as both source and lens in the gravitational lens effect? Because that is the chapter I am reading.”
“I…”
“Is your meeting going to change the path of scientific discourse?”
I stare at him like a goldfish. “Definitely not. It’s about a project to test out a new time management tool.”
“Time management?” Gramps sounds, for a moment, like this might pique his interest.
“You know, tracking how we spend our time during the workday. Logging the minutes spent on emails, meetings, spreadsheets…”
His face droops down again in disappointment.
“Can you find somewhere else to have your meeting?”
I bite my lip, my heart pounding in uncomfortable frustration. I hate the feeling of a meeting going on without me, the idea that my co-workers might think I’m slacking. It gives me a panicky, fight-or-flight feeling. But I have no choice but to agree with Gramps. This is his home, after all.
“Okay. Sure.”
He nods briskly and returns to his room.
Sweating slightly, I type a quick message into the meeting and update my Slack status. “Internet troubles. brB.”
I hurtle downstairs to the communal library.
It’s a small room with plush chairs and couches, and a couple of bookshelves lined with tattered paperbacks.
I try the Wi-Fi here, but it requires a password.
Come on! I scan the room looking for a sign or poster of some kind with instructions on how to connect, but no.
And of course, there’s no one around to ask.
There was a coffee shop in town. I’ll try there.
By the time I climb out of my Uber in front of the café—quaintly named Paradise Coffee—I’m extremely disgruntled.
My meeting has ended, and I have another one starting in twenty minutes.
No offense to Florida, but my hopes for this coffee shop are not high.
In Seattle, we have a coffee shop on every corner with free Wi-Fi and all the alternative milks you can dream of.
If there’s no internet here, I might have to take an unplanned day of PTO. Kat would not be pleased.
I weave through the sidewalk tables, where clusters of people are enjoying their coffees in the sun, and push the door open.
A bell tinkles to announce my arrival. Inside, the space is small and warm, but there are plenty of tables, about half of them occupied, so there’s a pleasant ambient buzz of chatter.
“How can I help you?” The middle-aged woman behind the counter has smooth, tan skin, an impeccably chic curly bob, and, surprisingly, a French accent.
“Hi,” I say, quickly scanning the menu on the wall. “Oh my God, you have oat milk?”
Her mouth forms a moue in amusement. “Yes. As well as almond and coconut.”
“Can I have an iced oat milk latte, please?”
As I pull out my wallet, I notice a sign on the counter that reads:
Wi-Fi: ParadiseCoffee
Password: joiedevivre
Yes! Now, this is civilized. I love a place that doesn’t make you ask for the password. I’m beaming as the man behind the counter hands me my iced coffee.
“Enjoy,” he says, and I detect a hint of a French accent behind the word.
I’m so happy and relieved—an oat milk latte and free Wi-Fi!—that I find myself making small talk. “Are you two from France?”
“ Oui ,” the woman says, rubbing hand sanitizer into her hands and smiling. She really does have amazing skin, with just a few lines around her dark eyes. “But we ’ave lived here for almost twenty years now.”
“What made you move here? I mean, I would never leave France!”
The man laughs heartily. “Have you looked outside?” He points out the window, where the gulf is visible across the street.
“We came here on holiday with our children, and we never wanted to leave,” the woman adds. “So we didn’t!”
“I mean, I guess it is paradise, right?” I take a sip of my latte. It’s impeccable. “How many children do you have?”
“One daughter,” the woman says. “She moved back to France after she married a Frenchman. And one son.”
“Who will never leave us, no matter how we ask him to,” the man jokes.
“And why would I, when I have the world’s greatest parents?” A guy in his late twenties emerges from the back room, tying a dark-green apron around his waist. He has a deep, fully American voice, and his parents’ dark-brunette coloring. He is also tall, broad, and extremely cute.
“I mean, I get it,” I say, unable to wipe the grin off my face. “I’m Mallory, by the way.”
“Jeanette,” the woman says. “And my husband, Antoine, and our son, Leo.”
“Nice to meet you! I’m so glad I found this place. I really needed this latte. I have some work to do, I hope it’s okay if I…” I point to an empty table by the window.
“Of course,” Jeanette says with a sweep of her hand. “Please, feel free.”
With a grateful wave, I settle in at the table. Within ten seconds, I’m connected and checking in on the messages I’ve missed. I apologize to the people who were in the meeting I dropped, and then notice that I have a new email in my personal inbox.
It’s from Daniel.
Excellent! I’ll discuss logistics with Alan and CC you on everything. Let me know when you’ve made a decision about paint and floors.
Great. I feel a rush of relief that I handled the main hurdle, combined with a tinge of guilt about keeping Daniel waiting about the other stuff. But, I mean, he works for me, right? I shouldn’t feel guilty.
Unexpectedly, another new email flashes up on my screen. It’s from Daniel again, with a new subject: Hope you had a good trip.
The body reads: How’s Seattle?
What? Umm, this is weird. But also possibly flattering? Starting up a new email thread just to ask about my trip? I feel heat in my cheeks as I type a reply.
It’s —I look out the window at the impossibly blue sky— gray and drizzly, as usual. Flight was good, thanks!
And send. I don’t want to misinterpret the vibe and send anything too flirty. And it’s a little awkward to be straight-up lying about my whereabouts like this. But things were so awkward with him the other day, and I told him he wouldn’t have to worry about seeing me in person again.
I give my head a little shake to clear it, and then switch over to my work inbox.
But Daniel writes back immediately.
Drizzly, huh? I could’ve sworn the weather forecast said something about… Paradise.
What the heck? My heart jumps into my throat as I re-read the email twice, my face scrunched in confusion. Paradise? Like Paradise Coffee? Or is it a reference to something I don’t understand?
Before I can start typing back—not that I know what I would even say—he emails again.
Enjoy any oat milk lattes recently?
Okay, what is going on? I crane my neck around to scan the other coffee shop patrons. Sure enough, a redheaded man is sitting in the opposite corner, waving at me over his laptop.
I let out a long, deep, humiliated breath, and then raise one hand in a weak wave.
He strides over to me, beaming in clear amusement.
“Hi,” he says, taking the chair opposite me.
“Have you been here this whole time?”
“ Mais oui. Imagine my surprise when you waltzed in. I thought I must be mistaken, until, well.” He makes a vague up-and-down gesture with his hand, and then his face instantly flames red.
“Until what?” I’m weirdly certain that he was going to say something about recognizing me from behind. My butt? My legs? I mean, they do look amazing in these shorts.
“Until I heard you jonesing for your oat milk latte. I recognized your Seattle voice.”
“My Seattle voice?”
He taps one finger on the table. The back of his hand is freckled. “You talk fast. Real fast.” As he says it, his voice drawls, sounding more Southern than usual.
I grin at him. “I have heard that before.”
“So what happened? I thought you were headed home.” He raises his arms and folds them behind his head, leaning back in his chair.
I have a strong suspicion he is doing this to draw attention to his biceps, which bulge out of the sleeves of his white T-shirt.
Not that I’m looking at them. Not at all. That would be entirely unprofessional.
I flick my gaze upward as though I’m lost in thought.
“Well, the stuff with Pebble Cottage felt unfinished. It felt a bit premature to fly back home. And my grandpa seems…” I trail off.
I was going to say he seems like he needs me, but I don’t even know if that’s true.
He did chase me out of the condo this morning, after all.
But then there was his panic attack. He might not show it, but I know he doesn’t want to be alone.
“I’m helping my grandpa out,” I conclude.
“I see.” Daniel leans forward again, his face more serious. “Is he in poor health?”
“Not exactly, but he recently lost his wife—my grandma.”
“Aw, no, I’m sorry to hear that.” He reaches across the table and gives my arm a gentle squeeze. The gesture doesn’t feel forced or flirtatious, it just feels natural, like it’s just the kind of person he is.
“Thanks.” I pat his hand before he pulls it away, and that—my hand pat—definitely feels awkward. Because that’s just the kind of person I am.
“How long will you be staying?” he asks.
A week, tops , my panicky, rule-abiding brain shouts. But I say, “I’m not sure. I can work remotely, so.” You are illegally working remotely , my brain reminds me. And it’s not going so well, by the way!
“Oh, shoot,” I say, glancing at the time. “Speaking of which, I have a meeting starting in a minute.”
He slaps the table and stands up quickly.
“I’ll let you get to it. We’ll be in touch. Have a good one, Mallory.” And with a little salute-like wave, he heads back to his table, packs up his laptop, and leaves.
I watch him ride away on his bike, and I’m so distracted by the broad muscles in his shoulders and the view of his thighs peeking out from his shorts that I end up being three minutes late to my meeting.
Oops.
Luckily, I remember to turn off my video. I’m not sure how I would explain the blue sky and water visible behind me.
And I’m not sure if it’s the proximity of the beach or the encounter with Daniel, but I find it nearly impossible to focus on work for the rest of the day.