Chapter 8 Shaun
Shaun
It’s a steady morning, not too quiet, not too busy. Perfect for Freddie to learn the ropes. He picks up the till fast enough and even starts plating up the cakes for me when the orders stack up, something I didn’t even ask him to do.
I quickly realise my prediction was correct: Freddie is great with customers.
Barring the first lady who came in, pretty much everyone has left with a smile on their face, regardless of how moody they were when they walked through the door.
Even the grouchy regulars, whom I normally dread serving, are won over by Freddie’s charms. One woman who once complained to me her cappuccino had too many chocolate sprinkles on it—I mean, come on—actually blushes when Freddie compliments her cardigan.
I guess I’m not the only one who thinks he’s good looking. Objectively speaking.
Where Freddie falls short is his overwhelming lack of coffee knowledge. He gets the basics soon enough but, any time a customer orders something even slightly off-kilter, his face glazes over, and he looks to me to save him.
“Some of these drinks don’t sound real,” he says after watching me make a frappuccino for someone weird enough to order one in November.
When a man asks for a skinny matcha, Freddie takes some convincing that the bright green concoction is something a human being would voluntarily drink.
“What does it taste like?” he asks, wrinkling his nose.
I make him a taster cup using the leftover milk. He sniffs it suspiciously before taking a sip.
“Bleugh!” He swallows, winces, and hands the mug back to me like it’s a ticking time-bomb. “It tastes like grass.”
As much as I hate shitting on centuries of Japanese tea culture, he’s right. It really does taste like grass.
“So, what’s your favourite kind of coffee?” I probe during the pre-lunch lull.
Freddie is tidying up the cake fridge, a triangle of flapjack clamped between his tongs.
“I’m more of a hot chocolate kinda guy,” he says, stacking the flapjack. “Nothing beats a hot choccie by the fire in winter.”
A vivid picture materialises in my head: Freddie wrapped up in blankets, sipping cocoa by the fireside. Shirtless, for some reason.
Nope. I blink away the fantasy.
“You might like a mocha then,” I reply, unsure how much time has passed.
“A mocha?” Freddie chews his lower lip. “That’s—wait, don’t tell me!”
I keep schtum, watching him connect the dots in his head.
“Steamed milk… chocolate and… expresso!”
“Very good, but it’s es-presso,” I correct him. “If you want to remember it, just think of the Sabrina Carpenter song. But yes, that’s a mocha. Want me to teach you how to make one?”
“Sure!” He balances the final piece of flapjack on the pile and shuts the cake fridge. “So, you like Sabrina Carpenter?”
“Sure,” I say. “Why?”
Freddie avoids my eye, but a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “No reason. So! I’m finally gonna get a go on this beast, eh?” he gestures towards the coffee machine.
“If you think you can handle it?” I tease, knowing full well he’s not lacking in confidence.
“Pfft,” Freddie scoffs. “No problem. Let’s get steamy.”
I’m quickly learning Freddie is just like this.
Flirty, that is. Or maybe this isn’t flirting?
Perhaps this is just how young people talk these days.
Even thinking that makes me feel ancient, but anyone under thirty seems young when you’re on the wrong side of it.
The point is, there’s a more than decent chance I’m misinterpreting his vibe.
I don’t even know for sure he’s into guys!
It’s so hard to tell these days. Some of the things I witnessed in the rugby locker room back in the day were bordering on pornographic, and those guys all had girlfriends.
Although, I guess, who’s to say they were all straight?
Not that it matters, because I’m definitely not interested.
As I teach Freddie how to make his first mocha, my stomach twists.
It’s a feeling I’m used to—the seeds of overwhelm taking root deep inside me and spreading.
Normally it feels bad, like every organ in my body has its own panicked heartbeat, but there’s something different this time.
It’s more like the fluttering of a thousand butterflies trapped in my belly.
“So, Shaun,” Freddie clunks the portafilter into the coffee machine and pushes the button for a double shot, “are you new in town?”
The machine whirrs and golden espresso begins to trickle into the mug.
“I grew up here,” I explain while Freddie pours a jug of fresh milk. “But I moved to Glasgow for uni and ended up staying. I only came back to set up this place.”
“All by yourself?” Freddie asks casually as he spoons hot chocolate powder into the coffee. “No… partner?”
My toes curl in my shoes.
“Just me,” I say, trying not to sound like the saddest man in West Marbank. “And my cat,” I add for effect.
“You have a cat!” Freddie exclaims as he steams the milk to within an inch of its life. “Awesome. What’s it called?”
“Jester,” I say, wincing as the milk wand starts to scream. Thankfully, Freddie removes it and, ignoring the slow pour method I showed him, proceeds to dollop the frothy milk on top of the espresso like an upturned cement mixer.
“So no partner, eh? That’s a surprise.”
“How come?” I ask.
Freddie shoots me a coy glance. “I mean, have you seen you? You’re a total hunk.”
I’m blindsided by the compliment. I try to swallow, but my mouth has gone dry. Freddie plonks his attempt at a mocha in front of me.
“Ta-daa!”
It’s not terrible, but I can tell just by looking that the milk is burnt.
As I take the mug, our hands brush and I gasp.
Freddie’s touch sends a bolt of heat ricocheting through my veins.
It’s so intense I almost drop the mug. His fingers linger on mine for a split-second and we lock eyes.
For a moment, I’m hypnotised by those beautiful blues.
Why isn’t he taking his hand away? More to the point, why aren’t I?
To my alarm, I feel a stirring in my crotch and I leap back from him, almost spilling the mocha.
“Ahem, sorry,” I stammer, not sure what I’m apologising for. “Let’s give this a try.”
As I bring it to my lips, Freddie leans against the counter, crossing one leg over the other, the tight black denim showing off the lithe curve of his thighs.
The collar of his shirt flutters loosely, exposing a curved, graceful collarbone and the smooth skin of his chest. Up close, I see his tattoo is a delicate string of musical notes.
His long neck is speckled with blonde stubble that grows denser around his jawline, accentuating the diamond-cut shape of it.
A strand of blonde hair tickles his nose, and he brushes it behind his ear where it floats around an assortment of silver piercings.
He grins, nibbling on his lower lip. He’s looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to try his mocha.
I take a sip.
“What do you think?” Freddie asks.
“Yum,” I reply, though the taste has barely registered. “Room for improvement, but a good first attempt.”
Freddie flashes me that dazzling smile.
“I aim to please.”
He winks at me and my heart skips a beat. So much for ignoring whatever this is. It’s like trying to ignore a fire alarm.
As the café gets busy again, all I can think of is Freddie’s compliment.
Have you seen you? You’re a total hunk! I didn’t imagine that, did I?
Freddie, the Adonis that he is, thinks I’m a hunk?
Me? Gosh… I haven’t been called anything like that in a long time.
I just assumed my glory days were behind me, hence why Lara was quick to move on to someone better.
Though I’m ashamed to admit it, and those kinds of comments definitely aren’t apt for the workplace, it felt good. Really good.
The butterflies in my stomach multiply.
As lunchtime approaches, I find myself stealing fewer glances at Freddie and more at the clock. The cardinal sin of working in hospitality: nothing makes time go slower than watching the seconds crawl by, but I’m so ready for my bed I can’t help it.
Customers trickle in steadily and Freddie has a couple more goes on the coffee machine, but his creations are hit and miss. Mainly misses.
“It takes practice,” I reassure him, stifling a yawn as he re-makes a cappuccino for the third time.
“You’re telling me!” His brow knits with concentration as he tries to get the milk right.
The door jingles and I look around to see a familiar face.
Anna, my only surviving original staff member, bustles her way inside, brushing snow from her blonde bob. Relief floods through me. Her arrival means it’s home time.
“Hi!” Anna removes her coat, folding it over one arm as she approaches the counter. “Gosh, you look terrible!”
I give her a weak smile as my ego comes crashing back down. “Thanks.”
Anna’s gaze flicks behind me. “Who’s this?”
“Oh,” I gesture towards Freddie, “this is—”
“Shit!” Freddie yanks his hand away from the jet of steam billowing out of the milk wand. He fumbles with the knob on the side of the machine and the steam fizzles to a stop. With a grimace, he turns to us. “Sorry, hot!”
“This is Freddie, our new barista,” I say, brushing over the outburst.
“I’m Anna,” she holds out her hand and Freddie leans over to shake it, wincing as he does. I see a red mark already forming on his thumb. “You should run that under some cold water,” Anna suggests.
Freddie nods, side-stepping to the sink and sticking the burn under the cold tap. “Twisted it the wrong way,” he explains, sheepishly.
“Happens to the best of us.” Anna waggles her hand, showing off an array of silvery burn scars. “I should know!”