Chapter Seven
Sam
Did that just happen? Sam stood behind the counter, receipt in hand, staring at the door the red-haired giant had just fled through.
Someone gave him their number. An actual, genuine phone number.
“Rux.” It was an unusual name, yet it fit the man somehow – dramatic, bold, and slightly ridiculous – although Sam could be thinking that because he drank six coffees in twenty minutes.
Maya emerged from the back room where she’d been busy, carrying a tray of fresh muffins. “Did that guy just run out of here?”
“Yes.”
“The really tall one? Red hair?”
“Yes.”
“He ordered a lot of drinks.”
Sam looked down at the six empty cups still lined up on the counter. “Six of them.”
“Six drinks and then just...bolted?”
“He gave me his number first.” Sam held up the receipt. The handwriting slanted aggressively across the paper, and the phone number was underlined twice.
Maya’s eyes went wide. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Sam.” She set down the muffin tray. “Sam. Someone gave you their number. A gorgeous someone. Did you see his shoulders? He was huge.”
“I noticed.” It was hard not to notice when the man took up half the café just by existing. Sam’s cheeks warmed at the memory of green eyes watching him make coffee after coffee, that intense stare never wavering.
“Are you going to call him?”
Sam traced the name with his thumb. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? Sam, when was the last time anyone gave you their number?”
Three years ago, at a bookshop in Cheltenham. The guy had seemed interested until Sam mentioned working at a café, then suddenly remembered he had somewhere to be.
“He was really nervous,” Sam said instead. “He kept making weird small talk and even complimented the floor.”
“The floor?”
“The laminate flooring. He said it was good craftsmanship.”
Maya started laughing. “Oh, my god. He sounds like a disaster.”
Sam smiled and nodded. “A disaster who drank enough caffeine to give an elephant palpitations.”
“But a hot disaster.”
That was the problem, wasn’t it? The man was absurdly attractive. Tall, built, and handsome in a way that made Sam’s fingers itch to write him into a story - except no editor would believe someone who looked like that would nervously gulp down six drinks just to talk to a barista.
“What if he’s weird?” Sam folded the receipt carefully. “Like, stalker weird?”
Maya’s expression shifted. “You think he left the gifts?”
Sam considered it - red hair, green eyes, clearly wealthy enough to afford six overpriced lattes without blinking. The timing matched - the gifts started appearing last Monday, and now it was Monday again, and Sam had a phone number in his hand.
“Maybe?”
“That’s either really romantic or really creepy.”
“Exactly.”
“So, are you going to call him?”
Sam slipped the receipt into his apron pocket. His heart did that stupid flutter again, the one he’d trained himself to ignore years ago. Nobody gave him their numbers. Nobody fled coffee shops after intense staring sessions. Nobody in real life acted like characters in his novels.
“I don’t know,” he said again. But he didn’t throw the receipt away.
/~/~/~/~/
“Yes, hello. I know I’m late.” Sam scooped up the cat and headed for the kitchen. “Maya wanted to discuss my love life. Or lack thereof.”
Basil meowed his opinion on that. Sam fed him - wet food, because apparently dry food was an insult to Basil’s sensibilities - and made himself a cheese toastie. He ate standing at the counter, the receipt burning a hole in his pocket.
He pulled it out and stared at the number.
“He was probably just being friendly,” he told Basil, who’d finished his dinner and now sat on the counter watching Sam with unblinking green eyes – much like Rux’s. “Right? New to town, maybe. Looking for friends.”
That made absolute sense. Far more sense than the alternative, which was that a man who looked like that - all six-foot-six of gorgeous, well-dressed, clearly wealthy disaster - would be interested in Sam Brown.
“Too nice and soft to attract romantic interest,” Sam, according to Emma’s well-meaning assessment.
“He probably saw my name tag and thought I looked approachable.” Sam traced the underlined phone number again. “Easy target for friendship. Someone who wouldn’t say no to chatting with a stranger.”
Basil’s tail twitched.
“I’m being logical.” Sam folded the receipt and set it on the counter. “People don’t give out their numbers because they’re romantically interested - not to me - and definitely not people who look like they stepped out of a fantasy novel.”
Red hair tied back… green eyes...that build. The way he’d gripped the counter when Sam handed him the first latte, knuckles white, like he was restraining himself from…from what?
Sam shook his head. “This is why I write fiction. My brain makes up stories where there aren’t any.”
Still, he couldn’t quite dismiss the memory of how Rux had looked at him.
Not past him, not through him, but at him.
Like every word Sam spoke deserved complete attention, even when Sam was explaining the difference between a latte and a cappuccino for what felt like the thousandth time that week. Nobody looked at him like that.
“Maybe he does that with everyone,” Sam reasoned. “Some people are just intense…and a little awkward.”
Basil jumped off the counter with a thump that clearly communicated his skepticism.
Sam retrieved his laptop and settled on the sofa.
He should write. His vampires were still circling their oblivious café worker, debating how to approach him without scaring him off.
The parallel wasn’t lost on Sam - except in his story, destiny existed.
Heart bonds. Fated mates. Magic that made love inevitable.
Real life didn’t work that way. Real life was awkward conversations about weather and flooring, and six coffees consumed in a panic. Phone numbers scribbled on receipts by people who probably just wanted someone to show them around Dinetell.
Sam opened a new document instead of his novel and typed Should I call him? He liked lists – seeing things written down helped him make sense of his thoughts. But when he thought about what to list…his brain couldn’t think of a single reason why he wouldn’t call.
His phone sat on the cushion beside him. The receipt lay on the coffee table where he’d set it, Rux’s name visible from his seat.
“I’ll think about it,” Sam told the empty room as he deleted the document. Grabbing his phone, he very carefully added Rux’s number to his contacts – checking that he’d got the details right twice - just in case.
/~/~/~/~/
A different flavor of handsomeness showed up Tuesday morning - a sophisticated one.
Sam noticed him immediately. It was hard not to when the man walked in looking like he’d stepped off the cover of Financial Times.
Dark suit, precisely tailored. Diamond earrings, catching the light.
He moved with the kind of confidence that came from owning things – plural.
“Black coffee, please.” His voice was smooth, cultured. “Medium.”
“Sure thing.” Sam rang it up. “That’ll be two-fifty.”
The man handed him a fifty-dollar note.
Sam blinked at it. He didn’t see many of them in town. “I’ll get your change…”
“Keep it.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The change. Keep it.” The man smiled, and Sam’s brain stuttered because that smile transformed an already handsome face into something almost unfair.
But then his brain kicked in. “That’s - no. No, I can’t. That’s a forty-seven dollar tip for a two-fifty coffee.”
“Is there a law against generous tipping?”
“There should be when it’s this ridiculous.” Sam focused on getting the till open and counting out the notes. “Here. Forty-seven dollars.”
The man looked at the money like Sam had offered him pocket lint. “I don’t need it.”
“Well, I don’t need a day’s wages for making you coffee.” Sam stretched his arm over the counter, waving the notes in the man’s direction.
They stared at each other. The man’s eyes were dark brown, intense in a way that made Sam’s pulse skip despite his frustration.
“Fine.” The man took the money and tucked it back in his wallet with obvious reluctance. “But the service was excellent.”
“I haven’t even made the coffee yet.”
“I’m sure your cup-filling technique will be exceptional.”
Was he being mocked? Sam couldn’t tell. The man’s expression remained serious, but something in those dark eyes suggested amusement.
Sam made the coffee - regular, normal, definitely not worth forty-seven dollars - and handed it over.
“Thank you...” The man glanced at Sam’s name tag. “Sam.”
“You’re welcome.”
The man left. Sam watched him go, completely bewildered. Is there a hot guy convention in town?
Maya emerged from the back. “Did that guy just try to tip you fifty dollars?”
“Forty-seven. And yes.”
“And you gave it back?”
“That amount of money for a coffee was insane, Maya, and you know it.”
“It was amazing.” She leaned against the counter. “Why do all the gorgeous ones come on your shifts? Where’s my six-foot businessman with money to burn?”
Sam thought about pointing out that refusing ridiculous tips was probably why gorgeous men didn’t flock to him romantically, but Maya had already returned to the kitchen.
The man came back on Wednesday. Same suit, different tie. Same absurd tipping attempt.
“Nope.” Sam pushed the fifty-dollar note back across the counter before the till even opened.
“I haven’t ordered yet.”
“Doesn’t matter. I know where this is going.”
Those dark eyes crinkled at the corners. “Black coffee, medium. And you’re very stubborn.”
“So I’ve been told.” Sam made the coffee, accepted the exact change this time, and tried not to notice the way the man was watching him.
“I’m Mabon, by the way.”
Sam glanced up. “Sam.”
“I know.” Mabon gestured at the name tag with his cup. “See you tomorrow, Sam.”
He did come back on Thursday and Friday.
By Friday, Sam had stopped fighting the tips - Mabon had started leaving them in the jar when Sam wasn’t looking, and chasing him down Ashford Lane twice had been enough embarrassment for one week.
/~/~/~/~/