6. Reading Glasses
READING GLASSES
“How are you this morning, honey?” Miss Abbot—two pumps hazelnut, one pump vanilla—asks as I set her expertly made chocolate chip muffin beside her mug.
She’s wearing a gorgeous yellow sweater that makes the warm highlights in her hair pop beautifully.
I tell her as much instead of answering the question, basking in the way it makes her smile.
Mr. Lawrence—black tea, blueberry bagel—is chatting with Annabelle by the counter, while Owen rings up his wife—small mocha, butter croissant. He looks handsome today, like every morning, a white half-apron tied around his waist, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off that glorious ink.
Elodie, who owns the hair salon across the street, can’t take her eyes off him from where she’s perched at a small table in the corner.
In front of her sits the iced coffee she always orders and never drinks.
She’ll stay for thirty minutes, just watching him, cooing when he says something sweet to Annabelle and ruffles her hair.
Then she’ll grow tired of him not returning her longing glances and make a whole show of heading off to work.
See you later, sugar, she’ll drawl, giving those lashes one last dramatic flutter.
Bye, El, he’ll mumble back without making eye contact, hand raised a little in the air as she saunters out.
I’ve built an entire backstory for them in my head.
Childhood sweethearts, lost touch when she went to beauty school in the big city, came back to find his heart had already moved on.
She settled with someone else, only for Owen to become single again shortly after.
You shouldn’t have gotten too big for this town, sweetheart. You missed your chance.
A throat clears, and I turn to find Mrs. Patterson holding up her empty mug. I hustle over, coffee pot in hand, to refill it and clear her plate, the scattered everything seasoning the only evidence left of her bagel with a double order of cream cheese.
“You’re settling in okay?” she asks, helping me brush away the crumbs. “I hope Owen is being a good host.”
“The best,” I respond. “The perfect gentleman.”
And it’s the truth. I’ve only been in town two weeks, yet the three of us—Owen, Annabelle, and I—have fallen into quite the cohabiting routine.
He’s always up before the crack of dawn, quietly slipping out of the apartment and down to the cafe to start the morning baking and chores.
I never hear him leave; instead, I’m woken a few hours later by the soft pattering of feet as Annabelle sneaks into my room and launches herself onto the bed.
I feel terrible that Owen is still sleeping on the couch, but every night when I offer to switch, he reassures me he doesn’t mind. I’m enjoying curling up in the scent that lingers on his sheets way too much to insist otherwise.
Once we’re up and dressed, Annabelle and I join him downstairs in time for me to help with the morning rush and for Annabelle to resume her important job of hostess—one she takes very seriously, might I add.
After the cafe closes at two, we take Annabelle on our adventure of the day.
Sometimes it’s as simple as a playground visit, other times we run errands.
Two days ago, we drove a few towns over and went on a bear hunt through the woods along the river.
I’m still not sure who had more fun between the two of us, but Owen was definitely the most tired by the time we got back.
Which meant I got to mock him all night for being such an old man when he kept drifting off on the sofa, and he returned the favor by calling me a brat. I had to excuse myself after, so he didn’t see the way that one word sent every drop of blood in my body rushing south.
“I’d expect nothing less,” Mrs. Patterson says, snapping me back to my task. “That man has a good head on his shoulders.”
I completely agree.
As if on cue, a chair to my right squeaks. “See you later, sugar.”
“Bye, El.”
Mrs. Patterson chuckles and flashes me a devilish grin. Our thoughts are clearly aligned there. I excuse myself with a wink and head back behind the counter to start another pot of coffee brewing, then busy myself cleaning the tables that have begun to clear out.
The morning continues, the same as every morning so far, in a constant flurry of motion until about nine-thirty, when the last stragglers head out on their way to work.
It’ll be slow until the lunch crowd shows up after eleven, but that means it’s time to focus on other tasks.
There are things to clean, pastries to bake, and Annabelle to entertain now her adoring patrons have dispersed.
Honestly, I don’t know how Owen was managing all of it alone before I came along. Humble, I know.
The lull in traffic also brings my favorite part of every morning: the few minutes when Owen takes inventory of the cafe supplies and orders whatever we’re low on.
He offered to teach me how to do it on my third day here.
I politely declined because—crucially—for Owen to see the notes he scribbles in his little notebook, he has to put on his reading glasses.
Lord. I thought this man was handsome before. I was mistaken. The way he slides those frames up his strong nose with his index finger unlocks a whole treasure chest of fantasies in my spank bank. He always finishes the task entirely too soon.
“You should ask her out,” I muse as he closes out his vendor’s site and spins on the stool he’s perched on. With the way his legs fall open, it would take zero effort to step between them and lean against him.
He lifts a puzzled brow. “Ask who out?”
“El.” I mimic the little wave he gives her every morning when she leaves, and the soft, reluctant way he says her name. It earns me a laugh.
“Yeah, no.”
I stare him down until he’s forced to elaborate.
“We dated for a few months, senior year of high school. But she… She left for college, and that was that.”
Fucking called it. What’d I tell you?
“She obviously came back.” I point out, fishing for the rest of the story to confirm my suspicions.
Something I can’t read flickers across his face. “We aren’t a good match.”
“Okay, well, if not her, someone else surely.”
I haven’t been in town long, but it’s pretty clear Owen is popular with the ladies.
Elodie isn’t the only one whose head swivels when he walks by.
And yet, I’ve never once seen him return a single interested glance.
There has to be someone he wants. Whoever she is, she’s a moron if she turns him down.
Fuck, if she doesn’t want him, I’ll happily take her spot.
“I don’t date.”
“If it’s because of—” I jerk my head toward Annabelle, careful not to say her name in case she’s eavesdropping and thinks she’s a burden, “—I’d be happy to babysit if you wanted to take someone out. You wouldn’t have to pay me or anything. I’d do it for free.”
I don’t know why I’m pushing, especially when the idea of watching Annabelle so Owen can wine and dine someone significantly luckier than me makes me feel kind of stabby.
“No, it’s nothing like that.”
“Why not? You’ve got plenty of interest.”
“Drop it, Fin.”
His words come out sharper than I’ve ever heard, and it snaps my jaw shut, my heart plummeting straight to the floor. I open my mouth to apologize for overstepping, but he’s already on his feet, heading into the kitchen. The door slams behind him in a clear leave me alone.
I freeze. My lungs are suddenly having a hard time pulling in air, and tears sting the corners of my eyes.
I don’t know why I’m like this. Why once a thought blooms in my head, it roots itself and refuses to let go. My mother’s always said I’m terrible at reading social cues, that it’s exhausting for people to deal with me. That’s why I’ve never been great at keeping friends.
I’d only wanted to understand Owen better. To let him know if he ever needed a night off from his uncle-dad hybrid role, I’d gladly step in. Clearly, I’d crossed a line. I replay the conversation in my head, trying to pinpoint the exact moment it went wrong, but there’s no obvious catalyst.
Some people don’t want to talk about their lives, Finley. You’ve already disrupted his enough.
He probably won’t want me sticking around after this. Not that he’d say. I know him well enough now to know he’d let me hang around out of obligation, even if my presence felt suffocating.
I try to mentally calculate whether I have enough money saved for a bus ticket somewhere—anywhere—else. Owen’s been compensating me mostly in food and a place to stay, but he also pays a few dollars an hour on top of that. Sometimes I even get tips. Still, it’s not much.
Even if I had the money, I don’t know where I’d go next.
Two weeks ago, not having a plan felt freeing.
Now it claws up my chest and forms a lump in my throat I can’t swallow down.
I shouldn’t have let myself get so comfortable so fast. Shouldn’t have let myself feel secure here, intruding on their little life.
I latch on to anything good and drain it dry.
I ruin everything I touch.
“Hey, hey,” a voice soothes. A strong hand cups the base of my neck and pulls me straight into a firm, warm chest. “I’m not mad, Finley. I shouldn’t have raised my voice.”
I struggle half-heartedly, not wanting space but feeling like I should. Owen doesn’t let me go. He stays solid, thumb working slow circles into the tense muscle of my shoulder, grounding me until my breathing evens out and my heart stops trying to punch its way out of my ribs.
It’s only when the panic drains I realize how hard I’ve been crying. Not cute little sniffles either; full-body, ugly sobs that have soaked blotches into his shirt. Heat floods my face, and I push back. This time, he lets me.
“I didn’t mean—” I begin, but he shushes me gently and wipes the last of my tears from my cheeks with a thick finger.
“It’s okay.” His voice is steady and certain, leaving no room for doubt. “I don’t know why I reacted like that. You didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t mean to upset you. Can you forgive me?”
I don’t bother arguing, I’m the one who needs forgiveness.
My silence seems to satisfy him anyway, judging by the pleased rumble vibrating through his chest. Stepping back, he drops his hand from my neck. I instantly mourn the loss of his touch.
“Good.”
I expect that to be the end of it, that we’ll fall back into our usual rhythm now the awkwardness has evaporated. Instead, he keeps going.
“It takes a lot for me to be interested in someone. I don’t enjoy casual, and I don’t have the time to nurture anything long-term the way my partner deserves.
” The honesty in his expression is so earnest it knocks the wind right out of me.
“I’m happy with my life and what I have.
The cafe keeps me busy, and helping my sister with Annabelle gives me purpose. ”
“And what about your roommate?” I joke. “I hear he’s pretty special, too.”
His eyes soften in a way I’ve only seen when he looks at his niece—this time, that look is aimed squarely at me. I’m probably imagining it, but I swear his gaze flicks to my mouth before darting back up, a slow flush spreading across his cheekbones.
“Yeah.” His voice is rougher and lower than the moment warrants. “He’s pretty amazing, too.”
He swallows hard, and I get distracted by the way his Adam’s apple bobs under the warm tan of his throat. We’re still standing way too close for this to qualify as casual coworker conversation—scratch that, professional boss-employee conversation—but I can’t make myself step back.
Something is hanging between us, something charged and delicate and impossible to ignore. I want to lean into it. Explore it. Devour it. It stretches out, teasing and far too tempting.
Before I can make sense of it, the bell over the cafe door chimes, and the moment shatters like glass. Owen jumps back. I turn and pretend I have very important tasks to handle. Annabelle greets the customer.
And the world keeps spinning as if whatever that was never happened at all.