2. Nose to Nose With a Chevy Silverado #2
Inside, the Half-Hitch is as homegrown as it is on the outside. None of the chairs match, and the wooden floor looks like it could use a new finish. But dang, if it isn’t cute. It’s bustling midday and, though I don’t drink coffee, the smell always makes me salivate.
I take a big inhale. Beans, sugary pastries, and . . . is that fish? Do I smell fish? And not like someone cooked fish, but like someone used raw fish as cologne.
I guess this is a fishing town.
Over the barista is a menu, but there’s also a peculiar board with a list of names, titled “Buy Your Friend a Coffee.” I stare for a few seconds, trying to understand.
Before I do, I’m distracted by a boom of loud laughter from a table in the corner.
There are four guys piled around it, dwarfing the table to an impossible degree, like it’s dollhouse furniture.
The first man who catches my eye is young and scruffy. His hair is cropped short like he’s in the military. There’s something attractive about him, despite his rough and tumble appearance.
Next to him is the oldest fisherman at the table, as evidenced by his dusty chestnut beard reaching the center of his wide chest. He leans back in his chair, glum as he grumbles about something.
There’s one with his back to me. I get flashes of his face. His skin is of a deeper complexion than the others. I bet he has some native Alaskan heritage.
Finally, I turn my attention to the fourth man at the table, who sits opposite me.
I didn’t notice him at first because of his dark cap.
However, when he takes it off and runs his hand through his thick, dark hair, he has my full attention.
His full beard looks well taken care of by the shape and length.
I hate when a man’s mouth gets lost in a beard that’s too bushy and feral.
This one is just right. It highlights a pair of strong cheekbones and frames his bright smile.
The man tilts his head from side to side, stretching out his neck muscles. Then he pauses and smiles at me.
My stomach drops as our eyes meet. His are luscious brown. My heart launches into a gallop.
Fuck, he’s hot.
There’s something in those eyes that’s both handsome and haunting. I’ve seen it in sailors before. There's a certain sparkle from those who love the sea more than anything on land. Men who know the sea hold stories in their eyes, and I’m always curious to know more.
I look away. I can’t handle the strength of his stare, that tug inside me wanting to know more. I didn’t come here to meet a hot guy in a coffee shop I came here to work, keep my head down, and do what I need to do.
“You ready?”
I flip around to face the barista. He’s tall, lanky, and can’t be over sixteen. “Hey, sorry about that.”
“What can I get for you?” he asks.
“Could I get a chai tea latte with oat milk?” I drop the “extra hot,” keeping it simple this time.
The kid purses his lips before looking over his shoulder at . . . well, there’s no one there, just coffee equipment. “Uh, we don’t have oat milk.”
“Oh! Oh, duh.” Why did I say duh? That was rude. “Do you have any dairy alternatives?”
He looks again. “Almond, I think.”
“Okay! Well, that’s fine. We’ll do almond.” I ignore all the water it takes to grow almonds and how the toxic fertilizers are hazardous to bees. When I think of the bees, my heart hurts. “Chai tea latte with?—”
“We don’t have chai,” he says blandly.
What am I even doing here if they don’t have chai? “Ohhhkay. Do you have . . . tea? Any kind of tea?”
The little asshole smirks at me. I know he’s just a kid, but he doesn’t need to smirk at me. “I think we have English breakfast.”
He thinks? “That’s fine. I’ll do that.”
“Cool.”
I find a table and sit down with my laptop, hoping I can forget any of that happened. A couple minutes later, a woman comes up beside the table, cup in hand.
“Did you get the tea?” she asks in a sweet-as-honey voice.
“Oh, yeah, that’s mine. I could have gotten myself you didn’t have to?—”
“Do you want milk or sugar?” she plows ahead, batting her big eyelashes at me.
“No, this is great.”
The woman places the tea on the table, and to my surprise, she doesn’t walk away. Oh no, she sits down across from me. “I’m sorry about Josh. He does his best, but he’s just a kid. You know how it is.”
“That’s okay. I should have looked at the menu before I ordered,” I say sheepishly.
She holds out her hand toward me. “I’m Gwen. I own this place.”
I take her hand and shake. Sizing up her features, I realize she’s not very old.
In fact, I don’t think she’s much older than me.
But there’s a bit more texture to her skin and a few silver strands in her swoop of bangs.
“I’m Lillian.” I’m going to keep the “doctor” thing to a minimum.
No reason to rub it in people’s faces. “Your place is very cute.”
“Oh, thanks. A work in progress. Although, it’s been that for the past decade.” Gwen sighs. “You’re here for Fishtival?”
I think I’ve misheard. “I’m sorry?”