CHAPTER TWO #2
“Why are you chatting if you don’t know who he is?
” says the other barista. Her smile pinches deep dimples into both of her amber-brown cheeks, and she has a wide diastema between her two front teeth.
A floral bandana holds back a voluminous crown of black ringlets.
She’s younger, maybe early twenties. Her name tag reads “CHERRY” with a little hand-drawn pair of cherries next to it, both shaped like hearts.
Fair question. “It’s just … I’ve seen him several times since I arrived. I’m here on vacation. Er, holiday.”
Quinn and Cherry glance at each other.
I clear my throat. “And I thought it was kind of a strange coincidence, that’s all.”
The baristas exchange a look that says oh dear, or she can’t be serious, or poor thing—I can’t tell which. I manage to swallow my automatic defensive response and decide to go with plain candor instead. I lean over the counter and drop my voice low.
“Look. I’m meant to be here with my best friend, but she abandoned me in favor of a geriatric cat with the personality of a box of knives.
The apartment she booked is non-refundable, and I’m stuck here for the rest of the month.
I’m a broke journalist, so I can’t just haul off to somewhere else if I am, in fact, being stalked by that man.
I’ve been in London for less than twenty-four hours and I’ve already run into him multiple times, so I was really just hoping for some goddamned feminine solidarity.
If you could please tell me if you know anything about him, I’d be—” I’m out of breath.
It turns out, it’s really hard to whisper a tirade. “Fucking chuffed.”
For a few awkward beats, the baristas are silent. They blink back at me like two life-sized versions of those dolls with the winky eyelids.
Eventually, Quinn says, “I’m nonbinary.”
“Huh?”
“You said feminine solidarity.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
The baristas glance at each other again.
Cherry nods. “Right, then,” she says to Quinn.
Quinn turns their attention back to me and echoes, “Right.”
“His name is Jake Frost,” Cherry whispers, leaning towards me. The hesitation of moments ago is replaced by a conspiratorial glimmer in her bright eyes.
Fascinating. That is his real name.
Quinn leans in too, pink-cheeked and quiet. “He’s here almost every day, so he must live or work nearby.”
“Sometimes he brings a laptop and works for a bit.”
“He always pays cash and tips a lot, like you Yanks do.”
The rest comes at me in a rapid back-and-forth exchange.
I’m a professional information-gatherer, but it’s difficult to keep up, even for me.
I learn that Jake Frost never leaves a single crumb on his table, he picks up after others who leave rubbish on theirs, and he always pushes his chair in before he leaves.
Sometimes he wears a business suit, sometimes he’s casual, and it was a near-religious experience for Cherry the first time she saw his ass in a pair of grey joggers.
Once, when he took out his earbud to speak to Quinn, they could hear that he was listening to an audiobook narrated by Jane Goodall.
In short? If someone asked me to list the fundamental qualities I’d find appealing in a man, everything Quinn and Cherry just mentioned would be near the top of that list. Jake Frost is a walking green flag.
“That’s it.” Cherry raises her hands. “That’s all we’ve got.”
Quietly, I say, “Thank you.”
“Do you want a coffee, then?” Quinn says. “Tea?”
I order an extra-hot cortado and ask for it to take away. Quinn obliges, but I get the stink-eye for not having a reusable cup. I’ll add that to my shopping list of necessities.
Jake doesn’t try to hide that he’s watching me as I walk to the door. As I reach for the handle, he says, “Did you get the information you were hoping for?”
Lightly, I say, “Listening in on my conversation again?”
“No. I just assumed I was the topic, since the three of you turned in unison to look at me. Twice.”
“Curious about you, that’s all.”
“Ah. I’m curious, too—how was your journey on the Tube?” He’s baiting me.
Nightmarish, thank you for asking.
“Sit. Please,” he says. “You look tired.”
“That’s exactly what women love to hear from strange men.” I’m aiming for sarcasm, but it slips out a touch flirtatious. Logically, I should walk out of here and go unpack my bags. But I can’t resist. I’ve been successfully baited and hooked. I sit in the chair across from him at the little table.
“Am I the strange one here?” His tone is annoyingly light, and his lip tugs sideways again.
“Not an improvement.”
He laughs, and the sound does more to warm my insides than the cortado. “A few minutes ago, you said yourself that you were tired.”
“It’s different when someone says it about themselves.
And the Tube was perfect, actually. There was ample seating, nobody smelled of body odor or bad breath, and everyone was kind and accommodating about my luggage.
I experienced exactly zero elbows in my ribs, boobs, or face. Ten out of ten, would recommend.”
He makes a quiet little tsk noise with his teeth and his tongue. His brows pull together in an expression of faux-sincere concern. “That bad, hm?”
There’s something disarming about a person who immediately matches your humor.
He’s playing along, riffing with me. I don’t have many people in my life who really get me when I’m completely unfiltered.
I even rein in my snark with Maddie most of the time.
She’s so wide-eyed and earnest about everything, whenever I let a deadpan comment or sarcastic observation slip, she thinks there’s something wrong and it’s entirely her responsibility to make it better.
And most of the things that actually bother me are completely unsolvable. So why bother her with it?
“It was rush hour, wasn’t it?” he says.
It was, but I sidestep. “You could have insisted I consider the black cabs.”
A few curls of steam rise in slow motion from his mug. “You don’t strike me as the sort to respond well to insistence.”
“You finally got something right,’ I tease. “I’m from New York City. Usually, we leave the taxis for the tourists.”
“You are a tourist, lo—” He catches himself before he can call me “love” again.
I’ve got to give him credit for trying. I sigh. “My name is Evie.”
He hesitates, then he smiles. It’s almost … apologetic? “I know. I saw it on your luggage tag yesterday.”
For a moment, I’m actually speechless. He makes me feel like I brought checkers to a chess match. I should want to walk away, but the only thing I find hotter than a set of wide shoulders and good hair is kind eyes and a quick wit. Jake Frost has all four.
“I live here, by the way,” he says.
“Here here?”
“Indeed. I have a cot in the back. I work for free coffee, and they let me have the leftover pastries at the end of the night.”
“I meant here in Covent Garden.”
“I know what you meant,” he says. “I chose to respond with a joke, you see. To lighten the mood.”
I respond with a soft grumble in the back of my throat.
“We’re practically neighbors,” he says. “Where do you think we’ll run into each other next?”
My insides feel wobbly and hot. I am wildly attracted to this man, but what I really want—what I need—out of life right now is to forget men exist at all.
I didn’t come here to make a new long-distance friend, and I didn’t come here to have a fling.
I especially didn’t come here to fall in love.
I came here to make damned sure I’ve fallen entirely out of it.
I stand and push my chair in. “I didn’t come here to date anyone.”
Without missing a beat, he says, “I wasn’t asking.”
Ouch. His tone is pleasantly neutral, but the words themselves land on my tender ego with the impact of an uppercut. I’m yanked back to reality like one of those fuzzy cat toys on the end of a string.
“Ah, that fabled British charm.” I head to the door. The tiny bell overhead chimes when I swing it open, letting in a gust of crisp winter air that smells like wet cobblestones, buttery popcorn, and fried cinnamon churros.
As it closes behind me, I hear him say, “See you later, Evie,” and something tells me he’s right. Considering how attracted to him I am, it could prove to be a problem.