Page 8 of Common Grounds

I tilt my head and arch an eyebrow. “Are you hitting on me?”

He leans a few inches closer to me, his eyes practically glowing. “Not yet.” His voice drops an octave when he says it, and it’s dripping with sinful promise.

My toes curl, and warmth pools low in my belly. He’s right; I did not come here to get hit on, but there’s something about his self-assurance that is wildly attractive. I cross my right leg over my left so I’m angled toward him, then nod at the stool behind him.

He grins, and his eyes crinkle adorably at the corners again. It’s the smile of someone who often finds joy, and it melts a little place in my cynical heart.

He drags the stool closer so he can sit. It’s so close to me, in fact, that his knees brush mine under the counter. He flushes and turns his gaze to his beer. It’s so charming, that pink hue of his cheeks. It strikes me as so incredibly genuine, and for the second time tonight, I want to reach out and run my hand against his jaw. He fidgets with the glass on the counter, twisting it this way and that and looking at it through his long, gorgeous lashes.

Dammit. He is really cute.

He clears his throat, then smiles sheepishly, still not looking at me. “I’m sorry. I don’t… This isn’t something I do often.”

“Have a beer with someone at a bar?” I tease.

He eyes me sidelong. “Well, that too, actually.” He takes a long sip of his drink, and I do the same. He swallows, then rushes to add, “I’m not a recluse or anything. I’m just busy.”

Apparently, his self-assuredness is gone now that I’ve asked him to sit. His nervousness is actually more attractive than his confidence. I squeeze my thighs together under the bar. One glance at his hands where they’re resting on his beer glass has me wondering what they might feel like on me… In me…

Holy shit. Where did that come from?

He raises his gaze to meet mine, clearly hopeful I’ll pick up the conversation. Words. I can do words. It’s basically my job, after all.

“What keeps you so busy?” I ask.

“Work, mostly.”

Oh, boy. Never mind. This is going to be painful. It figures the cute one would be the hardest to talk to. I take another huge gulp of my beer, hoping to hurry this along. “And what do you do for work?”

He looks conflicted for a second, but it’s gone too fast for me to linger on it. “I own a coffee shop,” he says finally.

“You own it? As in, it’s yours?” I sound impressed because I am. I would have definitely guessed based on appearances alone that this guy worked somewhere like a coffee shop, but never in a million years would I have thought he owned one.

He nods, a corner of his mouth tilting up. “My grandfather opened it about seventy years ago, and it has kind of been in the family ever since.”

“That is so cool.” I rest my chin on my hand. “So, it’s a family business, then. How awesome of you to take that over. Was it always something you wanted to do, or were you forced into it?”

“I love the shop. I grew up there, more or less.” He chuckles as he runs a long finger over the rim of his glass. “Coffee is in my veins. My first memory is running my hands through piles of coffee beans. My mom used them to help me learn math. My first job was grinding the coffee for people who wanted to buy it by the pound. I learned about money and making change from working the register. The espresso machine we still use today is the same one my grandfather bought shortly after he opened the shop.” He seems to catch himself being whimsical because he pauses and sips his beer. He avoids my eyes when he says, “But I didn’t take it over until after my father and grandfather passed. It’s a special place.”

“Sounds like it,” I say gently. It’s my job—or, at least, it used to be—to read people. To find the right angle to get a story out of them. Trevor is clearly done talking about this for now. I decide not to ask any further questions about his livelihood, even though I’m beyond intrigued. I haven’t felt that kind of passion for a job—or a place, for that matter—since I was burning the midnight oil at The Gazette, poring over interviews and piecing together facts. A twinge of nostalgia hits me, and I wince slightly.

“So… your friend you came here with?” Trevor ventures, bringing me back to the conversation.

“Violet,” I remind him.

“Right. She’s your sister-in-law?”

I laugh, twisting my beer glass around on the counter in front of me. “Yes. She’s also my childhood best friend. We grew up together, Vi, Cass and me. Cass is my sister,” I add for his benefit. “Vi and I went away to college, and then she spent a few years abroad exploring and working odd jobs and the like. When we came back, Cass was all grown up, and Vi fell hard.”

Trevor’s light brown eyes searching mine. I could get lost in those eyes. They’re crystal clear as they glimmer in the dim lights of the bar. “Was that weird for you?”

“Not as much as you might think. I’m glad they’re happy. I’ve never felt like a third wheel with them or anything. And I’m very excited to be an aunt.” I beam at that. I can’t help it. I’ve never wanted kids of my own, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to spoil this baby rotten when it gets here. I’m going to be the best aunt ever.

“Do you have any other family around?” he asks.

It’s an innocent question, and one I would expect from someone making small talk with a person they just met. I feel my smile fade all the same. “Our parents live nearby. We grew up here, in Baker’s Grove. But they…” I trail off, not sure how much personal information I want to divulge with someone I met only minutes ago. “They don’t agree with some of our life choices,” I say simply.

Trevor nods in a say-no-more fashion, and I’m glad he doesn’t press for more information. I’m also unexpectedly pleased that he doesn’t seem to pity me for my family situation. There’s not much worse than that sympathy from people when they find out my parents essentially estranged their children. I don’t need their pity. I don’t even feel bad about it. I’m not the one that has anything to feel bad about, and neither is Cass.

---