Page 2 of I Saw Her First

My only goal was to make him smile.

It took far longer than I could have imagined. For the first month, he wouldn’t even make eye contact, which made things tricky. Then one morning I tried something new: I created my first piece of latte art. It wasn’t much—only a cresting ocean wave swirled into the milk of his coffee, but it made him pause when I set his cup down in front of him. Finally,finally, instead of muttering a simplethanks, he glanced up.

Is it too ridiculous to say that the minute his ocean-blue eyes met mine, I fell in love a little?

Probably, so I’ll keep that tidbit to myself.

Anyway, he didn’t smile, more like gave me a searching look before mumbling his usualthanks, but it felt like progress, and I accepted the challenge. I took every opportunity to practice my latte art, and I’ve developed quite the talent for it, if I may say so myself.

It was the morning I handed him a sunrise, with caramel syrup rays of sunlight—a gamble because he’s never asked for syrup in his coffee before—that his gaze lingered on mine before his mouth tilted into a tired smile, and this time it wasn’t his usual thanks. Instead, he glanced at my nametag before looking back at my face, saying, “Thank you, Daisy.”

I was a goner.

Seven years in this place and not one guy who’s made my heart leap from a single smile.

Until Weston.

“Good morning,” I call, finally glancing up from the coffee machine. My gaze lands on the handsome older man, dressed in his usual wool coat over a navy-blue suit and tie, hair styled with just the right amount of product. My belly does a little flipwhen he sends a warm smile my way. In the time he’s been coming here, he’s graduated from reluctant smiles and single-word responses to actually making small talk. I know it’s silly, but I always look forward to chatting with him each day.

“Morning,” he replies in a voice still a little rough from sleep. He rubs his hands, cupping them together and warming them with his breath. “Cold out there.”

“It sure is.” I’d had the same thought when I stepped off the subway this morning. “So much for spring.”

Weston hums in agreement as he shrugs off his coat. He bumps the noticeboard by the door as he does so, sending a sheet of paper fluttering to the ground. It’s a flier for a local Thai restaurant that opened up down the block a few months back. I should make Weston’s coffee, but I can’t take my eyes off the way his six-foot-something frame bends to retrieve the flier. His suit fits him so perfectly it must be custom-made, the dark navy fabric complemented by the brown Italian leather loafers on his large feet. I’m so mesmerized by his movements that he straightens and glances over to catch me staring.

Shit.

“It’s good,” I blurt, ignoring the heat I can feel on my neck. “The Thai place, I mean.” I gesture to the flier. “The ginger duck is my favorite.”

Weston scrapes a palm across his stubble as he examines the flier, before pinning it back on the noticeboard. I motion for him to take a seat at his usual table in the window, where I’ve already laid out the newspaper I know he likes to read, then force myself to focus on the coffee machine. Today I’m experimenting with a new design in his latte: a musical note. It takes a few moments of concentration to get it right—which has nothing to do with Weston’s presence distracting me—but finally the image takes shape. Perfect.

I step from behind the counter and wander to his table with a smile. The subtle but spicy scent of his cologne hits the minute I’m in his orbit, rich and warm with hints of bergamot, and I can’t help but inhale a deep lungful.

He is so gorgeous. A thick head of hair that would have once been chestnut brown but is now dappled with silver, broad shoulders that fill out his suit jacket, tiny creases fanning out from his blue eyes as he glances up from his paper. I don’t know a single person who still reads an actual newspaper, but I love that about him. It makes him seem like he’s from another time.

Which he kind of is, I guess. I don’t know his exact age, but probably early-to-mid forties. In other words, almost two decades older than me.

I swallow, setting his coffee down. This is exactly why I need to get on with it and lose my virginity. It’s making me do absurd things, like develop a crush on one of our regulars who is, technically, old enough to be my dad.

“Thanks, Daisy.” His eyes shimmer with a smile as he takes in the musical note I’ve carefully crafted into the foam of his drink. “You’re quite the artist.”

Before I can stop myself, my gaze strays to the black and white photographs hanging on the wall of Joe’s. They’re artsy shots of Brooklyn Heights taken by a local artist, and every time I look at them I feel a tiny tug in my heart; one I’ve gotten very good at ignoring. They’re a painful reminder that once upon a time I was an artist who’d planned to pursue a career in photography.

But that was a different life.

Weston cradles the latte in his hands. I haven’t felt the urge to express myself in any form for a long time, but finding new ways to make Weston smile through the simple act of creating these tiny scenes in his coffee has re-ignited that spark. I find myself scouring Pinterest after work for latte art ideas, andcoming in early each morning to practice. I might be unable to pick up a camera, but playing with art in this way feels doable. It feels safe.

“Thanks,” I murmur in response, but instead of being able to bask in the usual glow I get from our conversations, that tiny tendril of stuckness weaves through me again. My gaze moves from the image swirled in the milk to the gold band on Weston’s left hand, and my heart clenches in the way it always does when I force myself to acknowledge it.

Of all the men in the city, why did my heart choosehim? Someone who is so utterly, completely, unavailable?

I give Weston a faint smile and head back to the counter. My celebration cupcake is still sitting there taunting me, and I glare at it. I’m suddenly overcome with the urge to do something drastic and life-changing.

But what?

I guess I could quit, but like everyone else, I have bills to pay. Besides, it’s not like I hate my job, and I don’t know what else I would do. I’ve worked at Joe’s since I moved to the city, and I don’t have any other plans.

I snatch the cupcake off the counter with a frown, knowing I could find some random guy and have sex—hell, I could probably accomplish that one tonight, if I tried—but what would that achieve, really? Somehow, that doesn’t feel like enough, and it’s not sex I want, it’s love. I want to fall in love—with a man whoisn’tmarried—but that’s not something you can make happen just because you want it.

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