Page 11 of Love You A Latte

I stand, walk to the counter, grab a pink macaron, then stride back to her table. Her look of confusion transforms as I approach. She bites her lip, eyes flicking between mine and the macaron.

“Hi, I’m Frankie,” I say, holding out the macaron. “I hear you owe the owner a few hours of cleaning, something about making up for a favor?”

Addison grins, all sparkling white teeth and pretty pink lips.

“I’m Addison,” she says, “And I do believe you’re correct. Shall I come back when you close?”

“See you at seven.”

CHAPTER FIVE

ADDISON

I remember everything about you.

Frankie’s words have been circling around my brain all afternoon. It shocked me when they murmured them under their breath, and I’m a little bit scared of the hopeful flame flickering to life in my chest.

It’s a quarter to seven and I’ve been restless all afternoon and evening. I hardly ate a bite of dinner, my stomach too full of butterflies to have room for anything else. It’s like the airport all over again.

I’m eager to go, to get back to Roasted even though I’m going to be cleaning, and I’ve been pacing for the last half hour as the time crawls by. I swear it started going backward at one point, but finally it’s late enough that I can leave.

I hop on one foot as I attempt to clip my hair up and slide the strap of my sandal over my heel at the same time. All I accomplish is crashing into the closed front door, and I huff. Now my shoulder aches.

Moose gives me a pathetic look, like he can tell I’m a mess and feels bad for me.

“Oh you hush,” I say.

He wags his tail.

As I take a slow breath, I slide the strap on my foot, then twist my hair into a knot and secure it with a large turquoise clip. The mirror by the door shows a harriedface.

Not a good look.

I bite my lip and lean forward, as if that will somehow magically change my reflection, then pull a few hairs free, loosening the front for a bit of a windswept look. I’m hoping I can sweep Frankie right off their stupidly sexy combat-boot-clad feet.

While wiping down tables. Apparently.

I roll my eyes, but it doesn’t stop the smile lighting my face at the thought of spending time with them and our silly deal. Deciding to drive into town instead of walk, I snag the keys and give Moose a smooch goodbye on my way out.

The drive flies by, because of course, after hours of impatient turmoil, now is when time decides to speed up.

When I park outside Roasted, I can see Frankie through the front windows. They’re behind the counter, closing out the register from the looks of it. I take a moment to compose myself, hunching over in the front seat and shimmying my boobs in an attempt to get them to perk up a bit. They’re not the biggest, only a handful each, but I have to work with what I’ve got.

The door chimes when I open it and step in, and Frankie’s hazel eyes dart straight to me.

“Lock it behind, would you?” they say, and I nod, turning back to the door.

When I look back up, they’re next to me pulling down the blinds, and suddenly we’re in a space that feels much more private than I anticipated. I gaze around, taking in the cozy space. There are plants and knick-knacks interspersed with local art for sale covering the walls, a couple shelves of books, and a vintage grandfather clock ticking away. The mismatched wooden chairs are all pushed in, the table tops gleam with no crumb to be seen, and the scuffed wood floor is shiny, like it’s just been mopped.

“You already cleaned,” I say.

Frankie shrugs. “There’s still some dishes in the back.”

“I can do dishes!”

They lead me to the kitchen, turning the hot water on inthe massive sink and waiting until it steams as it shoots out of the huge spray nozzle. The kitchen is minimal, no decoration and not much color. All industrial with stainless steel counters and cabinets, a shiny tile floor that’s also been mopped recently, and a pile of dirty dishes. Clearly maximizing function and ease over anything else. I step up to the sink, glad I wore short sleeves as it’s already warm back here, and pick up a metal mixing bowl and sponge.

Frankie stands next to me as I dunk, sponge, and rinse off each dish, then hand it to them to place into the dishwasher. Our fingers graze constantly, and I suspect they’re doing it on purpose. I know I am.

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