Page 45 of Not That Ridiculous

At the sound of her name, Gemma glanced up questioningly.

Kevin, being the sweetheart he was, gestured her in front of him. “After you,” he said.

She slowly slipped her phone into her side pocket and ran an appreciative gaze up and down Kevin. “What a gentleman,” she said.

The woman could not be more wrong.

Gentlemendidn’t insert themselves into other peoples’ houses, manhandle them all over their kitchen, hump an orgasm out of them, and then fix their cabinets.

Kevin took the compliment with his usual calm and stepped back from the counter. She shimmied past him, flinging her long shiny ponytail in his face, before coming up against Adam. She looked to be enjoying herself greatly, sandwiched between them.

Adam held out a hand. “I haven’t ordered yet,” he said. “After you.”

“Another gentleman,” she said approvingly, moving to the front of the little queue.

“Well?” I demanded. “What do you want?”

“Nota gentleman,” she said to me with a glare.

I was in no mood to have my poor-to-middling manners critiqued on the best of days. This wasn’t even approaching the best of days. I scowled.

Gemma was unimpressed. I must be losing my edge. She should have quailed, told me her order, and left before Adam did something.

Or said something.

Because he was about to. I knew it. He was going to say something that would oblige me to ban him from my coffee shop forever, and I didn’t want to do that. Ray wouldn’t come in half as often if I did, and I liked Ray.

Fine, I liked Adam, too.

He was just mean, like me, and if I was in a bad mood today, he was in a shit-stirring mood.

“…today, if that’s not too much trouble, Charlie?” Gemma drummed her nails on the counter.

“What?” I snapped, realising I hadn’t been paying attention.

“Wow. Uh, okay.”

“Sorry.” I forced a smile. “I missed that. Can you repeat yourself, please?”

“I don’t know if I want to now. I might swing by Starbucks instead.”

“Yeah? You do that. Enjoy. Adam? Ready to order?”

“I saidmight.” Gemma shuffled irritably.

We both knew she wouldn’t. Gemma Richards was one of my best customers. She came in twice a day—three times during summer—and always ordered the largest drink. Her capacity for holding liquids was truly impressive.

“You’re going to be late again,” I told her, “if you don’t get on with it.”

“Fuck.” Gemma worked at the library. Her boss was a genuine arsehole, not a plain old grump like me.

He’d like nothing more than to fire her, because apparently her bachelor’s degree in Library and Information Studies, her Masters in Knowledge, Information, and Data Science, and her willingness to host story time for the local kids three times a week were somehow rendered worthless in the face of her devotion to TikTok beauty trends and Instagram fashion.

On some days this devotion made her look stunning, other days it made her look deranged, and on every damn day it was none of her boss’ business.

“All right,” she said. “Gimme my triple venti mochaccino with hazelnut, extra foam, and sprinkles.”

I glared at her.

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