Beauty and the Blackmailer - Amorette Anderson Page 0,5
line formed in front of the register. Christine, in her late twenties, was at the register. Her long blonde ponytail squished against her back as she wrote down an order on a cup. Her voice, distinctive because of the quirky blend of accents that she had (Bridget had never been able to place it exactly, but thought it might be a mix of Midwestern and Bostonian), rang out above the hum of noise in the café and the bookstore beyond.
“Two shots in there, or three?” she asked the waiting customer.
Adrianne, a big-boned, athletic woman in her forties, opened the microwave, which had just dinged. “I have a Morning Twist here for Roy!” she called out as she placed the paper-wrapped baked good on the counter.
Sean was adding whipped cream to a large drink, and he looked over at Bridget as he worked. “Did you get a chance to talk to Shelby?” he asked. “Everything alright?”
She nodded at him. “I did... She had some interesting news.” She waited for Christine to hand the customer their change, and then she said, “Everybody—quick announcement. We’re going to have a new worker joining us today. I haven’t met him yet, but he’s been approved by the higher ups, so I’m sure he’s going to be a great addition to our team. Let’s do our best to make him feel welcome, okay?”
The team agreed, and quickly got back to the hustle of getting orders ready. At ten after ten, a man walked up to the café. He looked like he was in his mid-thirties. The first thing that Bridget noticed about him was the long, bumpy scar that ran from his forehead to his jawline on one side of his face. It looked very fresh—red, raised, and bumpy. The second thing she noticed was his haircut. He must have cut it himself—perhaps with a hacksaw. It was the worst haircut she’d ever seen—little clumps of hair stuck out at odd angles while some sections were cropped close to his scalp.
He wore a baggy white tee shirt, a sweatshirt that had cartoon characters printed all over it, and stiff khakis that stopped a few inches above his bright white sneakers. Despite his odd-fitting clothes, he looked quite healthy and able. He frowned as he waited off to the side, near the counter but away from the line of customers. “Excuse me—is there someone named Bethany here?” he asked, once he caught Bridget’s attention.
Bridget shook her head. “No Bethany,” she said.
His frown grew deeper. “I was told to talk to Bethany. I’m sure that I’m in the right place. I’m supposed to... wow. I can’t believe I’m going to say this. I’m supposed to work here... serving drinks or something.”
“I’m Bridget,” Bridget said carefully, eying the guy. “Is that what you mean?” As she looked closer, she saw he had a handsome face, though the scar was so distracting that it was almost hard to appreciate. His eyes were dark and bright. What was going on with his clothes? she wondered. His appearance was very incongruent. She was usually so good at reading people, but she couldn’t get a clear first impression of him, besides the fact that he seemed very unhappy about being there, talking to her.
“Oh, yeah. Bridget. That’s who I’m supposed to talk to,” he grumbled.
“You must be Sebastian,” Bridget said.
He nodded. “That’s me. I could really use a cappuccino, if you don’t mind. Light on the foam, with half of a raw sugar, please.” He lifted a hand and rubbed his temple. “It’s been a nightmarish twenty-four hours. Have you ever had to ride the bus?”
Bridget’s mouth fell open. Did this guy just order a drink from her, after showing up ten minutes late for his first shift, and calling her by the wrong name? It was so inappropriate, it was almost funny.
“Let’s get you outfitted in a company shirt and your name tag,” she said. “Maybe you can have that cappuccino on your break. You get one drink per shift. Actually, it’ll be great for you to make that cappuccino to get a little practice on the machine. Have you worked as a barista before?”
Bridget walked to the side of the bar and flipped up the hinged countertop to let him through. She motioned for him to follow her toward the back room. “No,” he said disdainfully. “I’ve never worked before.”
“Excuse me?” she said. “You’ve never... had a job—is that what you said?”
He cleared his throat. “Uh... I meant not in the