both excellent businesswomen. They’ve taken this quaint location on the old gin mill property and made it into something special. With brick-red walls and chalkboard painted beams overhead, the creaking wooden floors and eclectic mixture of furniture begs a person to come in and linger, which is what I do—often. Not to mention, the coffee is divine. The dark roast is a special blend introduced to the place a while back, and the addition of delicious cupcakes on the menu from Oh, For Heaven’s Cakes makes this place more than just a coffeehouse. It’s heaven in Vermont.
It’s my heaven, and the devil himself is sitting here.
Jake Drummond is his name, actually, but that’s semantics to me. He’s quickly becoming a huge thorn in my side.
“What are you even doing here?” I snap although I might know the answer. The local Catholic church hosts an AA meeting soon, and perhaps he’ll be attending it. Internally, I bitterly laugh at the thought. This man does not take Alcoholics Anonymous seriously.
Jake peers around the room, exaggerating his observation once again before lifting a coffee mug. “I’m enjoying the local brew.”
My eyes narrow at him, and I try to ignore the sharp edge to his cheeks. Plus, the layer of scruff that is a mix of gray and black blended to perfection against the cliff of his jaw. His short-cropped hairstyle matches that stubbly facial mixture. Despite his face looking young, the crinkles near his eyes and the tightness to his mouth give away the fact he’s easily over forty like me.
In comparison, the wrinkles on my neck and the graying strands of hair weaving their way through my mousy brown mop make me look older than I am some days. While the indents near my eyes are often called laugh lines, I’m well aware their presence is from stress and glaring at people, like this man, who knows he’s handsome, full of charm, and giving off a vibe that makes me want to tackle him to said couch and have my way with him.
A shaky hand comes to my forehead. What I really need is to get laid, but it’s been so long I don’t know what that is anymore. Why do we even call it getting laid? I can do it standing up. I can do it on a bus. I can do it against a door. I can do it on the floor. I can . . . stop rhyming in my head like a sexually deprived Dr. Seuss fan.
His sapphire eyes stare at me, and silence lingers as if he asked me something, and I’ve taken too long to answer.
“Did you say something?”
“Nope.” He pops the p-sound and lowers his lips for the brim of his coffee mug, taking his time to sip at the heavenly dark roast. As I’m easily distracted by the scruff surrounding his mouth, I notice the rich red color of his lips and wonder if they taste as candy sweet as they look.
Probably more like a red-hot cinnamon drop.
“Fine,” I grumble, turning away from the plush peach couch I long to sit on and step back to the counter.
“Roddy, give me a dark roast to go and one of those Dark Horse Mochaccino cupcakes.” I glance back at Jake, who is watching me. Turning back to Roddy, I add, “Better make it a double on the cupcakes. I need something sweet to rid the bad taste in my mouth.”
I glare back at Jake, squeezing my entire face like a child sticking out her tongue at my nemesis. I don’t know what it is about Jake, but something about him raises the hackles on my neck and dampens my underwear at the same time.
As Roderick pours my coffee and sets my cupcakes in a bag, my foot taps impatiently. I’m a bundle of nerves and need to get out of here if I can’t sit here to relax.
“Two Dark Horse Mochaccino cupcakes and a dark roast for the plush peach couch defender.” Roderick winks at me, before eyeing the man hogging my spot.
“Next time I come in here, he better not be taking up space in my place.”
Roderick laughs. “Now, Rita, as much as we love you, you know we can’t reserve you a spot, nor will we kick patrons out if they sit there first.”
Jake can hear Roderick from his seat, and he lifts his mug to salute Roddy’s words.
“Well, we’ll just see about that,” I snap, preparing for battle over a set of cushions