the Frappucino). No coffee, no caffeine, no stimulants at all, save for the couple hundred calories and a bunch of sugar.
Then he sits at the same table, stares out the same window, waits for the shake to melt, and drinks the whole thing in one long gulp. After that, he stands, throws the empty cup away, and leaves.
Every single Monday morning.
Some people would say he’s a man of habit. I say he’s just strange.
“Morning, Leonard,” I say cheerfully.
“Good morning. One french vanilla MixUp.”
Jack’s already halfway done making it. “Yes, sir,” I say over the high-pitched drone of the blender. “Anything else?”
“No.” Leonard hands me his MasterCard.
“Scone? Cookie? Cinnamon roll?”
Now Leonard just gives me a weird look. I never probe, so this is out of the ordinary. “No, just the drink.”
Boorrring.
I swipe the card but frown. I, for one, think Leonard should follow the title of his favorite drink and mix it up a little.
“Add a shot,” I whisper to Jack while Leonard sits at his table to wait for his drink.
“What? No, Nutkin, I will not,” he hisses back.
“Please? Add some spice to that poor man’s life.”
There’s hoppy fifties music playing, so Leonard can’t overhear us. I give Jack my best Bambi expression, but instead of dumping a highly addictive yet very legal substance into Leonard’s drink, Jack just raises an eyebrow.
“You look like that cat on
Alice in Wonderland”
“Thanks.” My Bambi impression must need work.
“Leonard, your drink is ready!” Jack calls.
“To answer your question, yes,” Jack says to me at ten thirty when we’re in the midst of a brief lull.
“What?”
“Romance being overdone? I definitely would say yes, it can be.” He looks up at me from a big bowl of frosting he’s mixing for the cinnamon rolls I just pulled from the oven. Cool Beans is renowned for its inventive coffee flavors and homemadecinnamon rolls. Kendra Lee is our chef, and she comes in every night after closing and whips up another batch that rises in the fridge all night, so all I have to do is bake them.
I’m really good at pulling something from the fridge and putting it right in the oven. Pillsbury and me? We’re buds.
“Yeah?” I nod and set the hot pan on the counter. “I agree.”
“Why were you asking?”
“Three bouquets of tulips. Three days.”
“See? That’s almost to the point of creepy.” Jack frowns. “This guy is trying too hard. You didn’t break up with him because he just got out of prison, did you?”
I giggle. “No.”
He grins and looks at the frosting again. “Hey, why did you guys break up?” he asks, not looking at me because he knows this is a very personal question. Don’t get me wrong — he’s one of my best friends, but there are still things we don’t talk about.
My chest clenches. “I don’t remember,” I lie. “A few things.”
He’s looking at me again. I’m an awful liar, and Jack has always been able to read me like a Little Golden Book.
“It’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it.” He picks up the frosting bowl to pour it on the rolls. “Just wanted to make sure he hadn’t knocked off a florist in a horrific high-speed car chase or something.”
I grin again. “That’s it, Jackie. You’re really weird. Have I told you that lately?”
He starts laughing. “Would that be like putting the
petal
to the metal?”
“Oh my gosh,” I groan, but I start laughing.
“Like if he — ”
“Ugh!” I scream as Jack loses his hold on the frosting bowl and the whole thing dumps right on my shoes.
All eight customers stare at us, and one tentatively claps.
Jack’s alternating between snorting and apologizing. “Oh, Maya, I’m so sorry. I — “ He half-laughs and mashes his fist against his mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … uh …”
Now he’s doubled over, gripping the counter in a full-out wheezing laugh. I stand there, arms crossed over my chest, sugary
Then he sits at the same table, stares out the same window, waits for the shake to melt, and drinks the whole thing in one long gulp. After that, he stands, throws the empty cup away, and leaves.
Every single Monday morning.
Some people would say he’s a man of habit. I say he’s just strange.
“Morning, Leonard,” I say cheerfully.
“Good morning. One french vanilla MixUp.”
Jack’s already halfway done making it. “Yes, sir,” I say over the high-pitched drone of the blender. “Anything else?”
“No.” Leonard hands me his MasterCard.
“Scone? Cookie? Cinnamon roll?”
Now Leonard just gives me a weird look. I never probe, so this is out of the ordinary. “No, just the drink.”
Boorrring.
I swipe the card but frown. I, for one, think Leonard should follow the title of his favorite drink and mix it up a little.
“Add a shot,” I whisper to Jack while Leonard sits at his table to wait for his drink.
“What? No, Nutkin, I will not,” he hisses back.
“Please? Add some spice to that poor man’s life.”
There’s hoppy fifties music playing, so Leonard can’t overhear us. I give Jack my best Bambi expression, but instead of dumping a highly addictive yet very legal substance into Leonard’s drink, Jack just raises an eyebrow.
“You look like that cat on
Alice in Wonderland”
“Thanks.” My Bambi impression must need work.
“Leonard, your drink is ready!” Jack calls.
“To answer your question, yes,” Jack says to me at ten thirty when we’re in the midst of a brief lull.
“What?”
“Romance being overdone? I definitely would say yes, it can be.” He looks up at me from a big bowl of frosting he’s mixing for the cinnamon rolls I just pulled from the oven. Cool Beans is renowned for its inventive coffee flavors and homemadecinnamon rolls. Kendra Lee is our chef, and she comes in every night after closing and whips up another batch that rises in the fridge all night, so all I have to do is bake them.
I’m really good at pulling something from the fridge and putting it right in the oven. Pillsbury and me? We’re buds.
“Yeah?” I nod and set the hot pan on the counter. “I agree.”
“Why were you asking?”
“Three bouquets of tulips. Three days.”
“See? That’s almost to the point of creepy.” Jack frowns. “This guy is trying too hard. You didn’t break up with him because he just got out of prison, did you?”
I giggle. “No.”
He grins and looks at the frosting again. “Hey, why did you guys break up?” he asks, not looking at me because he knows this is a very personal question. Don’t get me wrong — he’s one of my best friends, but there are still things we don’t talk about.
My chest clenches. “I don’t remember,” I lie. “A few things.”
He’s looking at me again. I’m an awful liar, and Jack has always been able to read me like a Little Golden Book.
“It’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it.” He picks up the frosting bowl to pour it on the rolls. “Just wanted to make sure he hadn’t knocked off a florist in a horrific high-speed car chase or something.”
I grin again. “That’s it, Jackie. You’re really weird. Have I told you that lately?”
He starts laughing. “Would that be like putting the
petal
to the metal?”
“Oh my gosh,” I groan, but I start laughing.
“Like if he — ”
“Ugh!” I scream as Jack loses his hold on the frosting bowl and the whole thing dumps right on my shoes.
All eight customers stare at us, and one tentatively claps.
Jack’s alternating between snorting and apologizing. “Oh, Maya, I’m so sorry. I — “ He half-laughs and mashes his fist against his mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … uh …”
Now he’s doubled over, gripping the counter in a full-out wheezing laugh. I stand there, arms crossed over my chest, sugary
Similar Books
