Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 128430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
“Sounds perfect.”
“To me, too.” She stands. “Can I get you something to drink and eat?”
I look toward the display cabinet under the counter. Nothing appeals to me, so I eye the chalkboard menu on the wall. “What’s your soup today?”
“Tomato basil. It’s really good and even better with a grilled cheese.” She pushes some hair behind her ear, revealing a name tag pinned to her green apron.
“You know how to upsell,” I say, getting a good look at the name that I never got when I first saw her. “Story. That’s a—”
“Unique. Weird. Strange name. I get that all the time.” She shrugs and laughs to herself. “I could be describing my mom the same way.”
Our eyes lock together, and I say, “Beautiful. I was going to say beautiful.”
“Oh.” Cringing, she seems to lose some of the composure she was holding on to seconds prior. Ah, fuck. She blushes, and I know I’m done for. “Um, that’s very nice of you to say. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Story.”
“Don’t go wearing it out now.”
God, I’d love to wear it out.
Her laughter dances around us, keeping smiles on both our faces. She’s utterly breathtaking. “What’s your name?” she asks.
“Story?” Some guy calls out to her from across the café, redirecting her attention to him.
“Be right there, Lou.” She turns back to me but thumbs over her shoulder. “Louis. He’s a handful around finals.” Snapping a pen and pad from her apron, she asks, “The soup and sandwich?”
“How can I resist?”
“Good choice.” With a wink, she walks away but backs up and returns. “And to drink?”
“Coffee. Black is good.”
I don’t expect a smile in return for my order, but I get one anyway. She’s easy to admire. Pretty, like her name. It’s not one thing specifically, but how her features work together with the heart shape of her face that makes her so appealing. She taps my table with her pen. “I’ll be back.”
“Hope so.”
She backs away, still looking at me, but then runs into the chair of another patron. “Oh, sorry.”
The guy has no patience for her and grumbles something under his breath that makes me want to teach him some manners with a punch to the face. I let it go this time, though, and get back to why I’m here in the first place.
“I’m right here,” Story says tableside.
“What?”
She drags her free hand under the mug for effect. “Your coffee.”
“Oh, that.” I rub the side of my neck. “Right. The coffee.”
Setting it down, she says, “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
“Sometimes life does that.”
“When you least expect it,” we say in unison and then break into laughter.
She rests a hand on the opposite chair and tilts her head like she plans to stay awhile. I can’t say I’d be upset by it. I’d rather spend time with her than work on this fucking paper. “I use that quote all the time, and no one ever knows what I’m talking about,” she says.
“Maybe we were the only two who saw the film?”
“Could be.” Her eyes widen and capture the shine from a nearby lamp. “There was only one other person in the theater when I watched it at the Pantheon.”
“Two o’clock showing?”
“Yes,” she replies, her smile growing by the second. “Did you know it only played for one day?”
Snapping my fingers, I then point. “The girl with the pickle?”
She bursts out laughing before she quietens and looks around. No one dares to give Story a dirty look. Me, on the other hand, I get three. They’re just jealous.
“I feel like I’m owed a secret of yours since you know one of my dirty little ones.”
“I have a strong suspicion you’re not the only one who eats pickles during a movie.”
“True. They do keep the jar right there on the counter. Oh, crap!” She dashes across the shop, pushing through to the back. “Dammit!” Her voice reaches all the way to my table in the front.
I start to wonder if I should offer assistance, but just as I stand, she pushes through the door and heads my way with a plate in her hands. “Everything okay?” I ask.
“It’s all good. I burned one grilled cheese to smithereens because I left it too close to the fire on the grill.” She sets the plate down with a bowl balanced on top. “Fortunately for you, that was my dinner and not yours.”
Looking at the plate and then back at her, I offer, “We can share?” I gesture to the other chair again, my paper now on the back burner near the fire, ready to fail me for ignoring it.
“No, that’s yours.”
“I don’t mind.” Picking up one-half of the cut sandwich, I dunk it in the soup. “Chef recommended.” I take a bite, letting the creamy soup meld with the cheesy bread. I haven’t had a grilled cheese in a long time. I’d forgotten how good they are. The chill from the rain has worn off, but the soup and sandwich warm me on the inside. “It’s really good.”