Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 61100 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61100 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
I’ve heard every bit of this before, and I can’t figure out why the man comes into my brother’s shop if this is how he feels about things, but he comes in every day and orders the same thing. We brew a fresh pot of decaf every afternoon just for him.
When I meet him at the counter with the steaming cup of coffee, his puckered mouth has relaxed into its usual scowl. “Is it decaf?” he asks, just as he does every time.
“Yes, sir. Decaf.”
“You filled it too full. I hope I have enough room for my cream.”
This is where his routine varies. Some days, the cup is too full, other days, it’s not full enough. It never meets his standards.
“I’m sorry. Would you like me to pour you a new cup?”
“No, you’d probably get it wrong again. How much do I owe you?”
“Two fifteen with tax,” I tell him. After he pulls three ones from his wallet, rubbing his fingers over each one to make sure no bills have stuck together, I carefully count out his change, laying the coins flat on my palm so that he can verify that the amount is accurate. “Thank you, sir. I hope you enjoy your coffee.”
An unpleasant grunt is all I get in return.
As Mr. Broderick is walking over to the counter that holds the cream, sugar, and napkins, the tablet chimes with an incoming order, and my heart starts to beat faster, as if I’ve just had four shots of espresso.
I hurry over to the screen and instantly deflate when I see that the order is from the veterinary office.
Why am I so eager to see those men again? I felt so out of place when I was in their shop … but also so intrigued. The men didn’t seem to want me there, but maybe they were all too preoccupied with their work.
Maybe it requires a lot of focus. I don’t know the first thing about what goes into creating tattoos, except that those men seem to be very good artists, based on all of the photos and artwork on the walls.
As I’m preparing the drinks for the delivery, my brother appears from the back. “What’s left for the order?” he asks. He gets notifications on his phone when orders come in too.
“Two iced teas, and the bakery.”
I’m fitting lids on the espresso drinks when the tablet chimes again, sending my pulse back into its quickened pace.
“Another one from Brothers in Ink,” Patrick says.
“Oh?” My voice comes out as a funny little squeak.
My brother scans the screen. “Looks about the same as yesterday. Perfect timing. You can take both orders at once.”
“Great,” I say, trying to keep my tone neutral.
“Were they okay at Brothers in Ink?” Patrick asks as he puts muffins into small paper bags.
“Yeah, sure. They were fine. Sounded like they might become regular delivery customers.”
Nancy reappears then, and Patrick sounds distracted as he says, “Good. Good,” and I’m glad the crinkly bags are making noise, because otherwise I feel like he might be able to hear the sound of my heart thumping in my chest.
4
ROSE
A deep cut from the ‘90s rock era greets me when I open the door to Brothers in Ink. It’s the sort of track you’d only hear if you went searching specifically for it on a streaming service, not a song that would be included on a typical playlist from the era.
One of the two men Hutch introduced me to is behind the desk. I’m pretty sure it’s Zipper, the one who got the cookies. Christian is sitting on the couch, and his eyes are on me from the moment I walk in.
Even though my heart hasn’t stopped its erratic pace and my palms are sweaty with nerves, I force a cheerful greeting. “Coffee’s here. How are both of you today?”
I get two single nods in return, and not particularly friendly ones.
“Do you get the macchiato?” I ask Christian.
He gives me another nod so brief it would be easy to have missed it, but he does murmur “thanks” when I hand the cup to him.
“Did you order a coffee?” I ask the man at the desk. I’m surprised I have the ability to speak, because the deep cut of his cheekbones and the steel gray of his stubble are doing things to me.
“Don’t like coffee,” he says, his eyes piercing into mine.
“You’re the one with the sweet tooth, right?”
He frowns and lifts a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. My eyes are drawn to the thick, spiky lines of ink that creep out of his t-shirt and up the side of his neck. Echoes of the same pattern frame one side of his face, where those mouthwatering cheekbones meet his hairline.
All of the thorny-looking ink makes him look like someone I’d probably cross the street to avoid, just for safety’s sake, but instead, I’m drawn to him.