Touch Me, Daddy

5 - Tessa.

"A coffee, please." My customer is so quiet, I barely hear her above the soft music and the hum of conversation. The girl offers a wobbly smile, clutching at the strap of her white canvas tote bag. It's midafternoon, but from the exhaustion lining her pretty face, from the shadows under her eyes, you'd think it was 4am. "The biggest one you have. An extra shot too, please."

"Coming right up." I set to making her monster coffee, but I can't help glancing back over my shoulder at my blonde waif of a customer. Curiosity always gets the better of me. "Long day?"

I recognize her, but I don't know her name. Must've been a couple years away from me in school. Or maybe she's that rare sort of person who moves out to the desert, seeking answers under the huge, starry skies.

Her green eyes are far away, but the customer jolts back to herself when she hears me chatting to her. "Oh. Yeah, sorry. I haven't been—haven't been sleeping."

Ouch. Yeah, we all get a bit of that here in Woodstock, especially in the hottest stretch of summer. Some nights it's all I can do to aim three fans at my bed, throw my bedroom window open wide, and lay cool, soaked towels on my skin.

Doesn't help that I'm obsessing over Mr. Hampton. Raising my core temperature with thoughts of his rumbly voice calling me honey.

"Well, if you want to make a quick buck off your misery, there's a new sleep study starting next month." I jerk my chin at the community noticeboard on the far wall; the cork plastered with job requests and missing items and a call out for the library's seniors book club. Buried somewhere in all those papers is an ad for sleep study participants. "They run it a few times a year. Apparently, the lab has the best air conditioning in town."

That's how they get a lot of sign-ups, I bet.

Probably doesn't hurt that the lead scientist is hot as all hell, too, in a nerdy way. If I weren't twisted in knots over Mr. Hampton, maybe I'd let that guy tuck me in.

Just in the study, you know. For science.

"Huh. Maybe." The tired blonde falls on her coffee as soon as I set it on the counter, snatching it up for a desperate gulp. Her moan is so guttural, my cheeks heat. "Sorry." She catches me staring, swallows, and smiles, rueful. "I've been thinking about this drink all day. You know what it's like when you're obsessing over something, right?"

"Sure."

Something. Or someone.

If I ever got to touch Mr. Hampton the way I've been craving, if he ever swept me up into his big, strong arms... I'd probably groan like that, too.

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My neighbor is sitting on his front step when I get home, my thighs burning and cheeks puffing from my bike ride. He raises a hand, the other shading his eyes from the sinking sun, and every part of me quivers in response, my bike squeaking as I wheel it onto the driveway.

Mr. Hampton is dressed in a faded flannel shirt, never mind the heat, the sleeves rolled up his hairy forearms. Jeans cling to his legs, and his boots have a film of desert dust. His thick red hair is rumpled, like he's been tugging at it, and his piercing blue gaze tickles where it lands on me.

The second I see him, my heart flutters. How can it only be me who feels something here? Seriously, how?

A connection like this ought to go both ways, but as the day has passed, I've become less and less sure about that look.

Maybe Mr. Hampton was thinking about something else last night. Maybe Kya didn't blow him off as I thought and simply went away with Dixon, leaving Mr. Hampton waiting. Maybe the light hit him weird, and I thought I saw something I didn't. Hell, maybe I made it all up in my head. Pure wishful thinking.

"Good day?" His deep voice drifts across the driveway and makes my belly flip.

"Yeah." I lean my bike against the cottage wall, swinging my backpack around to dig for my keys. For once, I'm avoiding his eyes. "Pretty good."

And usually, I'd find excuses to linger outside and talk with my neighbor. Ask him about the motorcycle he's restoring; tell him exaggerated tales from the coffee shop. But I'm all scrambled up today, thrown off by the look I may or may not have imagined, by him turning me down for drinks, by everything.

My key slides into the lock, and I nudge my front door open. It's maybe two degrees cooler inside.

"You can leave your bike in my garage again."

I chew on my bottom lip. It is easier, it saves me from working my own stiff garage door open or propping my bike up in the hall, but I don't like relying on Mr. Hampton to let my bike out for my shift. It's not fair on the poor man. Maybe he'd secretly rather sleep in.

"That's okay. Thanks, though." I'm still not looking at him. Silence spreads across the driveway, tense and uncomfortable, and I should turn and chat, should fix him with a smile, but I don't.

I've been putting myself out there for so long. I'm tired.

I didn't realize it before, but I'm like that girl who bought a monster-sized coffee today. Practically weeping with exhaustion.

My shoulder aches as I swing my backpack back around. My keys clink together in my sweaty hand. "Goodnight, Mr. Hampton." I'll regret this later, I know, I'll regret wasting my chance to spend time with him, but there's just nothing left in me. My tank is empty.

"Goodnight, Tessa." His rough voice sends a shiver down my spine.

I grip the warm metal of my bike frame and fumble my way inside.