Touch Me, Daddy

2 - Tessa.

"Good morning, Tessa." Kya chirps as she makes her way past the counter door, and right next to me. Her face is flushed scarlet, and I can see two hickeys on the left side of her neck. She notices my eyes on them, and adjusts the scarf she has around her neck, trying to conceal them.

I give her a knowing wink, and she blushes furiously. "You're ten minutes late, lover girl."

She rolls her eyes and laughs. "My apologies. Greg and I..."

I quickly zone out for my sanity. She goes on and on about their wonderful night together as we both set up the coffee beans and clean the machine. When she's done, she sighs and says. "I just wish it was deeper than s*x, you know?"

"What do you mean?" I ask, genuinely curious.

She opens her mouth to speak, then as though thinking better of it, shakes her head. "Nothing. I'll go grab some cream. See you later.

I nod, watching her go. She's been acting so strange and aloof these past few weeks. In fact, ever since he ex, Dickson moved back into town with his new girl, Kya has been a shadow of herself. I can't believe she still have feelings for him, given all that he did to her.

Ugh.

"Extra shot cappuccino, no foam."

I blink, startled. My first customer of the day is a businessman. His eyes go from my face, down to my chest, and back up again, jaw clenched with impatience. An expensive watch weighs down his wrist beneath the cuff of his white shirt, and his fingernails are neater than mine.

A cappuccino with no foam? What does that even mean?

"Uh—"

"Today." The man's smile is not kind, and I stiffen beneath my starchy pink apron.

It's rare that we get asshole customers in Sofi Cafe. Maybe the warm, fuzzy name scares them off, or maybe it's because Woodstock couldn't be further from Wall Street if it tried, but we don't get many business meetings in here. We're more for the new mothers and babies meetups; the shy first dates; the taking-grandma-for-a-coffee crowd.

This guy must be passing through. Well, he can go ahead and pass by a little quicker if you ask me.

"Coming right up."

One business-formal jerk will not ruin my day. Nuh-uh, no way.

"Chocolate powder?" I call over, sweet and polite.

"Yeah," he clips out, like this monstrous drink is so freaking obvious.

The man's eye twitches when I present him with his drink in a pale pink mug–a half deflated cappuccino, dusted with chocolate and slumping like a drunkard down the side of the cup.

"What the—"

"One extra shot cappuccino, no foam. Have a nice day." My waxy smile is all teeth. "You be careful in the heat, now."

For a horrible second, I think he's going to argue with me. Force me to make his stupid order again. But after a long pause, a tanned hand reaches out, that fancy watch glinting, and manicured fingers wrap around the mug. My shoulders slump as the businessman turns away, the soft acoustic music of the cafe fading back in.

I swallow hard. Tap my thumb on the counter and count backwards from ten.

Then a soft chuckle makes me go rigid again.

Oh, god.

Mr Gregory is here? Did he see that ugly drink I made? How did I not notice him come in?

I always notice my neighbor coming in. I swear, the little hairs rise up on my arms before he's even stepped through the door most days. It's like the vibrations from his heavy boots skitter under the walls, coming up through the soles of my feet and getting me all flushed and breathless in preparation for his arrival.

And he does come in here most days. In the last five years, I could count on one hand how many shifts I've had without serving Mr Hampton. He must be Sofi Cafe's best customer—we even made an extra special loyalty card just for him.

I drew hearts on it, and a row of dancing coffee beans. But he never even noticed.

His heart beats for Kya.

God, I'm tragic.

"That was somethin'." My older neighbor stands nearby at the high table we set out for local artists to sell their work, flicking slowly through a stack of watercolor paintings of the canyon. He glances over at me, and I swear those blue eyes twinkle. "Don't think I've ever seen you annoyed before, Tess."

I shrug, playing it as cool as you like. Like my knees aren't trembling behind the counter. Like I'm not fighting the urge to vault over the glass display case of muffins and cupcakes and throw myself into his arms.

Mr Hampton could take it. With his barrel chest and that big belly pushing at his dark flannel shirt, with his huge height and thick thighs, everyone in this whole freaking cafe could probably jump on him at the same time and he wouldn't even stumble back an inch. That business jerk could leap into his arms, princess style.

"There was that time you stole my cookie plate."

My neighbor spreads a palm over his chest, eyes crinkling and his expression faux-wounded. "I'd just moved in, Tessa. I had all that stuff to unpack."

"You brought, like, three bags."

"And no cookie plate in any of 'em."

My snort makes his mouth twitch, that thick beard shifting, and I grip the counter harder. "So do you know what you want, Mr Hampton?"

I ask him the same question every time. As though one day, my words might finally sink in, and my big, husky viking of a neighbor will blink at me, surprised, and say: "Oh. You."

Me, dusted with chocolate.

Me, with a dollop of whipped cream.

Hey—a girl can dream.

"Mocha, please," Mr Hampton rumbles instead, stepping away from the watercolors and coming to the counter. He fishes for his wallet, his fingers thick and hairy and definitely not manicured, and when he passes over my special doodled loyalty card, my chest pinches tight.

Blue eyes dip to the glass display case, to the squares of brownies and bright, iced cupcakes, then back up to me.

"I won't tell anyone," I whisper, and his crooked smile makes me feel like I could fly.

"Better not." My neighbor pats his curved belly, and I swallow down everything I want to say. That he's perfect as he is; that I'd give anything to sit in his lap and feed him cookies. That brushing the crumbs off his big chest would be a non-stop thrill ride. "Kya working late tonight, Tess?"

"Um..." I stall. "I guess."

I don't know what my friend must have told him, but I suspect that after their time together last night, Kya wants to be left alone. It's clear she's going through something, and her relationship with Greg hasn't been the smoothest these past few weeks. Ever since that d**k returned.

Greg swallows. "Oh. Okay."

"Would you be kind enough to drop me home again today?"

When I finish work after dark, Mr Hampton always insists on picking me up. He drives us both home, my arms wrapped around him on the back of his bike, my heart wedged somewhere in my throat, and when we get home and he kills the engine, the desert is so, so quiet.

He hadn't lived next door for a month before he bought me my own motorcycle helmet. It's pink, to match my barista apron.

Oh, hell. See why I'm ruined by this man?

But no, I'm finishing at 6pm today, which means a lonely cycle back through the sun-scorched streets, then a cool shower to wash the dust from my skin. And if I'm lucky, maybe Mr Hampton will be working in his garage or on our shared driveway, restoring another vintage motorcycle to sell, touching it with those big hands and so much tender care that I wish I had an engine.

"We could also get a drink later," I blurt before I can stop myself, then flush bright red.

Greg blinks at me, then glances away.

"Um, that would be great, but I was looking forward to spending the evening with Kya."

My heart splinters under my pink apron.

"Oh. A date," I laugh awkwardly. "Sure. No problem. I'll sort myself out."

An evening with Kya...no drinks with me.