Some Like it Hotter
Chris glanced over sharply, then away, because she didn’t want to meet his eyes for some reason. He had this sort of...forceful stare, which was too personal or something.
But the truth was, she had been feeling like that, especially at the shop. During the early-morning rush—which wasn’t much of a rush at all compared to the crowds at NYEspresso—she was astounded at customers’ patience, especially when people in line wanted a manual pour, which could take as long as five minutes per cup. At that hour people in New York wanted their coffee and they wanted to leave, one, two, done, to sprint to the office, to catch a train, to get to a meeting. Chris had nearly gone out of her mind the first morning she’d worked alone at Slow Pour when what she’d consider an unacceptably long line had formed. But no one had seemed to mind the wait; they’d stood patiently and chatted, complimented her on her coffee, wished her a nice day, or peace or to be well.
It was nice, she guessed, but definitely...foreign. Zac had nailed it. “I do feel a little out of tempo sometimes.”
“Kind of a strange adjustment to have to make, huh.”
How did he know? Chris sighed. She might as well ask him. At least talking to him was better than staring out at Mr. Love Me Love My Board. “Sounds like you’ve done something similar?”
He didn’t answer for so long she turned and found him staring at her, a half smile on his lips. A tingle of excitement ran down her spine. Argh! For heaven’s sake! Was she that starved for attention? “What is so funny?”
“Nothing. I’m just glad you decided it was okay to talk to me.”
“Oh. Right.” She poked at a piece of seaweed in the sand to avoid looking at him again. He saw way too much, and it was really annoying. “I have been in a better mood.”
“No worries. To answer your question, I served as a Peace Corps volunteer in Africa. Big transition going over. Big transition back.”
Okay. That was unexpected. Somehow she’d pictured him springing full-grown out of one of the Slow Pour chairs and doing nothing else. Had Eva ever mentioned anything else about him? Whatever she’d said, Chris had taken it as shorthand for “beach bum.” Nothing about him until now had contradicted that impression. “That must have been an incredible experience. Life changing.”
“Yup. So I get what you’re going through.”
“Come on.” Chris waved away that concept. “You changed countries, cultures, everything. I just changed states. Boohoo.”
“Change is hard.” He reached over and touched her arm, his blue eyes kind. “You’re allowed to find this rough sometimes, Chris.”
To her horror, tears threatened; she had to swallow hard. What was this, PMS? She was never, ever this fragile.
“When did you last eat?” He was again studying her carefully, could probably tell she was struggling. The guy’s intuition and perceptiveness creeped her out. She felt like a cell on a microscope slide.
“I had some... I don’t know.” She sniffed and tossed back her hair, pretending to enjoy the breeze.
Next to her, rustling sounds. He was digging something out of his bag. “Here. Cashew-granola-cranberry bars. I make them myself. I brought plenty.”
“You cook?” She was on the verge of refusing one, but quite honestly, the red-studded bars wrapped tightly in plastic wrap looked chewy and delicious, and she was really hungry, having stupidly assumed she and Gus would be getting something to eat.
“Sure. These are good for energy. Here.” He held out a thermos. “Have some of this, too.”
“Not until you tell me what it is.” She bit into the bar—it was nutty, chewy, not too sweet, with the gift of a few surprise mini chocolate chips. “Mmm, these are fabulous, thank you.”
“No problem.” He held out the thermos, eyes twinkling. “The smoothie is a secret recipe. Trust me?”
“Why should I?”
“Because it’s California and that’s what you do here.”
Chris rolled her eyes good-naturedly, took the thermos and peeked in. “It’s green.”
“Uh-huh.”
She sniffed. Frowned. Took a sip. The flavors were creamy and complex. “Whoa, what is that? Mint? Banana? Ginger?”