Your shift at the coffee shop is about to end when a charming, attractive actor comes in for a caffeine jolt before an upcoming interview. Your subsequent days of flirting take a strangely sexy turn when you realize he might be taking his current ro...
Try as I might, finding an exact filming timeline for Dracula was hard. The movie was scheduled for a summer 1992 release but got delayed until November '92. Uma and Gary's divorce was finalized in April 1992. So we're going to go with a fall 1991 timeline for their separation and for this little fic... mainly because I wanted it to happen on Halloween. Forgive me if I'm off! _________
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October 1991
The minute-hand on your watch caught your eye as you slung the heavy wet mop over black tile. You grimaced, remembering this was the spot where some kid had spilled their hot chocolate a couple of hours ago. Sighing, you put some muscle into it, already looking forward to the bath and new book that waited for you back at your apartment. Well, the book was good in theory... you knew you might get a page or two in before casting it aside to write your own. That was usually how you rolled.
Satisfied with the tile now gleaming back at you, you gave a toe-test to make sure your shoe didn't stick. But you almost slipped when you heard the bells clanging together on the entry door.
"We're closing," you said abruptly, whipping around. Blinking, you felt your jaw pause in its attempt to close your mouth.
The man in front of you was... gorgeous. Sure, he wasn't that tall, but neither were you. He wore a black suit with glimpses of white at the sleeves, collar, and pocket square, and he topped it off with a black bow tie. A crushed velvet scarf fell gently over his jacket lapels and added another shade of ebony to his ensemble. By contrast, his eyes were piercing lasers of light blue. Soft, thick strands of light brown hair formed a heavenly crown above his layers of mysterious black.
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He clicked his tongue and glanced at his own watch. "Why close so early? It's only two in the afternoon."
Fuck. He had an accent too. British, but a bit rough around the edges compared to his refined look. You were eager to hear more and were pretty sure he could read the Yellow Pages in that voice and still keep you hooked.
Clearing your throat, you pointed to the neon sign on the door. "We're a breakfast place," you reminded him. While certainly attracted, you were also tired, and the owner was pretty strict with opening and closing times. He didn't want a reputation of staying open later than posted hours, because he wouldn't want to deal with such on the days he worked.
