How to Fall in Love ✔

How to Fall in Love (3)

Copyright © 2013 by roastedpiglet (of Wattpad)

     All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author. 

       

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c h a p t e r  t h r e e

[  h o w  t o  b e  j u l i e t  ]

             It wasn't even for a few hours, but I wondered if I were secretly a barista from my previous life, and that this was what I was meant to do. Which was, of course, a joke—because I finally saw the twist to the story: I was not hired as a barista. I was not hired as a waitress. 

            I was hired as some sort of temp whose job was to make whipped cream.

            Gripping the spatula for dear life, I spurred it round and round the mixing bowl, the smell of fresh creamer filling my nostrils, my sudden desire for coffee continuously growing by the second.

            "Are you doing well?" I heard Clifford ask me.

            I immediately looked up from the mixing bowl, still stirring vehemently, as I met with the eyes of the person who hired me. "I'm doing fantastic!"

            "So fantastic that you're getting whipped cream all over your apron?"

            Curling my eyebrows, I looked down at my apron and true to his word, it was filthy with cream. I stopped mixing the ingredients and dropped the spatula with a bang as I grabbed the nearest towel and rapidly dabbed at my apron, worried that I'd ruined my uniform so quickly.

            Well, technically, it wasn't even my uniform per se, but that just made things worse.

            I heard Clifford chuckle, before I felt the towel being snatched away from me. "Don't rub it so hard. You'll only make things worse." I would've thought that judging by his statement Clifford was raging, but his tone was the complete opposite—soft, gentle, and even with a hint of amusement.

            So I digressed, and looked at him strangely. "You're not mad?"

            He looked down at me too, still holding the sticky towel. "Should I be?"

            I shook my head fervently. "No! But I—I'm still sorry."

            "Don't be," he said, before turning his back to get rid of the towel.

            He never returned even after I counted to ten—my character Vivienne always counted to ten when she was waiting for something, or someone. It was something her father taught her—and so I was left with gripping the spatula for dear life once more and mixing until its features resembled dough.

            Deciding it would be time to take a taste of what I was stirring, I put the spatula up to my lips, and took a small bite. Alright was what it was, not too sweet but sweet enough to drown the bitter taste of coffee. I was about to transfer it into its designated cylinder, until someone called out my name.