Tug-at-your-heartstrings new adult first love story.
What starts as a bet to avoid cleanup duties at her minimum wage cashier job, wins Amelie D'Amico more than she's ever hoped for.
When Ben, a cute customer who always checkouts at her register, fi...
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Five minutes before closing time, I'm back at my register, indulging in my favorite pass-time of my Tuesday shift: door-watching. The only difference is today my stakes doubled. If Mr. Sweatpants keeps talking to me, I'll get another win against Chris under my belt, but it also means Angie will make me watch 'Pitch Perfect' with her. If he goes back to his yes, no, and I don't know responses, I lose to Chris today and likely spend cleaning the bathrooms in the foreseeable future, but Angie'll release the control of the TV over to me. I'm torn.
Chris is about to lock the doors when in walks my guy. He breaks his usual pattern and glowers at me. I wave. He raises his hand in reply and continues with his routine. The moment of truth comes when he pushes his cart full of groceries to my register.
"I printed it out for you." His middle and index fingers pass a neatly folded square my way.
One sentence down, one more to go.
"What's this?" Is he giving me his phone number? That's bold of him. I unfold the paper and inspect a recipe for the coffee-rubbed salmon. A recipe. And from a complete stranger.
"It calls for four fillets," he says. "But you can do a couple too. Fish does not reheat well."
"Wow, thank you." I turn it over to detect a possible trick. A setup. "I'm gonna try it this weekend. Will any salmon do?"
"Yes, but I'd recommend the fillets with the skin still on." He's surveying the drab walls and the worn-out floor of the store. "And remember to grind your coffee extra fine, more like powder. Other than that—it's simple, and I wrote the tips that helped me."
The switch from not talking to me for months to brining the recipe he once mentioned a week ago raises several questions about our exchange. I glance at him and notice no vibes I'd usually summon Chris to assist me with. Mr. Sweatpants is...nice. Some people are just nice. Might serve me well to remember that. Being nice is not that unusual. I can be nice too. "I most definitely will give it a try and report back on how it goes." That was nice, right?
"I'll look forward to that." He stills his head, pauses his gaze on my lips, and moves his eyes up to meet mine. He's not flirting, not at all, but the extended eye contact is not something I can maintain.
I lower my lashes as a shild from his unblinking blue stare. Maybe nice was the wrong word. It's like he sees through me, and into my thoughts. And those are not something I want to share with him or anyone. I pinch the bridge of my nose. I'm overthinking this. He's just another customer. I can stop talking to him now. I've way more sentences than I need to send Chris scrubbing the toilets again. I switch my focus to the paper in my hand.
The margins of the paper are brimming with meticulous handwritten notes in blue. Observations. Serving adjustment. Coffee coarseness recommendation he just gave me. How does he know these things? I've never seen a recipe pairing salmon with coffee in Nonna's cookbook collection. He must be in the cooking world.
