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“Medium double-espresso with two pumps of vanilla,” said the attractive brunette.
“Coming right up,” Sam replied.
“Yeah, I’ll bet,” the woman said with a smirk. She threw in a wink, and some trick of the light made her eyes look black for a second.
Sam just rolled his eyes. She might be attractive—and hadn’t she been blonde just last week?—but this customer needed some new material. That line was bad enough to be worthy of his brother, and she’d used it a few times already.
Sam had been willing to work any job that came up, anything that would help pay for his living expenses, because even a “full ride” to Stanford didn’t quite cover those. Unfortunately, the only one that had materialized was at this local imitation of a pretentious coffee chain. The owner, a smarmy guy who went by Crowley—what was he, Prince? Cher?—didn’t seem to care all that much about the actual coffee end of things so much as how much of a profit the place turned. Sam might not be a business major, but he was pretty sure that caring about your product was kind of important to the whole profit aspect, but he wasn’t here to fix the coffee shop, just to pour the stuff.
Finishing off her drink, Sam carefully put the lid on it and set it on the counter, naming the price. She swiped her card through the reader, grabbed the coffee, and turned to leave. Sam could swear she put extra swing into her hips as she headed for the door.
Shaking his head, Sam focused on the next person in line. Just another hour and his shift would be done. If he was going to have his mind on anything besides work, it should be the paper that was due tomorrow morning.
~*~
“Medium double-espresso with two pumps of vanilla.”
Sam didn’t even need to look up from the register to know who that was. That didn’t stop him, of course. It did, however, stop him from giving his usual reply, which he replaced with a nod.
“What, cat got your tongue? Am I getting the silent treatment now?”
Sam just raised an eyebrow at her.
“I’ll be good from now on, I promise,” she said.
“Here you go,” he said, setting the cup on the counter in front of her and naming the price.
“You’re no fun, Sam,” she said with a sniff.
Sam started, then realized that was foolish. He was wearing a name tag, after all. Everybody who wanted to know his name could just read it. For a second, he wished this was a bigger shop, so he’d have to ask customers for their names too. He could use something to call this lady besides “awesome hips with terrible lines.”
He did not just think that. He did not just think that. He did not just think that.
"Moose!" Crowley yelled from where he’d been counting the pastries, “Didn’t hire you to stand there and look pretty. You’ve got a line!”
“Can I help you?” Sam asked the next customer a bit desperately.
~*~
“Medium double-espresso with two pumps of vanilla. Ruby.”
Sam did a double-take. Yup, it was her. He wasn’t sure what that addition was, though. They weren’t exactly throwing gemstones into their coffee. Crowley might be a pretentious asshat, but he was also cheap. Also, that sounded like a choking hazard.
“My name,” she said, “for the cup?”
“Right, sure,” he replied. Sam set about making her coffee, popping on the lid, and setting it in front of her.
“You didn’t put my name on it,” she said with a pout.
Sam grabbed the cup back and scribbled “Ruby” on it in big, black letters. “There, now you shouldn’t lose it.”
She let her fingers brush against his as she took the coffee back from him. “Thanks, Sam.”
His fingers tingled where they’d touched. He was doomed. Completely and totally doomed.
“Can I help you?” he asked the middle-aged woman who stepped forward to the counter.
~*~
“Medium double-espresso with two pumps of vanilla, Ruby.”
Sam sighed and wrote her name on the cup. It was kind of ridiculous that he’d been wondering where she was. It was a good hour later than she’d normally arrive, but it wasn’t like he set the clock by her or anything. Exactly. He should’ve been happy that she hadn’t come in to annoy him instead of ... whatever he’d been.
“That looked more like a pump and a half,” she said from behind him. “I know you can pump better than that, Sam.”
He added another half pump of syrup with an eyeroll for good measure.
“Just don’t blame me if it’s too sweet,” he said as he handed it to her, completely ignoring the way her fingers first covered his, then slid up to grab the cup.
“You know, that was the perfect opening to tell me I’m sweet enough or some crap like that,” she said with a sardonic look.
“Somehow, I just don’t really feel like that fits,” he retorted. “Have a nice day.”
“It’d be nicer if you’d tell me what time you get off,” she said.
Sam decided to leave that bait alone, just shooting her a look before turning his attention to the balding man who was next in line.
“Can I help you?”
~*~
“Medium double-espresso with two pumps of vanilla, Ruby.”
He was doomed, Sam realized as he started her drink. Not only did he know when to expect her to arrive, he'd been checking the clock ever since one o’clock, which was a full hour and forty-five minutes before her usual time. Yeah, doomed.
“So,” Ruby said as he started her coffee, “you gonna tell me what time you get off yet, or am I gonna have to waterboard Crowley for it?”
“What?” Sam almost dropped the cup.
“Crowley? Your boss? Smarmy British dude? Ring any bells?”
“No, I mean, of course I know who my boss is.” Sam fumbled with the lid, which just did not want to snap into place for anything. “Just not used to hearing people joke about torture like that.”
To be fair, he wasn’t used to hearing people other than his brother randomly joke about torture like that, but he didn’t think she needed that piece of information. Also, that wasn’t so much what had startled him.
“Aww, that’s so sweet,” she said in a tone that suggested she thought it was more stupid than sweet. “So, when did you say you get off?”
Sam sighed. “Eight-thirty.”
“Great!” she replied with a grin. “We can probably just make it.”
“Make ... what?” Sam tried not to stammer, but the customers behind her were getting antsy, starting with his “uncle” Bobby who was right behind her.
“Guess you’ll have to wait and find out.” She winked at him as she took her coffee and sashayed out the door.
“What just happened?” Sam asked Bobby.
“Pretty sure you just signed over your soul to that young lady,” Bobby replied. “You’d best keep your wits about you with that one. Now are you gonna make my coffee or just stand there like a deer what don’t know it’s about to get bulldozed?”
Sam gulped, nodded, and focused on making Bobby’s coffee, only to realize that he’d messed it up.
“Son,” Bobby asked, “have I ever in my life ordered vanilla in my coffee? And if you just packed that filter with a double shot, you might as well call the paramedics right now.”
Sam groaned and set aside the medium double-espresso with two pumps of vanilla he’d been making and started over with a large cappuccino.
This was going to be a long day, but Sam was actually looking forward to seeing what tonight would bring. Bobby might be right. Maybe this was a quick trip to hell in a hand basket. But it promised to be an interesting ride.