Not that it was a crazy complicated skill, but operating an espresso machine during high traffic could be added to my repertoire along with card tricks and how to fire a Colt .45. But what was the point in getting a job here when I might as well get a job anywhere else in the country? Seattle was the birthplace of coffee in North America and I’d never lived there yet.
I folded the application haphazardly and tried to stick it in the back pocket of my jeans but I felt it fall out and flutter to the floor behind me. I turned around to see a man bent over, picking it up.
I saw the top of his head first, saw shaggy dark brown hair that curled down the nape of his neck. Then, as he rose, application in hand, I saw dark, arched brows over crystal clear blue eyes. A septum ring that acted like an exclamation point at the end of his slim nose. A striking pair of lips: thin and curved on top, full and wide on the bottom. A few day’s worth of stubble all over his chin and jaw. He looked like a male model and I found my breath hitching as I took him in, from his nice height and all-too-firm build, to the way he wore his cargo shorts and his aged Iggy Pop tee like a second skin. His arms were covered in tattoos, an intensely colorful mixture of skulls, animals, and campiness.
I finally breathed out when he tucked a strand of hair behind his ears. His ears kind of stuck out like Dumbo. This was good. This stranger had flaws. I couldn’t stand perfect people.
Then he was handing me the application and smiling at me. And in that smile, the way it took a few seconds to reach his eyes, an expression that darkened momentarily before brightening, I felt a rush of déjà vu that nearly knocked me over.
I knew him. How did I know him? And how long had I been standing there staring at him like an idiot? I was usually a lot smoother than that.
“You dropped this,” he said. He had an interesting voice, low but precise, like he could narrate Rosetta Stone DVDs. It pushed pleasure buttons along my spine.
I took the application from him, our fingers brushing against each other. I felt a spark, electricity.
No, literally.
“Ow,” I said, as I snatched my hand and the application away from him.
He grinned sheepishly and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Sorry. I’m a good conductor.”
I stared at him while blindly refolding the application. He continued, “Of electricity. You know, the sparks. I just shocked you. I’m not a train conductor or anything. Or like a music conductor. Although I do play guitar.”
He was babbling, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was nervous. But that would beget the question of why the hell this hunk of man was nervous around me. I wasn’t ugly by any means. I had my mother’s Estonian features, which meant high cheekbones, heart-shaped lips, and dark, hooded eyes. But my beauty was always more of a “hey, I never actually realized how pretty you were.” If I was just standing in the corner of a room, your eyes would pass over me. I’d go unnoticed. And I liked that.
If I was walking, well that was another story.
“Ellie!” the barista announced in a surprisingly strong voice. Must have been all the coffee she drank.
I shot the man a quick smile, painfully aware that in the last minute, all I’d said to him was “ow,” and plucked the steaming drink off the counter.
“I knew it,” he said with a snap of his fingers, and I slowly turned around, bringing the cup to my lips and gauging how scalding it was.
“Knew what?” I asked. Hot. Coffee was way too hot.
He grinned at me as if he’d just solved a Rubik’s cube, and I felt myself get a weird flutter in my stomach. I knew I should have eaten more than beef jerky.
“You’re Ellie Watt.”
Oh fudgeknuckles.
I turned back around and slapped a lid on my cup with shaking hands.
He knew me. Hot tattoo dude knew me and I didn’t know him. This wasn’t good.
I turned back to face him and shot him my biggest smile.
“I have to go,” I said. When in doubt, just go. My parents had taught me that, along with “never underestimate your mark” and “emotions don’t win the game.” It’s too bad they were as hypocritical as I was.
I took a step to leave, my eyes newly focused on the door, but he reached out, grabbing my free arm. I flinched, expecting another spark to flow through me, but it was just his warm, strong hand.
“Wait,” he said, lowering his voice and coming a step closer. He smelled peculiar. It wasn’t bad—actually it was quite a sensual smell, but it was something I couldn’t put my finger on. Earthy and industrial. Cinnamon and…ink?
I dared to meet his eyes. He was so close I could see the contact ring around his baby blues.