“Caramel’s twenty cents extra,” I say, my tone forbidding.
He gives me an easy smile, as if he knows the source of my anger. Funny, because I don’t even know where it comes from. “I’m sure it’s worth it.”
I make his change and slam the cash register drawer shut a little harder than needed. Then I pour her drink while listening to her say “Thank you” and “I left my wallet at home” and “You’re such a gentleman.”
Then I slide the plastic twenty-ounce cup toward her, along with a fully plastic straw that’s sure to melt the ozone.
She takes it and sits in the corner, her back to the window, presumably hoping she doesn’t see anyone she knows.
Which leaves me alone with Logan.
“This kind of thing get you off?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Ordering coffee?”
“Stepping in to save the poor damsels in distress.”
“Were you in distress?” he asks, his tone polite and distant. “I couldn’t tell, but if I helped you out just now then I’m glad.”
I snort. “What do you want?”
He peruses the chalkboard menu, taking his time. “Who drew this?”
I don’t get much pleasure from my job. It’s minimum wage customer service, with a side of bathroom cleaning. The one small light is that Bart doesn’t give a fuck what I draw on the menu as long as the names and prices are readable. I change it up every so often.
Currently there are little coffee bean beings with stick arms and legs in various peaceful vistas—lying on a hilltop looking up at coffee-cup-shaped clouds, running through a field of wild coffee beans, rowing through a river of espresso.
“That would be me.”
“Nice,” he says, seeming impressed.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter what he thinks. “Your order?”
“You got those little cardboard things that hold four cups?”
“We did, but they got wet when the roof leaked. No one orders more than two drinks around here. We never got more.”
A noncommittal hum.
“If you have four cup holders, I can help you carry it out.” I’m not saying it to be helpful, I tell myself. Or to be nosy and look inside his car. I’m only suggesting it to get rid of him.
“I need thirty drinks. Anything will work, but that iced latte looked pretty good.”
“Thirty? You’re shitting me.”
“Operations,” he says.
“And security. Administration. I remember.”
“Asked around. Heard this was the best coffee in town.”
“Compared to the gas station? Sure. We don’t have containers, so I don’t know how you’re going to… Hang on.” I rummage underneath the counter until I find the empty gallon jugs of milk I used this morning. “You want me to fill these up? I can give you the cups, so you can pour it out when you get there.”
A blinding smile that makes me feel stupid and young. “That works.”
He overpays and overtips, and in the end, even his ridiculously nice biceps and large hands can’t carry them all in one trip. So I follow him out with the last container—this one cardboard full of oat milk that was about to expire half full, because no one here drinks it. Along with a stack of paper cups.
He’s driving a truck, which isn’t surprising around here. Or in his line of work. I wonder what he usually hauls. Not lumber, I assume. And not hay feed, since his circus doesn’t have animals. Black paint shines more than it should after a long trek from some faraway place.
He opens the cab and ducks inside to set the containers carefully on the floor, where they hopefully won’t spill everywhere. I do my best not to glance at his ass, but I fail. The denim holds him tight, and I look away, regretting my own weakness. I hand him what I’ve got, and then I’m standing there, useless, useless, useless.
I turn away.
“Sienna.”
I’m still facing the Coffee Bean, staring at my own dim reflection. “What?”
“Come to the circus tonight.”
“Why?” I whirl to face him, this red flag who came into my place of work. This man who wants to lure me back to his lair, even if it’s a bright-colored lair with lights and music. “So you can kiss me?”
“More than that.”
So kissing would be part of it then. “I might be busy.”
He doesn’t point out that we don’t even have a movie theater. There’s nothing to do in Forrester except the circus tonight. He pulls something out of his back pocket. “Take this.”
It’s in my hands before I can think to refuse. I read the red and gold embossed ticket in my hands. VIP, it says along the side. Cirque des Miroirs. Everything you can dream.
And then in small print: This ticket allows the bearer access to any show under the Big Top, private access to the performer’s tent, and unlimited rides and games.
It’s a generous thing to give to a stranger.
Unless he’s giving it in exchange for sex. Then it’s probably offensive.
“Don’t overthink it,” he says, his voice low and urgent. “There are no requirements here. No promises. The whole thing is a bad fucking idea. We established that much. But I want to see you again. I hoped I would see you again. This is a sign.”
Pleasure pulses through me at the idea of this man, so self-composed, so confident, hoping to see me. “I’ll think about it.”
Green eyes striated with gold examine me. They examine the purple scarf that’s tied around my neck like a terrible fashion statement.
The haughty woman and I aren’t so different.
Those eyes flash emerald in the sunlight. “You don’t trust me. I would ask who hurt you, except I already know, don’t I?”
He means Asshole #2.
You don’t know the half of it.
“Come to the circus,” he says again.
I want to. I hate how much I want to. I push the tickets into my apron, the place where tips would go if anyone in this town actually tipped. “Everyone will be there.”
“I’ll find you.”
“I’m going to bring Kyle with me.”
“Good. I’d enjoy throwing him out again.”
My throat feels too tight to answer.
After a long look, he nods, as if something was decided. Then he gets into his truck and drives off at a nice, sedate pace that won’t end up with milk and coffee rolling all over the cab.
I stare after him with a giddy feeling in my stomach.
No, the haughty woman and I aren’t so different at all.
By the time my shift ends, it’s a blazing hundred degrees outside. My sweat stinks of coffee as I ride my bike down the long winding lane toward the house.
The three-bedroom ranch-style home with a faded blue awning is the place where I live, but it’s been a long time since I thought of it as home.
Sun scorches the dry grass and praises the tall weeds. Despite the light blinding me as I drop my bike on the side of the house, it’s dark as a mausoleum inside.
Heavy drapes have remained closed for as long as I can remember. The only light comes from the metal fan above the stovetop. It’s been scrubbed clean, but no amount of Clorox can make the little black specks where paint has peeled from metal disappear.