Page 32 of Nine-Tenths

"That's not fair," I whine, gathering up the sign-making stuff. "Your name is Tudor, isn’t that an old family?"

"My mother is a thrice-removed niece of the royal Tudor line. My grandfather was Welsh, descended directly from Y Ddraig Goch himself."

"You say that like I'm supposed to know what it means," I throw over my shoulder, stashing everything away.

"The Great Welsh Dragon," Dav says, following after me. "They say he was King Arthur's wisest counselor."

"Now you're just talking shit. King Arthur wasn't real. It's a fairy-tale to explain why human-only Round Tables are a shitshow, and we need draconic monarchs."

"Wasn't he?" Dav raises a mocking eyebrow. "Don't you think adraigwould know?"

"Stoppit," I laugh, then gesture to the carafe beside me. "We open in ten minutes and that’s empty."

"Sir, yes sir," Dav tosses out with a lazy salute, and gets grinding.

Chapter Ten

The physiotherapist gave me a set of exercises to do, but Beanevolence is hopping, and I get all the exercise the doc could want by pulling espresso, lifting cauldrons of beans, and hefting around crates of milk, platters of scones, and jars of sugar.

And Hadi had worried that the new version of our coffee wouldn't be popular.

Ha.

Our first open Monday, the usual morning customers boomerang back in that afternoon, which isn’t normal. On Tuesday, they’ve brought their friends along. By Wednesday, there’s an honest-to-god line up at the counter.

Dikembe and Mauli swing by to get a look at our new employee and send me text messages likeIsn't that the dude you want to climb like a tree?And a string of frankly obscene emojis. I try to run them off with free lattes, pointedly into gocups. Instead, they slide into the leather club chairs and refuse to move for the rest of my shift, which means I'm forced to introduce them. Dike offers a congenial handshake which Dav takes with all the calm seriousness of a soldier greeting the spouse of a commanding officer, and Mauli invites him for drinks at the Brass Monkey.

I'm desperate for Dav to say yes, but I'm not surprised when his posture goes ever so slightly stiffer, his lips roll inward, and he flicks his eyes at me like he's afraid of disappointing me.

"S'cool if you have other plans," I offer, giving him the out.

Dav retreats gracefully, and Dike and Mau spend Wednesday evening waggling their eyebrows at me and coming up with increasingly lewd scenarios for me to 'accidentally' fall into Dav's embrace. We drink about twelve pints of craft beer between us, as Dike keeps a running list on his phone of every romance novel trope Mau can look up on theirs.

I don't tell them that I'd never actually do any of these things to Dav.

One, some of them are kind of sneaky. Two, the rest would startle him so bad the whole block would catch fire. Three, he doesn't like me like that.

The next morning, Hadi 'likes' every single photo posted of us in increasingly ludicrous and drunken arrangements, recreating front-cover poses. Or, at least,tryingto recreate them. At one point the waitress had brought over a table cloth, and a birthday girl at a nearby table had donated her tiara. In the cold hung-over light of morning, I decide that I'd look very pretty in a wedding dress.

By Thursday, I'm worried we're going to run out of green beans before the weekend. Hadi's already put in a second and a third order. Friday morning, there's a lineup snaking past the entrance of the darkened comedy bar next door when I arrive to open. Dav waits for me on the cement planter box by the entrance, dressed this time in a sharp blue waistcoat and trouser set that should look costumey, and instead just looks delectable. His shirt is the color of his eyes.

"Shit, man, you're making me look bad." I shake his hand in our new daily greeting. Dav likes formality. I like touching him. "I'm gonna have to up my style game."

Dav perks up. "My tailor could—"

"Whoa up. Five-packs of shirts is all I can afford. Let's open before the mob riots."

With Dav’s help, it takes just fifteen minutes to get the first two pots of coffee going and the initial batch of scones and muffins in the oven. When we let them in, Dav mans the cash, charming the panties off everyone, regardless of their gender and sexual orientation. I handle the drinks, barely able to keep up. Our summer morning rush used to last about half an hour, and if it was a good day, it consisted of maybe twenty orders. During the school year, it's usually about an hour, and maybe a hundred cups.

Today it lasts two and a half hours and I don't know how many people we serve, but I make over twenty pots of coffee and god knows how many lattes. It feels like we just caffeinated the entire non-student population of St. Catharines. By the time I've got the chance to sneak to the back for a glass of water and one of the muffins that had come out wonky, it's practically noon. I’m sweaty and, ugh, so not attractive right now.

"That's all of them," Dav says, coming to join me. Wonder of wonders, he's got a caramel latte for me. "I noticed that you didn't get any for yourself."

I have just enough manners not to stick my nose right into his attempt at foam art. The coffee is everything it's been all week, tasty in a way I can't pin down. The flavor is different, yeah, but there's somethingsatisfyingabout it. I made up the Beanevolence dark roast that I keep in my house yesterday just to compare, and the difference was like trying to put skim milk on toast instead of the best salted butter you've ever had.

My mouth gets ahead of my brain again, my traitorous taste-buds acting as a distraction.

"I love you," I blurt, as soon as I come up for air. Dav makes a noise like a pinched kitten. "Sorry, dumb joke."