Page 62 of Cream & Sugar

A moment later, Andi appears by our table with a tray and begins clearing plates.

“All good here, boys?”

“It was amazing, Andi,” says Shaun. “I don’t remember the last time I ate this well.”

“Totally,” I agree.

Andi beams.

“No one leaves my place hungry,” she turns to me. “So tell me, have we converted you to coffee, Freddie?”

I show her my empty cup and she nods, approvingly.

“Excellent! No going back now, I’m afraid. Say goodbye to your disposable income and a healthy resting heart rate.”

Shaun chuckles, a knowing look in his eye.

Andi clears our table and, despite Shaun’s objections, insists everything is on the house.

“So, I take it I’m not fired then?” I ask once she leaves, only half-joking.

“You can stay,” Shaun confirms, a twinkle in his eye. “Now you’re no longer a traitor to the cause.”

I wink and he grins.

Once our stomachs settle, we bundle up and head up to the counter to thank Andi one last time. She and Shaun hug, and Andipromises to come and visit Cream & Sugar on her next day off which, from the sounds of it, might not be until spring.

“Look after Grumbles for me, won’t you, Freddie?” she says, nudging Shaun in the ribs.

Shaun looks mortified, but I give Andi a thumbs-up.

“Don’t worry. Grumbles is safe with me!”

Grumbles and I head out into the snow, the cold slicing through my feeble jacket like razor blades.

“Don’t you own a thicker coat?” Shaun asks, looking comparatively toasty in his own tweed jacket and scarf.

I dodge his question, turning the conversation back to his favourite coffee spots so I don’t have to admit to being too skint to buy proper outerwear.

We wind our way through the city centre towards Glasgow’s West End, passing festive window displays and leaving footprints in the icing-sugar snow dredging the pavement. The city looks gorgeous this morning. It’s so rare that snow settles on the west coast, especially this early in the season, but we’ve been extraordinarily lucky.

Shaun seems to have an intimate knowledge of most of the cafés we pass, reeling off trivia about which has the best croissants or which to avoid for using beans from a substandard roastery. A week ago, I wouldn’t have been the least bit interested in this stuff, but I find myself hanging onto his every word. There’s something about Shaun that comes alive when he’s talking about coffee. A sort of spark. I guess it’s like me with music, though normally when I start harping on about some new lyrics or a cool riff I’ve written, people’s eyes tend to glaze over. Whereas I could listen to this handsome stud talk about microfoam and bean acidity all day without getting bored. His passion is magnetic.

When I can’t feel my hands anymore, I suggest we go somewhere for round two and, without missing a beat, Shaun steers us towards a tiny basement place called Smoothie Blues.

Inside, it’s kitted out like a log cabin—all rustic and cosy with a wee wood-burning stove smouldering away in the corner. We’re the only ones here and a mustachioed man behind the counter tells us to sit anywhere we like.

Shaun approaches the counter while I choose the table nearest the fire. I bathe my hands in the heat, my fingers prickling as they thaw. By the time I’ve defrosted, Shaun has appeared behind me with a couple of steaming mugs. He passes the larger one to me and I catch the unmistakable scent of chocolate.

“A mocha?” I ask, taking the mug and giving it a proper sniff.

“Bingo,” Shaun says. “Hot chocolate for grown-ups.”

“Is that why there’s no skooshy cream on top?” I tease.

“Yes,” Shaun says, matter-of-factly.

I roll my eyes. “Mum would always give us skooshy cream on our hot choccies if we were good.”