Page 8 of I’ll Paint You a Sunset Someday
January 2045
Dean
Time flies when you’re having fun—isn’t that what they say? Well, fun isn’t exactly how I’d describe getting reacquainted with your entire life, but the last month has been . . . something.
The Marmotte’s barista officially recognizes me as someone who prefers the sweetest coffee available. A week-long adventure of spontaneous orders taught us that for me, we must erase the bitter bite with however much sugar is necessary. My visits are less about the actual coffee, anyway. Much more about being known.
A hot white chocolate mocha has yet to be dethroned from its top-tier position, but the peppermint mocha has made quite the effort. It’s seasonal, so I have to order it more before it’s just another thing lost to time.
A few other regulars are on the same schedule as me, and when our eyes meet every morning we dip our chins in a kind, silent hello. It lessens my anxiety about going to the fire station but never completely medicates it. This storm cloud is persistently swelling as the days tick toward losing our first victim. It has to happen eventually.
It’s an adjustment period , Chief has reassured me.
Apparently, this year is the best I’ve handled it.
Maybe I should actually apply his advice to enjoy life outside of work and go out with Hudson and Matt tonight. They’ve offered enough, and my declining chuckle has started to sound a lot like it’s never gonna happen .
Taking a step forward, I glance up to order. The barista is patiently smiling at me again. “Oh, I’m sorry!” I mumble to the long line of eager customers behind me. Her patience may have extended beyond the first week of the year, but theirs has not.
“Good morning. What can I get you?”
“I’ll take my usual.”
Usual—really?
“Sure,” she answers, chuckling cautiously. “Coming right up.”
Rushing to escape the awkward moment of silence, I turn to my usual table in the middle of the room, but mid-step, my feet freeze. Why is that woman sitting in my chair?
She’s one of the other regulars, here almost every day with her two friends. Sits on the loveseat. It’s strange that I know that, but it’s hard not to when she walks around looking like the sun.
Her warm, wide smile breaks my stare and mind. Startling me is rare, but damn—she’s done it. Shrugging my shoulders to shake it off, I loudly thank the barista, grab my coffee, and run out the door. The fresh air will piece me back together.
Even in the cold, I walk everywhere. It’s independent and less intimidating than the bus. Chief insists public transport is just another learning curve, but there’s no need to learn that one. The fire station is only a few blocks away anyway.
The coffee cup warms my hands as I take my first sip. Convulsing at the bitter flavor, I mumble, “What the fu—”
“Excuse me!” a faint voice yells from behind.
The impressions I make are few and far between. No one needs my attention. Closer this time, the woman yells again, “Excuse me!”
“Hey!” she exclaims as her delicate fingers grip my arm and pull it backward.
Spinning to regain my balance, my entire cup of coffee becomes her newest fashion statement. Honey-colored coffee drips from her face as she lights me on fire with her eyes. My training didn’t prepare me for this one.
It has to hurt, that hot of a drink in this cold of weather. Probably feels like a million needles prickling her skin. What do I—
Holy—Sunshine.
Time is lost as I hold her rage-filled stare, careful not to let my eyes wander. Even pissed, she’s radiant. Instantly burned away my anxious storm cloud, just by being close to me. Reaching up, I gently wipe away her coffee tears like tissues absorbing sadness. It’s the least I can do after being the one to cause the rain.
For a second, it feels like she leans into my touch. Must be magic, because her brows unfurrow and eyes widen a bit. My heart seems to widen, too. It feels more now than it’s felt all year.
She’s the main reason The Marmotte became my favorite place. There are plenty of coffee shops in the city, but there’s only one that has her light. That smile of hers stops time, and I wish more than anything it’d make its grand appearance for me right now.
Hallee
It hasn’t taken long for The Marmotte to become my favorite place. The coffee is great, but the experience is unmatched. The barista is always smiling, and the sun shines through the floor-to-ceiling windows in this romantic way that makes me feel warm and cozy. There’s no better start to the day. After panic-ordering a vanilla latte during my first visit, I haven’t strayed. Life is adventurous enough already.
Avery opened at work today, so I walked with her. She’s the smallest of us, barely five feet tall, and we’re extra protective of her. Maybe it’s her height, or the fact she wouldn’t defend herself in a crisis. Either way, I arrived ten minutes earlier than usual to The Marmotte, so someone else was sitting in my seat. Well, it’s not my seat but it is, okay? It’s the right one, and the shift in schedule must’ve cracked my mind because rather than waiting for it to open up, I somehow ended up in the wrong one. The middle of the room one. Clearly, I wasn’t thinking, because never in a million years will this be considered right. I blacked out on the way here, actually. Came to by tapping my fingers on the table and counting the seconds until my coffee hits the bar. The longer I sit here, the more my shoulders tense.
Is someone watching me?
Check left. Check right. Stay calm, Hal.
Surprise, I talk to myself these days. I’m really all I have and—I knew it!
That man standing by the bar. Why is he staring at me like that? Like I’m an ex-girlfriend breaking his heart all over again.
Gently swiping my hand across my cheek, I brush my hair over my shoulder and shoot him the widest smile I have.
Nothing. Not even a wave back.
Annoyance builds with every second this stalemate continues. My roaring, anxious thoughts had finally turned to embers, only to be viciously reignited by Mr. Stand and Stare.
After grabbing the first coffee to hit the bar, he bolts out the door and honestly—how dare he? Did he really not realize I ordered before him? Now he’s left me with his . . . peppermint mocha. Of course. Peppermint toothpaste is barely acceptable, but peppermint coffee? Unbearable. Certifiably insane.
My gut curdles as I catch a whiff of it. Ugh, Mr. Stand and Stare is a sneaky coffee criminal. I paid good money for that vanilla latte and it’s privileged to care this much about something so minor, but it’s the principle of it! Logic runs me out the door as I transform into a feisty lawyer, thirsty for justice.
“Excuse me!” I yell.
The audacity of this man to keep walking as if he hasn’t heard me, the only person yelling on the street.
“Excuse me!” I yell louder, significantly more annoyed.
“Hey!”
Grabbing his arm, I pull him around, and—oh my god, he’s hot! I mean, that’s hot. Really painful, actually, feels like my skin is melting, but it’s fine. Totally fine. Wowee, drinking coffee is so much better than wearing it.
Tears mix with what is, unmistakably, my vanilla latte, and fall off of my eyelashes like raindrops from the sky. His mortified expression does nothing to stop my glare, even as my vision blurs.
I deserve an apology. Instead, he reaches up slowly and wipes away my tears. Magic, that touch. Soft, deliberate, and gone before I realize how much I needed it.
His eyes are dangerous—hazel, with a honey halo circling his pupil. Swindler’s eyes, powerful enough to steal your heart in the night, or convince you to offer it up for a feast. They’re a one-way ticket to a world where fairy tales exist, and soulmates do too. I don’t believe in that kind of love, but maybe I do? I could never say no to those eyes. They feel like home, but home’s just a figment of imagination when you don’t have the time to build one. Don’t have the time to connect safety to another person. Damn him for his coffee crimes, and damn his eyes for giving me something worth remembering.
“I’m so sorry,” I spit out, breaking the long silence.
Him tipping his head back laughing is my final straw. This is precisely why I don’t stray from routine. Now, my favorite crewneck is ruined and an irresistible, socially unaware man is practically laughing in my face.
“I don’t need this,” I mutter, turning to leave.
Grabbing my arm, he yells, “Wait!”
There should be a universal wardrobe for those who startle easily. Some sort of warning label that screams tread with caution around this one, because his loud voice makes me instinctively drop his peppermint mocha all over my shoes.
“Great,” I sigh. “Just great. It’s not funny! Why are you still laughing?”
Honestly, this can be the end. The world can go ahead and take me now.
“You apologized to me.” He bends over, nearly breathless from laughing. “ You . . . apologized to me . . . because I . . . dumped coffee on you! ”
Marlowe says I apologize too much, as if I’m apologizing for my existence, but it’s a hard habit to break.
“Right,” I draw out. “Well, go ahead, sir.”
“Go ahead with what, ma’am?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
Ironically, I have not had enough coffee to be giving etiquette lessons this early in the morning. Does he even realize he hasn’t apologized? Well, he is a man . The world doesn’t expect their every move to be followed with an apology, even when one is warranted, and I don’t deserve much, but I do deserve one now.
“Go ahead with your sincere apology for being a coffee criminal and then discarding the evidence all over my favorite, perfectly pristine, crewneck.”
“Now, wait a minute. That is an extremely serious charge. We need to bring in a jury before officially convicting me of any coffee crimes.” His voice is sarcastic, but his face is stone-cold serious.
“Okay, Mr. Stand and Stare,” I scoff, “it’s been a pleasure.”
Hurt and embarrassment flood his galaxy eyes, and my stomach sinks. Clearly, he’s insecure about the whole staring thing, but I’m not apologizing again for something that’s not my fault. Women are not responsible for healing the insecurities of men.
“I’m not sorry for appreciating a beautiful thing when I see one, and your smile is absolutely captivating. However, for ruining your beloved crewneck, I do apologize.”
Captivating? What is this guy on?
“Please, have this.” Taking off his Firefighters of Ann Arbor sweatshirt, he holds it out to me. “It’s freezing out here, and you’re drenched. I insist.”
Pausing for a moment, I silently welcome his muscles to the gun show. Firefighter is right, but if love were a fire, would he fight it or let it burn?
“Are you sure?” I ask.
Yes, his eyes blink as he dips his chin.
“Thank you very much.”
“You are very welcome.”
Pulling his sweatshirt over my head, I hesitate slightly to hide my burning cheeks. It smells like fresh snow, salt, and a touch of sandalwood. Somehow exactly what I expected.
The sun is a paid actor, illuminating him from behind and forming a perfect halo around his ruffled chestnut hair. Unfair, how much it emphasizes our height difference. I’m 5'5" on a good day, and his chin starts where my head stops.
A vision of him hugging me flashes through my mind, and I can almost feel him touching me like his sweatshirt is. Makes me nervous, so I glance at my phone.
Oh my gosh, is that the time?
My jaw unintentionally clenches, and the tension between us returns. Being late really really bothers me. The rigidity of my schedule doesn’t leave much grace for myself. If other people are late it’s acceptable, but if I am late then I will not sleep for days. Flexibility is something I want to work on this year, but it’s hard to find the drive to self-improve when I won’t remember how far I’ve come.
His standing and staring interrupts my thought spiral before his voice does. “Well, I won’t keep you from bringing light to the rest of the world. Do you want an escort to work?” he asks, discreetly hopeful.
“The sweatshirt will keep me company. Thank you, though.”
Take that eyes. That was a runaround answer for a no.
His disappointment flickers and fades.
“Then have a great day, Sunshine .” Confidently chuckling, he walks away with a single wave.
Regret hits me like a brick with each step he takes. Why didn’t I get his name?