Page 2 of Unreasonably Yours

Toni

In theory, I could put on real people clothes and go to the store, get a five dollar bag of coffee and other groceries I desperately need.

Or I could put on real clothes and go get a seven dollar oat milk latte from that coffee shop I've been meaning to visit.

Both involve getting dressed. Only one sounds moderately appealing, and it is not the more frugal choice.

Besides, I could get some work done, and given that I haven't left this apartment in a concerning number of days, the coffee shop option forces me to be moderately social. It feels like the universe is saying, “Girl, please go outside.”

Who am I to deny the universe?

My choices seem to be affirmed by the pleasant summer day awaiting me. The late July sun is warm against my exposed shoulders, but compared to the heat I was used to, this was nothing. It strikes me that I might actually enjoy the warmer months for the first time in my life.

When I pull on the door to the coffee shop fifteen minutes later, none of the typical fat girl summer gripes—like chub rub—plague me, and I've barely broken a sweat.

Perhaps these are consolation prizes from the universe, considering I almost dislocate my shoulder pulling on a locked door with full force.

Behind the counter, a barista, clearly deep into their closing duties—judging by the dim lights inside and the hours on the door indicating in bold font they close at three o’clock—looks up at me.

I grimace and mouth, “Sorry.” The last thing I want them to think is that I’m one of those assholes who has no qualms demanding someone reopen just to make them their triple shot iced latte with oat milk.

I’ve worked far too many service jobs in my time to be that person, even if a caffeine headache is already forming behind my eyes.

My quick internet search for alternatives comes up painfully short; most places are already closed or are about to be.

I consider telling the universe to soundly go fuck herself.

If all she was going to serve me was more bullshit today, I would rather have had mediocre store-bought cold brew delivered and not bothered to put on real pants, er, shorts. Whatever.

The bell behind me jingles. “If you’re hurting for it, the bar across the street uses our beans. It’s a chill place, too,” the barista says, body leaning halfway out the door.

“You’re an actual angel.” A simple thank you just didn’t quite have the gravity I needed to express my gratitude.

They give me a wide smile, pushing a shock of bleach blond hair from their face. “I do what I can. You should come by sometime when we’re actually open, though!”

“I definitely will.”

With a wave, they disappear into a cloud of espresso fumes.

I must have seen Two Sons when Ben and I walked around looking for a place to eat all those weeks ago. The weathered green paint and gold lettered sign were hard to miss, but if I did, it didn’t leave a lasting impression. Now, it sits across the street like a beacon of caffeinated hope.

While the outside isn't flashy, the wooden booths tucked into the two bay windows look inviting. One is already filled with a group of young men in crimson tees or rugby shirts. Decades of flyers wallpaper the vestibule around empty coat racks, colorful pages announcing everything from cover bands to school fundraisers to pet sitters. I bet if you were to take the time to peel them off, you’d reveal a history of neighborhood happenings worthy of an archive.

Inside, the space is well-worn but lacks the stale beer, sticky floor smell of a questionable dive.

Dark wood walls hold pictures of patrons and flyers for bands I don’t recognize, but someone thought were worth a frame.

In the far corner, a small stage sits ready for a band to take to the mic at any moment.

A gaggle of white-haired men and one older butch are gathered at the end of the shining bar top.

They all look to be as much a part of the place as the tin tiles on the ceiling.

It's the kind of place I'd enjoy fading into the background of, spending a few hours people-watching and sketching on a weekend night.

“Grab a seat wherever!” A masculine voice calls out from somewhere, thick Boston accent softening the ‘er’ to an ‘ah.’

The barstools look surprisingly fat-friendly: old, wide, and with a back, not the wannabe chic metal ones that bite into your thighs. I take a spot at the end of the bar opposite the older set, keeping the college guys to my back.

While I wait for the bartender, I begin unloading my laptop and notebooks. Just because I wasn't at a coffee shop didn't mean I couldn't knock out at least a few work-related tasks. Future me would be grateful.

My laptop is slowly dragging itself to consciousness when the same voice that greeted me asks, “What can I get ya? ”

I look up and my brain short-circuits.

True, I've been in hiding for the last few months.

The thought of pursuing anything casual or otherwise with any gender has caused even my rockstar gag reflex to act up.

So it is possible that my reaction is partially due to a lack of exposure.

Still, no part of me expected the owner of that voice to be one of the best-looking human beings I'd seen outside a thirst trap video in a very long time.

It takes a solid second for me to realize I'm quite literally gawking.

“Hmm,” I hedge, testing my vocal cords. “This may be a little weird, but the barista across the street said y'all carry their coffee?”

“We do.” He reaches beneath the bar, producing a standard coffee mug. It looks like a damn tea cup in his large, tattooed, be-ringed hand.

Those hands would look good- Jesus, Toni . Not like you haven't encountered an insufferably attractive human in the wild. Get it together.

“I'd love a cup.”

“Irish or virgin?”

“Virgin, for now,” I say, immediately regretting the choice of words.

The corner of his lips quirk, or maybe I just imagine they do. “You got it.”

He turns his back, and I almost disintegrate. The black T-shirt does nothing to diminish the width of his shoulders, and those jeans, fitted but not overly tight, are a sin against all things right and decent in this world.

“Cream?” He sets the steaming mug before me.

“Nah, black is fine.”

“Try it first.”

I cock a brow. Maybe I'd be lucky and he'd out himself as one of those guys who think women can't handle things like black coffee, whiskey, or driving a stick shift. Admittedly, I was not a whiskey drinker and generally preferred the ease of an automatic, but still. “Trust me, I'll be good.”

He crosses offensively muscled arms on his chest and nods at the mug. Was he intending to wait for me to taste it? I meet his eyes, spite overriding lust for a blissful moment.

I take a sip and fail to hide my shock.

It was excellent coffee, honestly better drip than I'd had at most coffee shops, but it was so strong it could knock anyone on their ass.

He barely holds back a laugh as I glare at him. “Don't feel bad, you're not the first.”

“But let me guess, you drink it straight daily.” I don't try to soften the note of snark in my tone.

“Absolutely not. More of a tea guy.” Excellent. A flaw. He shakes a small pitcher of cream at me.

“Yes, please.” He adds a splash, enough to take the edge off. I take a more cautious sip to find that it's perfect. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

I give him the appropriate close-lipped smile and turn my eyes to my laptop. I need something to focus on immediately, before my self-control gives way. The last thing I needed to do was something foolish like chatting up the hot bartender walking distance from my front door.

“Password is sláinte,” he says.

I look back up at him, trying to parse out what he just said to me and failing. “Sorry?”

“Wi-Fi? The password.”

“Yeah, I made that connection, it was the other part.” I attempt to echo the word back to him, “Sloan chair?”

Amusement crinkles the corners of his light-colored eyes. Were they green? Hazel? They could have been magenta, it wouldn't matter because I don’t need to be staring at them like an idiot.

“Sláinte,“ he repeats, spelling it out. “Basically, cheers in Irish.”

“Noted.” I enter it and immediately wish I hadn't. David's email sits at the top of my inbox like a giant 'fuck you' to my state of mind. “Thanks again.”

“I assume you're not from here.”

All too happy to take any bit of distraction from the reminder of David, I bite. “Does everyone just know the Irish word for cheers?"

“In Boston?”

“Technically, we're in Somerville,” I say.

“I'll give it to you that usually is a worthy distinction, just not in this situation.” He leans against the back of the bar, pulling a silver pendant from under his shirt and letting it fall against his chest.

“Fine,” I concede. “You're right, I'm not from here.” I don't offer any more information and pretend to turn my attention back to the screen.

“Not even gonna give me a hint?”

I grin at my screen before sliding my eyes back to him. “I'm pretty sure I already did.”

He seems to actually contemplate that for a moment. “I got nothin'.”

“The y'all earlier didn't give me away?”

“So somewhere southern?”

“Texas,” I clarify. He grimaces. “Ouch.”

“Sorry. Just . . . not my scene, ya know?”

I nod. “I know too well.”

“You here for school?”

“God, no.” I scoff. “You couldn't pay me to go back to school. Well, you probably could. But I just needed a change of scenery. ”

“Big change.”

“Big need.”

He looks like he's about to say more when someone else walks in. “Well, welcome. Let me know if you need anything.”

A few carnal needs flash through my mind, but I keep them to myself. “I will.”

With David's email moved to its own folder to rot, it falls into the shadows of my mind. I spend the next hour being impressively productive. As an added bonus, I only shame-spiral a tiny bit over tasks I could have finished days ago because they took approximately zero time.