Blushing Pink

by Jill Winters

  "Oh, really?" Brian said conversationally. "How come you're working here now?"

  She brought his mug over and set it down beside the soup. "I'm on winter break this month, so—"

  "Excuse me," a middle-aged woman behind Brian said irritably. "I'm sort of in a hurry here." She smacked her hands haughtily against her thighs.

  "I'm sorry; I'll be with you in just a second," Reese said. In response, the woman began making a production of checking her watch. Brian flashed Reese a sympathetic look—one that seemed to say, No problem, we'll talk another time, and People are jerks. Then he took some bills out of his wallet.

  "No," Reese said immediately. "It's on the house."

  "Oh, no," he began, shaking his head and sounding firm.

  "Brian, please," Reese insisted.

  He tried to hand her the bills anyway. "No, I can't let you do that."

  She put her hand on his to stop him, and he stilled. She withdrew instantly in case it had been too intimate a gesture. (Not to mention, his hand was so warm and inviting, she was afraid she'd pull it to her and cup her own breast with it. That would be hard to live down, at best.) "Brian, really."

  The woman behind him cleared her throat loudly and clapped her hands on her thighs again. In a low voice, Brian asked, "But won't you get in trouble?"

  Reese made a face. "Believe me, I'll get in trouble regardless."

  He chuckled. "Well, okay. Thanks, if you're sure—"

  "Ahem, I'm really in a hurry here," the hag behind Brian said angrily.

  Brian smiled one more time at Reese before giving a politely apologetic look to the woman behind him. Then he took his tray to a far-off table.

  The last thing Reese registered was his broad, strong-looking back, before she was in the throes of a huge order for the woman, who was apparently out getting coffee for her entire office.

  When she finally left, Reese expelled a breath and reviewed the day's events so far. Okay, so now things with Brian weren't awkward. In fact, they were damn friendly. This was good—very good. The only bad thing was that friendly was about all they were. She hadn't picked up any romantic vibes from him. There hadn't been a trace of flirtiness in his manner. Just warm camaraderie. In fact, she was now starting to wonder if she'd imagined the heat that had been mingling in the air between them the night before.

  She had desperately wanted to kiss him last night. While her mother had been droning on (and on), Reese had been conjuring up numerous NC-17 scenarios featuring Brian Doren. Things she'd never done with anybody had been popping into her head as if they were the most natural thoughts in the world.

  In fact, she'd been so hot and bothered that she'd thought—hoped—it couldn't be all her. She'd assumed that Brian had to be radiating at least a little of that suffocating heat.

  But now he was calmly eating his soup and reading. She studied him for several more moments, in which time he did not once look up from his newspaper. So much for a mutual attraction. The man barely knew she was alive.

  Reese sighed and leaned her elbow on the countertop. Sinking her chin into her palm, she couldn't help thinking that her instincts were rusty as hell, and when it came to this man-woman thing, she was some kind of walking disaster. So what else was new?

  * * *

  Would he stop to say good-bye before he went back to work? Reese couldn't help wondering. Not that he should—they were only acquaintances, not good friends.

  She understood this. But that still didn't stop her from completely, insanely fixating on getting a goodbye.

  The cafe traffic had slowed to a crawl. Only Brian, Rhoda, Clay, and two young women were sitting there now, and there was no one on line. Reese had finished baking for the day, putting away the glassware from the dishwasher and wiping down the espresso machine. She supposed, therefore, she had time to sponge off the empty tables in the seating area. Hey, if she happened to strike up a conversation with Brian Doren while she approached his section of the cafe, so be it. It wasn't as if she were planning anything....

  Once she was out in the seating area, she went, quite involuntarily, into ultracasual mode—traipsing herself about and twirling her rag, which she never did. Vaguely aware that she was acting differently for Brian's benefit, she mentally urged herself to stop. Instead she started to whistle. Get it together; stop acting so weird.

  Not that it mattered all that much—Brian wasn't paying any attention to what she was doing. As she swiped her rag across one of the vacant tables, she could hear Rhoda and Clay talking about Lord of the Dance. Rhoda was pretending that she'd had an opportunity to dance with the company, and Clay was pretending he knew Michael Flatley.

  Reese moved on to the next table, then the next, and by the time she got to Brian's immediate area, instead of her anxiousness having subsided, she was so acutely aware of his presence that she abandoned any idea of striking up a conversation.

  "Cool overalls."

  She looked up, startled. Then she looked down at the gray corduroy overalls in question. "Oh... thanks," she said, slowly returning Brian's warm, open smile.

  "So..." he said, absently folding his newspapers, "you never finished telling me about school before."

  She had to think for a second, and then memories of the impatient customer who needed twenty-five coffees came flooding back to her. "Oh, right. Well, there's not much to tell," she said, not wanting to bore him.

  Only he didn't act bored. "Well, what's your focus? I remember you're getting your Ph.D. in history, right?"

  Her heart soared—as pathetic as that was. "Yeah," she replied. "Well, I don't know if I'm getting it, but that's what I'm there for."

  She smiled and toyed with her rag and told him about her fellowship. Then the inevitable question came: "So what's your dissertation about?"

  Reese tried to respond with the suave aplomb of a Ph.D. student who was actually working on a dissertation. "Um... I still haven't completely locked anything down that I want to write about. I have a few different angles I can take." Luckily, Brian didn't seem to know how odd that was for a second-year grad student, who was going to be ABD the following year.

  Good. She'd pulled it off. Until, for no conceivable reason, she blurted out, "Actually, I haven't even started."

  The corner of his mouth hitched up. "What do you mean?" he asked.

  "I haven't done a thing on my dissertation, and the sad part is, I don't want to!" He looked a little amused that she'd told him that. She was surprised herself, but somehow she was unable to stop the flow of confession. She didn't know exactly what Brian was doing to her, and she didn't know if she liked it. (Well, she was fairly sure she liked it.) "So at this point, my dissertation is just a fantasy." The kind that makes me wake up screaming.

  "What are you gonna do, then?" Brian asked, grinning a little. She noticed a small line at the corner of each eye that appeared only when he smiled. And those eyes... soft, smooth brown, and hypnotically gorgeous.

  "Um, about what?" she asked stupidly.

  "Your dissertation."

  "Oh... right. Hmm, excellent point. I guess I really should do something." A graphic and dirty idea immediately came to mind. "So..." She toyed with the rag again. "How do you like being an engineer?"

  He made an enh face and said, "It's all right. Right now, it's really busy. Actually"—he looked at his watch—"I guess I should get back to work."

  "Oh, okay," she replied, struggling to conceal her disappointment. As he stood, he shucked on his coat, and the motion wafted a hint of aftershave Reese's way—yum.

  "Reese," Rhoda said, "there's a line forming." She tsked mildly, and Clay gave Reese a closemouthed, pitying smile. Their break was over, so it was obviously time to ruin Reese's day, as well. She felt blushing heat drift up into her cheeks. Nothing was more embarrassing than getting scolded at work when you were trying to pretend you weren't at work.

  "Oh, I guess I should get back to my job," she mustered, suddenly aware of her stained apron and the smelly rag she'd been hol
ding while she'd been trying to work the room.

  Brian grinned down at her. "Every time I come here, someone's giving you a hard time. What's up with this place?"

  She laughed, and when she looked up, their eyes caught again, only this time—just like that—a zing. A sizzle. A zap. The air was scorchingly electric... at least to Reese.

  The question was, did Brian feel it, too? "Well, I should get moving," he said quickly.

  "Oh, yeah, okay," she said, inadvertently clutching some of her thick hair to channel the sudden tension.

  "Brock!" Tina called. Reese whipped around guiltily, but Tina didn't appear annoyed. "Would you take in the sign? It's supposed to rain, and Darcy doesn't want it to get ruined."

  "Sure, no problem," Reese said too brightly, and turned to Brian. "C'mon, I'll walk out with you."

  Once they were on the sidewalk, Brian motioned to the oversize, clunky Roland & Fisk sidewalk sign. "That?" he said. "They want you to take that in?"

  Grinning, Reese nodded. "I know, little ol' me."

  Brian's eyes appeared lighter outside—almost like tiger eyes. He said, "Well, let me help you—Jesus." He moved to the left side of the sign, and Reese was about to tell him no, when he picked the entire thing up himself. Her mouth dropped open, and he asked, "Where do you want it?"

  "Just right inside," she said quickly, and pulled the door open for him.

  He set it down in the store entryway. "Is here okay?" She nodded dumbly. "Good," he said, not sounding the least bit winded.

  "Brian, that was so nice of you," she said sincerely. "You didn't have to do that."

  He made an incredulous sound like psfft, and she smiled. "Well, anyway... have a good one," he said, offering a short wave and turning to walk up the sidewalk.

  "You, too," Reese called after him, "Bye!"

  Just as she pivoted to go inside, Brian called to her. When she looked back, he was grinning. "I'll probably see you tomorrow."

  Smiling and biting her lower lip at the same time, Reese offered a friendly expression that said, Tomorrow, fine, but inside, her mind was singing. The rest of the afternoon passed slowly, as she tried to put Brian Doren out of her mind and stay focused on her work—on coffee and customer service and tarts without cinnamon.

  Suffice it to say, it was a hell of an effort.

  * * *

  The next morning, Reese flew down the stairs in a running-late frenzy. Oversleeping had left her barely enough time to get dressed, and hair brushing hadn't been an option, so she fastened a ponytail while she jogged into the kitchen.

  Angela and Joanna were standing at the table, with their fists in dough and flour on their faces. They were cracking up about something that involved using twelve eggs instead of ten—obviously a private joke.

  "Oh, hi!" Angela said cheerfully.

  "H-hi, what's going on?"

  "Angela's helping me with the DeMarco order. That is, if she can ever allow a batch to leaven!" Joanna said, nudging her in the arm. Angela giggled.

  "But it's Friday," Reese said. "What about work?"

  "Oh, um..." Angela shrugged guiltily. "I'm playing hooky."

  "Okay, well, have fun," Reese said, grabbing a can of Diet Coke from the fridge. "I'll see you later."

  "Wait, sweetheart, I packed you something to eat!" Joanna called, as Reese made her way down the front hall. Joanna caught up to her at the foot of the stairs and handed her a brown bag.

  "Oh, you didn't have to do that."

  "Listen, don't forget about tonight," her mother said breezily.

  "Huh? What about tonight?" Reese asked.

  Joanna blinked. "You're coming with me to the women's clubhouse to hang decorations for the annual Christmas party."

  "I am? I didn't know that."

  "Sweetheart, I told you that a while ago."

  Usually her mother told her things a thousand times, so it made sense that Reese hadn't retained the information after being told merely once. "All right, but Ally's going too, right?"

  "No, she has plans with Ben. You're not going outside like that, are you? You need to wear a coat; it's freezing out!"

  "My coat's in the car—"

  "You left your coat out in the freezing cold!"

  "Mom, please, it's not even that cold out."

  "It's December."

  "Mom, I really don't have time for this. See ya later."

  "Okay, okay."

  Reese headed out the door. She turned back quickly to wave. Joanna waved back with one hand, and used the other to run up and down her arm in exaggerated shivering gestures.

  "Bye!" Reese called brightly, still not cold, and hopped into her car.

  * * *

  Joanna had just gotten back to the kitchen when the phone rang. She picked it up, gushed her hellos, then handed the phone to Angela.

  "Hello?"

  "Hi." It was Drew.

  "Hi, is everything all right?" she asked.

  "Yeah, fine," he said through audible cell phone static. "Listen, sorry I forgot to tell you I had an early meeting this morning." That made her feel a little better. She'd woken up that morning to find him gone—no note, nothing. She'd almost burst into tears. Instead she'd called in sick and headed straight for her mother's. Yes, she really was thirty years old.

  Drew was a business consultant who worked on different projects with varying companies, which was why he was able to take so much time off after his heart attack. He'd started working again only last month.

  "That's okay," Angela said, walking into the pantry with the phone and closing the door behind her. "How did the meeting go?"

  "It went fine. Remember that software company I told you about?" While he went on to give a brief description of his meeting, Angela took a seat on a large plastic barrel labeled The Pretzel Keg.

  "How did you know I was here?" she asked after he finished.

  "I called you at your office, and Cyn told me you weren't coming in. I tried our place, so I just assumed... Are you sick? I didn't know you weren't feeling well."

  "No, I just didn't feel like going today," she said truthfully.

  "Oh."

  "Yeah."

  Silence. She sighed and looked around the pantry and wondered if it would ever be normal between them again.

  "Well, I guess I'll get going," he said. "I have another meeting in twenty minutes."

  "Okay... Drew?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Um... nothing."

  "I should go."

  "Yeah, okay."

  "Love you," he said quickly.

  "Me, too," she managed, and after they hung up, she hugged the phone to her chest and whispered into the emptiness, "So much."

  Chapter 13

  "Let's go over it one more time."

  Reese and Rhoda had been training the new girl, Amy, for the past three hours. Amy remained eager to please, but Reese had to stifle her twelfth yawn in twenty minutes. It wasn't Amy's fault; the register was confusing. And Rhoda's cryptic, pompous directives didn't exactly expedite the comprehension process.

  "Okay, so, lemme see if I have this right," Amy said hesitantly, holding a scanner in one hand, and a discounted hardcover in the other. "For sale books, I type in zero-zero-one."

  "Right," Rhoda said, nodding. "Same code for the mass-market paperbacks. For trade paperbacks, type in zero-zero-two."

  Amy scrunched her forehead. "I'm sorry—what's the difference between the mass-market and trade paperbacks?"

  "Oh, well," Rhoda scoffed righteously, "trade paperbacks are just way better books. They're the higher-quality, more intelligent types of books." Amy nodded vacantly. "See, the mass markets are, let us say, not too stellar—you know, from a literary perspective." Amy looked more confused than before. So Rhoda continued to "clarify." "You know, think of all the incredibly vapid mystery novels we sell."

  "Oh, I love mysteries!" Amy said, obviously not getting that "vapid" wasn't a good thing.

  Rhoda recoiled as if she had fleas, and Reese finally interceded.
Straightening up from her slouch, she said, "Amy, the mass markets are usually smaller, and their ISBN numbers are printed on the inside front cover. Trade paperbacks are bigger, with the ISBN on the back. Also, they feel more like this." She handed one over for Amy to touch.

  "Oh, I get it now, that's easy!" Amy sounded very relieved that she didn't have to determine on the spot whether or not a customer's purchase was "high-quality."

  At that moment, Reese was experiencing a particularly strong urge to tell Rhoda just how full of baloney she was. But she realized that most of her irritability stemmed from the fact that she hadn't had coffee before work. Not to mention that as soon as she had entered the break room that morning, Darcy had accosted her. Barging out of her office (closing and bolting the door immediately behind her), she'd adjusted one of the pastel butterfly clips that ran in grooves down her scalp,, and barked, "You!"

  Reese had barely gotten out, "Me, what?" when Darcy had rolled her eyes and started singing, "Hello, Brock! Wake up—you're on the clock." And after that, she'd ordered Reese to conduct register training with Rhoda, and return to cafe duty when they had finished.

  Amy was the real victim in this, of course. The poor sucker, she really had no idea what she was in for. She'd even made the comment that Darcy seemed "really cool." Reese knew that it wouldn't take Darcy long to show her true colors, and when she did, Amy was in for the disillusionment of a lifetime. In other words, standard Roland & Fisk initiation.

  "Okay, I think we're done," Rhoda said, fiddling with one of her immense hoop earrings. "Do you have any more questions?" Her bored tone of voice must have deterred Amy, who shook her head no, but still had stressfully pinched eyebrows.

  Reese said, "Well, if you're confused about anything, definitely ask me. I'll be over in the cafe." Amy smiled and gave thanks. Rhoda did not jump to offer the same accessibility. A few minutes later, Reese headed to the cafe.

  As she took a shortcut through the New Age section, a man approached her. "Excuse me?" he said angrily, "I noticed that this store only has two books on hypnotherapy."

  "Oh..."