Green Tea Latte To Go

by Ellis, Aven

  “The last time I checked, yes,” he quips, interrupting my thoughts. He reaches past me for the cup that says “Brooks” on it.

  Okay, I’ve already been an idiot. Might as well go all out with it.

  “And you’re named Brooks?” I ask, curious.

  He arches an eyebrow at me. “Were you expecting Charles, Oliver, Edward, or William, since I am British?”

  Ohhhhhh, dangerous. Brooks is quick. And has a sense of humor.

  So now this guy is hot, British, and funny.

  And no wedding ring is on his left hand.

  Not that it matters. It’s purely a simple observation I made when he reached for his cup.

  “Perhaps,” I admit truthfully. “Seahawks fan?” I ask, gesturing toward his shirt.

  “Nah, it’s a cover,” Brooks says. “My Exeter Chiefs one is in the wash.”

  I have no idea who the Exeter Chiefs are, but I can’t help but think he’s teasing me based on the smile on his face.

  Brooks takes a sip of his drink as we move out of the way and immediately screws up his face.

  “Ugh, this is tea,” he grimaces.

  “You don’t like tea?” I ask.

  His dark brown eyes sparkle at me. “I know, I’m an appalling Brit. My name is Brooks, I like American football, and I only drink coffee. I have a feeling I’ve disappointed you on three levels today, Payton,” he says, glancing at my cup.

  Ohhhhhhhhhhhh, I really like the way my name sounded just now.

  “You’ve deflated every stereotype I have,” I tease. I go to take a sip of my drink, but I smell coffee, and stop right in my tracks.

  “This is coffee,” I say, screwing up my nose. “I hate coffee.”

  “I bet you have mine,” Brooks says. Then he glances at his watch. “Damn. This is already taking longer than I thought. I need to get to work.”

  “Here,” I say, holding the coffee out toward him. “I didn’t drink it. It’s fine. And I can have them remake my green tea latte.”

  Brooks takes the cup from me, and as our fingers meet, I feel a tingle shoot down my spine.

  “Thank you,” he says, studying me. “Um . . . Payton?”

  My breath catches in my throat. I’ve only talked to Brooks for a few minutes, but am I mad for wishing we could keep talking? That maybe he would ask to meet me here later to hang out and chat? Is that crazy? But isn’t this how adults meet in the real world? I mean, every guy I met in college was either at a party or in a class. This seems like a nice, normal, perfectly adult way to meet a man.

  Or do people only meet cute guys like this in romcom books?

  “Yes?” I ask, smiling at him.

  “Thank you,” Brooks says. “Lovely to meet you.”

  Dammit. My romcom became new-adult angst. Brooks is probably going to pick up his cell any minute and call his girlfriend.

  Good Lord, my parents are right. I am crazy.

  “Likewise,” I say, hoping I’m hiding my disappointment with my smile.

  Brooks nods at me and heads out the door, the bells clanging behind him as he leaves.

  I bite my lip. Well, it’s probably good he didn’t ask to meet me for a coffee later. Men like him never live up to the packaging, right? After ten minutes he’d probably show his flaws. Like he hates small animals and doesn’t shower for days on end.

  I sigh as I get back in line to have my drink remade. I’m full of crap. There’s no way Brooks kicks puppies. Or doesn’t bathe.

  Brooks.

  Bathing.

  Which would mean he’d be naked.

  My mind drifts to that topic. I bet his body is insane. I mean, his chest was broad and that Seahawks T-shirt fit him oh-so-nicely and I can only imagine wh—

  Gah! I blink the thought away. Am I really thinking this?

  Yes. Why yes, I am.

  I’m certifiable.

  And I’ll only be able to imagine what Brooks looks like in the shower.

  I shake my head. Enough of the crazy. It’s time to get my drink, go home, and get ready to run errands for a good chunk of the day before coming home and writing my latest Payton’s Take On Kate post.

  This is the plan. No more thoughts of sexy, charming, British Brooks.

  Or at least no more than ten. I’ll give myself ten.

  Starting now.

  ***

  So I might have gone over ten thoughts of Brooks, oh, by about . . . well, that’s irrelevant so why even think of the disturbing number? But now that I’ve pulled up to the gorgeously landscaped, multi-level modern home of Mrs. Courtney Anderson, I can think of work instead of the sexy British guy I’ll never see again.

  According to my assignment sheet, Mr. Anderson booked me all day to take some stress off his frazzled wife.

  I study the home, easily worth more than six million dollars in this neighborhood. Oh, I can’t wait to tell my roommate, Whitney, about this one. She’s obsessed with homes and decorating them—she actually works as a seasonal home decorator here in Seattle—and her side hobby is to drive around and look at houses. I’ll have to bring her by this one sometime this week.

  I get out of my Volkswagen E-Golf and head up the sidewalk. As I reach the front door, I hear dogs barking and kids crying and who I assume to be Mrs. Anderson yelling.

  Yes, I see why I may be needed today.

  I press the doorbell and all the noises go up another notch. I hear yipping at the door now, and I see a toddler staring at me out of one of the front windows, so I wave at him. He flashes me a toothy grin and then rips off his diaper, pressing his privates right against the glass for me to see in all their glory.

  I can’t help it. I burst out laughing at the sight of him naked, and then I hear Mrs. Anderson.

  “No, Jacob, no! Not naked!”

  I quickly bite down on my lower lip to compose myself.

  The door unlocks, and a very exhausted-looking woman answers the door with a naked Jacob under her arm and two Scottish Terriers, one black and one white, barking and jumping chaotically in front of me.

  “Hi, Mrs. Anderson,” I say loudly, over the sound of the dogs, “I’m Payton James from Professional Concierge of Puget Sound.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Anderson says. “Please, come in. If you dare. And call me Courtney. Get back, Bailey, Bella!”

  The dogs don’t move, but since they are small, I can step around them. I come inside and see the home is glorious—all modern décor, sleek fixtures and loads of windows.

  It’s also a glorious mess.

  Papers are stacked on the glass dining room table in huge piles. Magazine clippings. Pictures that need to go in a scrapbook, which is laying half-open. I shift my gaze to the entry hall table, crammed with sunglasses, a diaper tote, and a box of dog treats.

  Oh, wow. I see a hot mess and I’m only in the foyer. No wonder I was hired for a full day.

  “Pee!” Jacob cries.

  “What?” Courtney asks. “Do you have to go pee-pee in the potty?”

  Jacob grins. And I watch as a stream of pee shoots across the foyer like a fountain.

  “No, no, no Jacob!” Courtney gasps. “Potty! Pee in the potty!”

  “Ma . . . ma . . . ma.”

  While Jacob has finished peeing on the hardwood floor, I spot a chubby baby with no hair, but a headband with a huge flower on her head, crawling around the corner.

  Followed by a pot-bellied pig.

  I blink. A pig?

  “Not bacon,” Jacob says, pointing at the pig.

  “Helena!” Courtney yells. “Get back, Bella and Bailey, go!” she cries, nudging the dogs out of the way of the pee puddle. “Helena! Help!”

  “What can I do?” I say swiftly, moving into the dining room and placing my purse on top of a stack of magazines.

  Courtney’s blue eyes fill with tears. “I don’t know.”

  My heart aches for her. A toddler, a baby, two dogs, a pig, and Lord knows if there are urban chickens in the backyard or a bird upstairs. I can see she’s
utterly overwhelmed.

  “Yes, Miss Courtney?” a woman asks, entering the room. She’s dressed in casual clothing, holding a duster, and I wonder if she is the maid. Her eyes take in Jacob and drift to the floor. “Oh. I’ll clean that right up, Miss Courtney.”

  “Thank you,” Courtney says softly.

  I normally let the client direct me as to what they want done, but my instinct says Courtney needs help.

  “Why don’t I watch the baby and you clean up Jacob?” I suggest softly. “Then we can decide how I can help you today.”

  Courtney blinks. “Yes,” she says, nodding. “Okay.”

  I move toward the baby, who is smiling toothlessly at me. I pick her up, and the silver-haired pig snorts at me.

  “Not bacon,” Jacob says again as Courtney takes him out of the room, with the dogs following at her heels.

  I almost lose it, but I bite back my laughter.

  “Ba ba ba,” the baby girl says, reaching for my earrings.

  “Hi,” I say, smiling at her. “Aren’t you cute? I’ll have to find out your name when your mommy comes back.”

  “It’s Madison,” Helena says, moving past me with a bucket, cleaning supplies, and a mop. “She’s a love.”

  I smile. “Thank you,” I say, grinning at her. Then I turn back to Madison. “Aren’t you a beautiful girl? Yes, you are!”

  Madison lets out a squeal and the pig does the same.

  I remove her chubby fingers from my earring, and she laughs. I can’t help but laugh, too. I adore babies. I’m always willing to babysit Connor for my sister; he’s about ten months old.

  I head down the hallway with Madison, peeking into the huge living room. Oh, wow, it’s as if a Toys-R-Us exploded in here. There are baby toys and blocks and a Little Tykes kitchen center and my mind is already thinking one task could be to organize all the toys into a play station for Jacob and Madison.

  A few minutes later, Courtney returns. “We have clothing on.”

  I see a fully dressed Jacob—this time in overalls so he can’t strip—and Courtney sets him down on the floor. I place Madison next to him, and the dogs immediately take off, chasing each other around the room. The pig, meanwhile, heads straight toward Jacob, who pats him on the back.

  “Not bacon.”

  I can’t help it. I laugh. “That’s so cute he calls him ‘Not Bacon.’”

  “Oh, no, that’s his name. Mr. Not Bacon,” Courtney explains.

  Oh. I seriously want to laugh but I don’t. I mean, obviously they named their pig that so Courtney probably doesn’t think it’s funny.

  “We thought it was cute,” Courtney says, smiling at me.

  Now I know it’s okay to laugh, so I do, and Courtney joins me.

  I like her.

  “Come on, let’s sit in the kitchen.”

  Courtney leads me to the kitchen, which is open to the living room so we can see the kids. Wow, it’s top of the line—I see a double Viking range and a super-sized Thermador fridge. Loads of black quartz counter space and a glossy, glass-tiled backsplash.

  A chef’s dream, that’s what I’m seeing.

  But it’s one filled with bottles, jars of organic baby food, coffee mugs, and more papers and bills and I can see that chaos is the unofficial theme of the Anderson house.

  “Would you like a drink?” Courtney asks. “A bottle of water? Coffee?”

  Coffee. Brooks likes coffee.

  I blink. Did I go there?

  Crap. I did go there.

  “No, I’m fine, thank you,” I say, forcing coffee-loving Brooks out of my head.

  “Please, have a seat,” Courtney urges, quickly sweeping away an array of clutter at the counter in front of me.

  I climb onto a barstool, and Courtney digs through a stack and retrieves her cell phone.

  “Let me check my messages real quick,” she says.

  I nod.

  I watch as Courtney swipes her screen. Her eyes scan down and then she gasps.

  “Shit,” Courtney says. “Shit, shit, shit!”

  “Shit!” Jacob screams from the living room.

  “No! Bad word, Jacob, bad word! Mommy is bad!” Courtney cries.

  “Bad Mommy! Bad, bad, bad Mommy!” Jacob yells back.

  Courtney puts her phone down and tears fill her eyes. “I am bad. I can’t do this. I can’t do all of this,” she cries, her voice breaking. “It’s so much harder than I thought.”

  A lump forms in my throat. I detect a woman struggling with all the demands of pets and motherhood and running a home.

  I have to help her.

  “How can I help?” I say gently. “I can do anything. Run any errand you need.”

  “You wouldn’t want to take Mr. Not Bacon to the vet, would you?” Courtney asks hopefully.

  “Take your pig to the vet?” I repeat.

  Courtney nods. “I forgot he has an appointment for a check-up today with Dr. Martin. He’s an exotic vet, he’s hard to get into because he’s specialized, and that’s what my phone was reminding me of. It’s in Ballard. Can you take him? Please?”

  And as her eyes fill with tears, I know what my answer will be.

  “I’d be more than happy to take Mr. Not Bacon to the vet,” I say firmly.

  I mean, really, how hard can this be? He’s a pet. I can take care of pets, I like animals. It’s simply a matter of getting him in the car and driving to Ballard.

  I’ve got this.

  ***

  I so don’t have this.

  I’m frazzled as I attempt to get a defiant Mr. Not Bacon out of my car. I’m in the parking lot of Ballard Veterinary Clinic, with the ramp for him to walk down right up to the passenger door, and he refuses to move.

  “Come on,” I urge, tugging on Mr. Not Bacon’s leash.

  He shoots me a look. Mr. Not Bacon is not having it.

  Apparently, Mr. Not Bacon doesn’t like the vet and remembers the last time he got his hooves trimmed.

  I put my hands on my head. We’re already late. I left late because Mr. Not Bacon decided to take a run around the backyard and wouldn’t let us catch him, finding joy in racing through a flower bed and getting dirt all over him. With no time to clean him up, Courtney helped me load him into the car and sent me on my mission.

  Then I hit horrific Seattle traffic on the way over here, and now I’ve spent five minutes trying to get him to walk down this stupid ramp and he won’t move.

  “Treats!” I say aloud, suddenly remembering that Courtney tossed some at me before I left. She said to give Mr. Not Bacon treats to entice him to cooperate.

  I pop open my Kate Spade canvas bag and retrieve the purple plastic container Courtney gave me.

  “Mr. Not Bacon! We have treats!” I say excitedly.

  Mr. Not Bacon snorts at me. Snorting has to be favorable, right?

  I remove the snap lid and with crushing defeat, find myself staring down into a bowl full of Cheerios. Crap. These are obviously for the kids.

  “Dammit,” I say, snapping the lid back on.

  Mr. Not Bacon lets out a scream so loud I jump.

  Gah! I swear he could break eardrums with that scream!

  Now I see people in the strip center parking lot either: 1) staring at the crazy blonde with the pig on a leash, or, 2) laughing at the crazy blonde with the pig on a leash, or, 3) both.

  And they’re shooting videos and pictures of the girl who can’t get the pig out of her car.

  Fantastic.

  I move around to the back of him and try to give him a nudge.

  Nothing.

  “Mr. Not Bacon, please, please help me,” I whisper to him, but he firmly presses his back against me, as if to reiterate that he isn’t moving an inch.

  I give another nudge and another pig squeal pierces the air.

  Shit.

  I’m sweating now. Probably half from the sun, half from sheer panic that I’m not going to be able to move this pig and for the first time ever, I’ll not be able to complete a task I was ass
igned to do.

  I turn toward the clinic, and see the phone number on the glass door. Okay, this is ridiculous and the vets will laugh about this all day, but I need help.

  I retrieve my cell and dial the number.

  “Ballard Veterinary Clinic, this is Elise, how can I help you?”

  “Elise, this is Payton. I’m bringing Mr. Not Bacon in on behalf of Courtney Anderson today,” I say.

  “Oh, are you running late?” Elise asks.

  “Um,” I pause, as this is totally embarrassing, “I’m in your parking lot. But I can’t get Mr. Not Bacon to move. In fact—”

  Mr. Not Bacon screams again.

  “Um,” I say after he screams. “I don’t know how to get him out of my car.”

  Elise laughs. “I’m going to send Derna out to help you.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  Mr. Not Bacon nudges his snout against my tote, as if he wants to get in there.

  “No, no tote,” I say, moving out of his reach.

  He snorts.

  “Look at the girl with the pig!”

  I turn my head and see shoppers stopping to stare at me.

  “Is that a pig?”

  “He’s cute!”

  “Mommy, why is that lady standing with a pig?”

  Bingo! The prize-winning question. Why am I standing with a pig who refuses to move and wants my Kate Spade tote?

  The doors to the vet clinic open, and out steps a beautiful woman with ebony skin and her hair in gorgeous ringlets that cascade down her back. She’s in scrubs, carrying a bag.

  The woman smiles brightly at me. “Hello, I’m Derna.”

  “Hello, I’m Payton, and I’m so happy to see you,” I say gratefully.

  “And this must be Mr. Not Bacon,” she says cheerfully. Derna reaches into the bag and pulls out a grape. “Can I entice you with grapes, my little piggy love?”

  Derna scatters some down the ramp.

  And all of the sudden it’s as if the skies have opened up, and an angel has come down, and harp music fills the air because Mr. Not Bacon is MOVING.

  I hand his leash to Derna so I can put up the ramp, and then just like in Hansel and Gretel, Derna leads Mr. Not Bacon all the way to the clinic door with a trail of grapes. He’s happy; he’s making a happy snort and wagging his tail and I feel relief wash over me. People are still taking my picture but I don’t care. They can post it all over Seattle because I have managed to get a pig inside a vet clinic. I’m proud of this achievement.