Green Tea Latte To Go

by Ellis, Aven

  But as soon as Mr. Not Bacon hits the tile floor, he stops dead in his tracks and lets out his worst ear-splitting cry yet.

  I cringe in response, and I see several people in the waiting room wince. Oy! Now sweat is running down my back. I can also feel my ponytail half slipping out of the band, and I’m sure I look like a ridiculous mess.

  “Why is he stopping?” I ask.

  “Sometimes pigs don’t like the change in surfaces,” Derna says.

  I stare at Derna in awe. “You’re like the Yoda of pigs.”

  Derna looks at me and bursts out laughing. “Oh no, that’s Dr. Martin. He’s our Yoda of pigs. And rabbits. Those are his favorite patients.”

  Hmmm, that’s interesting. I wonder what this Dr. Martin likes about pigs and rabbits.

  “I’m going to continue to lead with treats but you might have to give him a nudge on the bottom to encourage him,” Derna instructs, interrupting my thoughts. “We’re going to get him on the scale.”

  Finally, after a ton of grapes and butt nudging—all this bending over should help with my yoga flexibility next Monday—we get Mr. Not Bacon on the scale.

  “Yay, Mr. Not Bacon! You are doing great at ninety pounds,” Derna declares, typing the information into her laptop.

  Ninety pounds? Good Lord, no wonder I worked up a sweat trying to move him!

  “All right, let’s get you to an exam room for your spa day,” Derna declares.

  Seriously? I’m the one who will need a spa day when this appointment is all said and done.

  Then she leads us to an exam room. I take Mr. Not Bacon off his leash, and he wanders around.

  “We got all the information we needed from Mrs. Anderson, and we’ll call her if Dr. Martin has any concerns he wants to address with her. But why don’t you stay for his physical? If you’re going to be bringing him it might be helpful.”

  Oh, no. I don’t ever want to do another vet run ever again. My gut tells me Bailey and Bella would be equally crazy to take to the vet.

  But instead I nod and sit down in a plastic chair.

  “Dr. Martin won’t be long, he’s ready.”

  Yes, I think, because we are twenty minutes late. I’ll apologize to him first thing and hope he forgives me for putting him behind schedule.

  Derna shuts the door, and Mr. Not Bacon wanders over to me. I begin petting him and, okay, he’s totally cute. He has one white spot on his forehead and while he’s noisy, he’s affectionate.

  “I can see why you aren’t bacon,” I say sweetly, stroking his fur. He grunts happily in response, and I can’t help but laugh.

  Suddenly there’s a knock on the door.

  “Yes?” I say.

  The door opens.

  “Hello, I’m Dr. Mar—”

  But as soon as the doctor’s eyes meet mine, he stops speaking.

  I freeze in complete shock.

  Because I’m looking into familiar brandy-colored eyes, ones I saw a few hours ago at Coffee By Jules.

  And apparently, Brooks is Brooks Martin, Doctor of Veterinary Medicine.

  CHAPTER 3

  *Mental Note* Additional item for self-improvement (cont): Reevaluate position on the word omen. I never believed in them. But I’ll look it up and write it in my journal.

  Because meeting Brooks like this has to be an omen.

  In the best possible way.

  ***

  My heart leaps inside my chest. It’s him. Brooks from the coffee shop this morning.

  And the expression of complete surprise on his handsome face tells me he recognizes me, too.

  “Payton?” he asks, as if he’s not sure I’m really the green-tea-latte-to-go girl from this morning.

  I nod. “Brooks. I mean, Dr. Martin,” I correct myself.

  And oh, help me, he’s hot as hell in his crisp gray dress shirt, black pants, and stethoscope slung casually around his neck.

  He flashes me a smile. “Please, call me Brooks.”

  Brooks shuts the door, but his eyes remain on me. “Do you want me to say something Americans think I should say, like ‘Bloody Hell, it’s the girl who had the green tea latte to go?’ Or ‘Fancy meeting you here like this?’”

  Butterflies shift in my stomach. Not only does he remember me, but my order and our conversation, too.

  I laugh. “Come on now, I’m not an American who thinks you say ‘bloody hell’ every five sentences,” I counter. “I imagine the number has to be at least ten.”

  Brooks laughs as he moves over to the counter where his wheeled chair is and sits down, placing his laptop in front of him. “So what are you doing with Mr. Not Bacon?” he asks as he reads over the notes. “Derna said you were bringing him in on behalf of my client today.”

  Suddenly, I realize my hair is falling and my elastic band plops down onto the plastic chair beside me. Crap! I forgot I was sweaty and my hair was half falling out of my ponytail.

  “Um,” I casually pick up the band and re-work my hair into a knot, which I figure is better than the messy curls that he is being subjected to, “one of my jobs is serving as a professional concierge.”

  Brooks shifts his gaze from his laptop to me, his brow creased. “A professional concierge?”

  I feel my cheeks grow flushed. “Um, you know, I take care of things for people. Like I pick up dry cleaning, groceries, walk dogs, that kind of thing. Being a concierge gives me the income I need while I grow my other business.”

  Brooks gets up and gets down on the floor next to Mr. Not Bacon. “Which would be?”

  “I’m a blogger,” I say. “I operate two blogs. One is lifestyle focused, which chronicles my experiences since graduating U-Dub, the other is about the fashions of the Duchess of—”

  “The Duchess of Cornwall?” Brooks interrupts, lifting an eyebrow. “Huh. I don’t see how you’d be age-appropriate for Camilla’s fashions, but to each his own.”

  “Oh, stop it, you know I was going to say Kate,” I declare, laughing.

  Brooks grins. “Yeah, I did know. At least for your sake, I hoped so.”

  He banters. That’s a weak spot for me. I love a guy who can do witty banter.

  Not that I would know, because I was lucky if my previous boyfriends from U-Dub barely listened, let alone bantered.

  “Yes. I’m all about her polished fashion choices,” I declare.

  “For doing concierge errands?” Brooks counters.

  I glance down at what I’m wearing now: turquoise and black capris I scored from Lululemon on a sale rack and a heather-white, long-sleeved T-shirt and black tank top underneath. I notice that I have huge dirt smudges all across my stomach from trying to move Mr. Not Bacon out of my car.

  Gah!

  “Athleisure works best for being a concierge,” I declare, deciding to remain in a state of denial about how I am a complete hot mess at the moment.

  Brooks laughs loudly, his deep voice filling the room and sending a shiver down my spine. “Athleisure? That’s a word?”

  “Quit laughing, it’s a fast-growing category of clothing,” I counter. “Read my blog and you’d know that.”

  “Perhaps I should,” Brooks says, his dark eyes locking on mine.

  OMG OMG OMG, is he flirting with me?

  Brooks then clears his throat. “All right, let’s see how you are, Mr. Not Bacon.”

  Okay. I need to dial back on my crazy. Besides, I’m used to guys who think showing off in beer pong is flirting. Just because Brooks is talking to me doesn’t mean he’s interested.

  He was simply engaging the client. I should know better.

  Besides, Brooks probably has a gorgeous English girlfriend named Emma or Charlotte or Pippa or some other perfectly British name for his significant other.

  I watch as Brooks interacts with Mr. Not Bacon. Talking to him, petting him, listening to his heart and lungs with his stethoscope. He goes about the exam the whole time on the floor, which I think is great. It shows Brooks wants to engage in a way that is most comfortable for the pa
tient. I observe as he checks his eyes, shining a light into each one.

  “Great,” Brooks says, putting his instrument down. “You’re a handsome Juliana, aren’t you?” he says, stroking Mr. Not Bacon’s head.

  “Juliana?” I ask.

  Brooks smiles. “He’s a Juliana. Not a Kune, which is what I own.”

  He is sounding like Charlie Brown’s teacher now, as I have no clue what he just said.

  “Ah, you don’t speak pig,” he says, his brown eyes shining at me as he picks up on my confusion.

  I smile. I can play this game with him.

  “Temperley London or Jenny Packham?” I ask.

  Now he appears confused. “What?”

  “You don’t speak Duchess Kate fashion, do you?” I say, lifting an eyebrow.

  Brooks flashes me a gorgeous smile, one that makes the butterflies dance in my stomach again.

  “Ah, touché,” Brooks says, standing up. “I don’t. But a Juliana is a breed of pig. That is what Mr. Not Bacon is. My pig is a Kune Kune. So do you care to elaborate on this Temperley and Jenny that you blog about?”

  I watch as he stands up, going over to his laptop and typing in a few notes.

  “Those are two of the Duchess’s go to designers,” I explain. “In the Kate blogging community, we will speculate what designer she’ll be wearing to an appearance, and those are two that often come up in discussion.”

  Brooks glances up at me. “There is actually a world of blogger speculation on Kate’s fashion?”

  I nod. “Oh, yes. Kate is one of the most influential fashion trendsetters of our time. Oh, and if you are taking notes, it’s T-e-m-p-e-r-l-e-y.”

  Brooks stares at me. Then he laughs, and I find myself grinning happily in response.

  “You’re quirky,” he says, his eyes shining at me.

  “Says the man who likes pigs and rabbits,” I counter. Then I smile. “Derna gave you up earlier.”

  Brooks gets up and retrieves another tool. “Derna is right. I love pigs and rabbits. I love all animals, obviously, but those are my favorites.” Then he clears his throat. “Okay, time for a pedicure. Mrs. Anderson said Mr. Not Bacon is fine with me doing it while he stands if you feed him his treats.”

  I cringe. “Unfortunately I don’t have any. She gave me the wrong treats. Courtney was in a rush this morning, and she accidentally tossed in a Tupperware of Cheerios that belongs to her kids.”

  I watch as Brooks begins to laugh. Then he’s really laughing, like tears in his eyes, and I have no idea why.

  “What?” I ask, furrowing my brow.

  He takes a moment to compose himself. “Those are Mr. Not Bacon’s treats.”

  “What?”

  “Pigs eat Cheerios.”

  Suddenly, I remember the scream Mr. Not Bacon let out when I opened the container and then snapped it shut. How he tried to get in my tote . . .

  “Oh, crap,” I say, cringing. “I opened them in front of him and put it away, thinking it was a toddler treat. No wonder he screamed at me in the parking lot!”

  “Oh, I bet he did,” Brooks says, smiling. “He was mad that you denied him his Cheerios.”

  I glance down guiltily at Mr. Not Bacon. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Not Bacon.”

  He snorts at me, and I think he may have forgiven me. A smidge.

  “What I’d like for you to do is feed him Cheerios while I trim his hooves,” Brooks says, getting back down on the floor.

  “Okay,” I say, retrieving the Cheerios from my tote. I open it up and move down on the floor in front of him.

  “Start feeding him, and I’ll get to work. This will probably take about forty to forty-five minutes. Is that all right?”

  Oh, let’s see, spending about an hour with the witty, gorgeous, brilliant doctor? And as I sit close to him, a wonderful spicy, citrus-scented cologne drifts over me.

  Yes. That’s more than all right.

  It’s fabulous.

  “That’s fine, Courtney hired me for the whole day,” I explain.

  I put some Cheerios in my palm, and Mr. Not Bacon happily grunts and takes them from me. Brooks begins to trim his back hoof, and I let out a giggle as I feel Mr. Not Bacon’s snout and mouth against my palm.

  “This is crazy,” I say. “I had only seen a pig on a farm field trip as a kid. Now I’m actually feeding one. And he eats Cheerios.”

  “They’re brilliant animals,” Brooks declares. “And not only because they’re smart enough to recognize the greatness of Cheerios.”

  I laugh. “Cheerios are greatness?”

  Brooks keeps his eyes focused on trimming the hoof, but he smiles before speaking.

  “Why do you think I moved to the United States?” he asks. “You have Cheerios in all the good flavors.”

  “You are not serious.”

  “I’m as serious as the Queen carries a handbag.”

  “Launer of London,” I say.

  Brooks pauses his trimming. “What?”

  “The company that makes the handbags for Queen Elizabeth. It’s Launer of London.”

  “I thought you were versed on Kate,” Brooks says.

  “I’m versed on royal fashion,” I answer.

  Brooks goes back to working on Mr. Not Bacon. “So does that mean you have a handbag like Her Majesty? I thought my guess of Camilla was accurate, but you must like a very mature look. So do you wear white gloves and pearls when you are not being a concierge?”

  “Duh, of course I do. What do you think I wear when I’m blogging?” I tease, feeding Mr. Not Bacon some more Cheerios.

  Brooks laughs, and I feel the butterflies shift again.

  “So you can’t get all the flavors of Cheerios in the United Kingdom that we have here?” I ask, curious about this.

  “No. America has an astounding amount of flavor options when it comes to food,” he says. “In London, when I was in veterinary school, I could splurge and get Honey Nut ones. But on a trip to the States I discovered Peanut Butter Cheerios. We’ve been in a committed relationship ever since.”

  Are you in any other kind of relationship? I muse.

  Shut up. Shut up. Do not ask him that. He’s a vet trimming hooves. Just because he’s talking to you doesn’t mean anything. It would be boring and awkward to sit here in complete silence.

  Wouldn’t it?

  “So what brought you to America?” I ask.

  Brooks pauses for a moment. I hear nothing but the sound of Mr. Not Bacon chewing Cheerios. Oh, no. That was too much of a first date question. I should have stuck to witty comments about cereal and Her Majesty’s handbags.

  “My mum is American,” he says, going back to work. “I’d come to America every summer during my childhood. Colorado, to be exact. And I fell in love with this country. It’s so vast, you know? And the American West is open and rugged. I love that. Not that I don’t love Cornwall, where I’m from—but America felt right in my soul. I knew I wanted to come here since I was a boy.”

  I understand this feeling. It’s exactly how I feel about Seattle.

  “I’m from Seattle,” I say. “Born and raised here. I’ve traveled all over, I’ve been to Europe an—”

  “To follow the Kate Middleton trail of fashion across the UK?” he interjects.

  Okay. He totally doesn’t need to know I did that.

  “No, I went to Paris and Rome,” I say.

  “In addition to the Kate trail?”

  I see the sparkle in his dark brown eyes, even though he’s not looking at me.

  “Okay, fine, I took the Kate & William Royal Wedding Tour of London,” I confess. “But that was work! It was for my blog!”

  Now Brooks stops working and stares at me. “Bloody hell there’s an actual tour like that? I was joking.”

  “One.”

  “One what?”

  “I got my first ‘bloody hell’ out of you,” I say, grinning.

  Brooks flashes me a smile. “Glad to know you’re going to keep a tally. We have three more hooves to go;
I will take this as notice and try to refrain from any more stereotypical slips. Now, do go on. What were you going to say before I threw you off course?”

  My heart flutters. I don’t know what is happening here. Brooks could be friendly. He could be flirting, maybe? I’ve always been crap at reading men. Correction. I’ve only read boys.

  Brooks is so not a boy.

  He’s one very intelligent, sexy, funny man. One who dresses nice and smells amazing and is, God help me, British.

  I have three more hooves to see if this is going somewhere beyond client chat.

  Starting now.

  CHAPTER 4

  Today’s plan to improve myself item (cont.) (again): 1. Immediately buy books on how to read men via body language. Because I have no clue if Brooks is interested or talking to pass the time since we are stuck together. I mean, he’s not saying anything that I would categorize as flirty. But does it have to be sexy to be flirting? Confused. 2. Also purchase books on how to date as an adult, or at least find a good blog on the topic. It’s probably not acceptable to ask a man his relationship status while working on a pig patient. He’s working. And it’s none of my business. Or is it my business because I’m interested? Confusion Total: 2

  ***

  “And that’s the last one,” Brooks says, letting go of Mr. Not Bacon’s hoof.

  True to his word, Brooks completed the task in forty-five minutes.

  And I’m not ready for it to end.

  We’ve pretty much talked the entire time he’s been working. I told him how I love Seattle, that no matter where I go in the world, this beautiful city holds my heart and soul. He said he felt the same the first time he came out here for a job interview. That he had the water, which reminded him of Cornwall, and the mountains that he loved so much in Colorado. That he knew Seattle would be the place he wanted to eventually call home.

  I’ve also learned he loves being outdoors and likes hiking and biking. His passion for animals runs deep, as his grandfather had a farm and always had pigs and rabbits, which fueled this area of expertise for him. I was surprised to learn he’s only twenty-six, but in the UK, Brooks explained, you go straight to university once you finish your A levels, so unlike an American student, he went right into vet school as opposed to earning a bachelor’s degree and going on to veterinary school.