Green Tea Latte To Go

by Ellis, Aven

  I told him how I studied marketing at the University of Washington, known as U-Dub, but knew I always wanted to blog. That I’m excited about being finished with school and entering this new phase of my life. That I’m crap at cooking but I continually watch cooking shows and read cookbooks to try and perfect it. I’m working on my yoga skills. That I’m trying to figure out how to continually improve myself and I’m obsessed with self-help books.

  Brooks stands up, done with Mr. Not Bacon, and I rise with him. “That’s a theme with you, isn’t it?” he asks, studying me.

  The confusion tally rose to three with that comment.

  “What?” I ask, reaching for Mr. Not Bacon’s leash.

  “Trying to reach perfection.”

  Oh, wow. If this were a Seahawks football game, Brooks just threw the long ball because he went deep with his observation.

  And I like it.

  “Well, isn’t that worth striving for?” I challenge as I hook the leash to Mr. Not Bacon’s collar.

  “Why would you strive for something that is unobtainable?”

  I cock my head to the side. “Oh, it’s worth striving for. To be the best person you can be. Don’t you want that?”

  “Yes, but that’s different than aiming for perfection.”

  “Then isn’t that being as close to perfect as you can be?”

  Brooks grins. “I can see we’ll have to agree to disagree on this. Just like if you are trying to reproduce a recipe on TV it will never be like it is on TV. They spend hours to give the illusion of perfection.”

  “But in the end they do achieve perfection,” I challenge.

  “But in the real world you don’t have all day to bake the perfect scone,” Brooks says, picking his laptop off the counter. “But I can see we’ll have to agree to disagree on this.”

  I laugh and he does, too.

  Brooks’ expression grows serious. “Um . . . We’re done here.”

  No, I think, studying his face. I don’t want to be done.

  “Okay,” I say, nodding, although I don’t mean it.

  Mr. Not Bacon snorts and swishes his tail, and apparently he is the one who is going to do my thinking for me because obviously I’m insane.

  “Right,” Brooks says. “Well, I’ll walk you to the front.”

  Clarity slaps me upside the head. Yes. This was all fun conversation, but in the end, I’m the client in his eyes.

  “Sure.”

  And to make sure I’m very clear, Mr. Not Bacon happily comes with me, no treats needed, as if to say, “Yes, Payton, it is time to go before you do something ridiculous!”

  Like suggest meeting up for a cup of tea and coffee.

  Because Brooks hates tea.

  Which, sadly, is completely useless information, because I’m never going to see him again.

  He’s sexy. Intelligent. Funny. British. He banters.

  And he’s not interested.

  Uggggggggggggh.

  We reach the front counter and Brooks hands my file to the receptionist.

  “Elise will give you paperwork to take back to Mrs. Anderson and complete your check out,” Brooks says.

  “Right.”

  “And if she has any questions or concerns, she can call me,” he adds.

  “Thank you, I’ll let her know,” I say, smiling at him.

  Brooks hesitates for a moment. He rakes a hand through his thick, dark brown hair, his eyes studying me.

  My heart leaps. Could he be thinking about asking me for my number?

  Please ask for my number, I mentally will him.

  Brooks doesn’t say anything.

  I hear my heart pounding anxiously against my ribs. Could I have really been wrong about our conversation? The connection we seemed to be making?

  Connection.

  Oh, dear God, I sound like a contestant on The Bachelor. Next I’ll say how amazing Brooks is and I want to take a journey to see where this can go.

  Those contestants are on to something with that, because I totally relate to how they feel at this very moment.

  Brooks clears his throat.

  “Um,” he says. “Payton, I . . .”

  I swear I’m about to pass out. I don’t think oxygen is getting to my brain as I wait for him to say something.

  “Yes?” I ask helpfully.

  Brooks blinks, his long eyelashes fluttering as if my voice has jolted him from his thoughts.

  “Right,” he says firmly. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Payton. Please tell Courtney she can call me with any questions.”

  So much for going on a journey with the amazing Dr. Brooks Martin.

  Because apparently the only journey I’m going on is a ride back to Courtney’s house with Mr. Not Bacon, who is now trying to pull me toward the front door. Lord, I need an anchor to drop because he is strong when he wants to leave.

  Or to save me from embarrassment.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you as well,” I say, smiling at him as I struggle to control Mr. Not Bacon.

  Brooks waits another second and then Derna pops open the door, and he turns to see her.

  “Dr. Brooks, we have Jeeter ready in Exam 2.”

  “Very good, I’ll be right there,” he says.

  Derna nods and shuts the door. Brooks turns to me and smiles. “Holland Lop duty calls.”

  I furrow my brow.

  “Ah, you don’t speak rabbit either,” Brooks teases.

  “No, I don’t,” I say, my eyes meeting his.

  He holds my gaze for a moment.

  “Right, well, can’t keep my patient waiting,” Brooks says, but doesn’t move.

  “No,” I agree.

  “Right.”

  Another pause. Hope once again fills me. Maybe he’s going to ask for my number after all. Or suggest grabbing a coffee. Maybe I have read this right all along.

  “Um, well, have a good day,” Brooks says, before turning and walking away.

  Clunk. My heart and hopes are now officially resting at the bottom of my stomach in the same way the Titanic is resting at the bottom of the Atlantic.

  I turn and face Elise, who is waiting for me to check out.

  “Oh, I suppose you need a credit card,” I say, snapping back to reality. I reach into my purse, as Courtney had lobbed a credit card in there along with the Cheerios in our rush to get me out the door.

  I locate it and hand it to her. “Here you go.”

  Elise takes it from me. “Thank you,” she says, running the card through a machine.

  She has me sign for Courtney, and then prints a receipt and paperwork for me to take.

  “You’re all set,” Elise says, handing the documents to me. “Have a great day!”

  “You, too,” I say, forcing a smile on my face. Then I tug on Mr. Not Bacon’s leash. “Come on, Mr. Not Bacon. Let’s get you home.”

  Mr. Not Bacon must sense the Bachelor-type rejection I received and cooperates in leaving the clinic out of pity for me.

  We slowly make our way across the parking lot. When I reach the SUV, I unlock the door and get out the ramp for Mr. Not Bacon to walk up. He happily does it, and I affectionately rub his head, which results in a happy snort from Mr. Not Bacon.

  “You’re so cute,” I say, petting him affectionately. “And thank you for getting me out of the clinic before I embarrassed myself in front of Brooks.”

  He snorts again as if to say, “You’re welcome.”

  I place the ramp on the floorboard and then shut the door.

  “Payton!”

  I freeze the second I hear the voice.

  The British voice that belongs to Brooks.

  I turn around, confused. Brooks is running across the parking lot toward me. I wonder if I forgot something.

  “Payton,” Brooks says, stopping in front of me.

  “Yes?” I ask, furrowing my brow.

  Brooks hesitates for a second. “Um, listen, I wanted to give you my number. So if you’re ever watching Mr. Not Bacon and you have a que
stion, you can ring me directly. I’d be happy to help.”

  I can’t stop the grin that is spreading across my face. Brooks could totally tell me to call the clinic if I needed help.

  “Thank you, I appreciate that,” I say, retrieving my phone from my bag. I hand it over to Brooks, and he takes a moment to put his number in it.

  He hands it back to me and smiles. “I mean it, anytime you need anything, ring.”

  I grin. “Even if I have a question about a dog or fish?”

  Or getting a cup of coffee?

  Brooks laughs. “I’ll do my best to answer it for you.” Then his dark brown eyes go serious. “Any question, actually. It would be my pleasure.”

  Ohhhhhhhhh!

  “I’ll keep this in mind. But I don’t plan to call you for advice on what fascinator Kate is going to wear to the next wedding she attends,” I say smartly.

  Brooks flashes me a sexy smile. “I don’t know. My answer might surprise you.”

  Ohhhhhhhhhh, part two!

  The door to the clinic opens, and Derna pops her head out. “Dr. Martin, we’re ready to draw blood on Jeeter,” she calls across the parking lot.

  “Brilliant, thank you,” Brooks says, nodding. He quickly turns back to me. “Duty calls.”

  “Mine, too,” I say, inclining my head toward Mr. Bacon in the back seat.

  Brooks gives me another gorgeous smile before turning and trotting back toward the clinic.

  As soon as the door shuts behind him, I do a little dance in the parking lot.

  Yessssssssssssssssssss!

  He’s interested. Brooks might be afraid to ask me out because I’m a client, but he has totally set me up to make a move.

  Which is exactly what I intend to do.

  CHAPTER 5

  Today’s plan to improve myself item: To continue to evolve as a grown woman, I must take chances. Which means opening myself up to new people and understanding the possibility of rejection exists when putting myself out there. I will accept any form of rejection with maturity. Grace. With knowledge that not all connections are equal, and if this one is not, I will move forward in search of one that is.

  ***

  Okay, so writing these words this morning in my planner and actually picking up a phone and texting Brooks are two completely different things.

  Because if I text Brooks and he doesn’t respond, I’ll die.

  Or if he simply answers my question and wishes me a good day, I’ll die.

  If he’s not interested in me and truly gave me his number out of concern for Mr. Not Bacon’s welfare in my uneducated-in-the-ways-of-pet-pig hands, I’ll die.

  Dieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

  I quickly avert my gaze from my iPhone, which is sitting next to my Mac. I wrinkle my nose and stare at my blinking cursor, reminding me I need to write this post this morning before I have to get ready to go to Courtney’s house for my second day of personal concierge service for her.

  I take a sip of my green tea, place my mug back down on the table, and begin to write:

  Eponine London is a label that has been worn by the Duchess. I absolutely adore the retro 50 and 60’s vibe of this line, it’s so ladylike and

  Hmmm. What can I text Brooks about?

  No. Duchess. Fashion. Eponine London.

  I continue:

  Eponine London is a label that has been worn by the Duchess. I absolutely adore the retro 50 and 60’s vibe of this line, it’s so ladylike and elegant. Perfect not only for Kate, but I can see many women opting for these fabulous dresses f—

  I could text Brooks a hypothetical question.

  Like, if I were watching Mr. Not Bacon and Courtney was out of Cheerios, and had no grapes, what would be an acceptable and nutritious snack for him?

  No. Texting Brooks at six-thirty in the morning is dumb.

  Eponine London is a label that has been worn by the Duchess. I absolutely adore the retro 50 and 60’s vibe of this line, it’s so ladylike and elegant. Perfect not only for Kate, but I can see many women opting for these fabulous dresses for work

  Well, he was getting coffee early in the morning, so why is it dumb?

  Oh, for the love of all the L.K. Bennett pumps in Kate’s closet, I need to text him a stupid question so I can get on with my work.

  Being that I am a confident, professional woman, I pick up my phone and begin typing a message.

  But it’s incredibly hard to type a mature message when my hand is shaking from nerves.

  Brooks, this is Payton James. We met yesterday at Coffee By Jules, then became reacquainted at the animal clin—

  No. Too formal. Let me try this again.

  Hey! Brooks! How are you?

  Gah! No! Why am I using exclamation points? Just because I feel excited saying his name, doesn’t mean he needs to know I’m excited to type his name. Maybe this:

  Can Mr. Not Bacon eat crackers? Are flavored ones okay? I mean, I bet the Cheez-It Hot & Spicy crackers aren’t good, right?

  DELETE.

  I definitely need a book on perfecting communication.

  “Morning,” Whitney says, slowly strolling into the living room and heading to the kitchen.

  I study my roommate for a moment. Whitney has the most gorgeous red hair I’ve ever seen. Shiny and long—I’m so envious of her silky straight locks—and the most unusual green eyes. They are a pale green, flecked with gold, accented by her long eye lashes and ever-present pair of cat-eye glasses.

  “Blogging about Duchess Kate or about Seattle life?” she asks as she winds her red hair up into a top knot and secures it with an elastic band.

  “How about attempting to text a gorgeous British vet and I can’t even come up with one single thing to say without sounding like an idiot?” I say, putting my phone down in defeat.

  Whitney opens the fridge and rummages around inside for a moment. She retrieves her Greek yogurt and shuts the door. “You’re a writer, Payton. Surely you can come up with one text message.”

  “I can write a complete descriptive post about Kate wearing Eponine London,” I say slowly, picking up my pencil and tapping it against my lips, “but I can’t think of a single intelligent text to send to Brooks. I should find an article with tips on how to text.”

  I immediately go to Google and type in “dating and texting tips.” Oh, no. Tons of “Dos and Don’ts” pop up. There really are rules for doing this right.

  I can hear Whitney sliding open the silverware drawer and picking up a spoon.

  “If you are looking up how to text Brooks I’ll lob this spoon at your head,” Whitney warns.

  “Whit, I can’t take a chance on blowing this,” I say, clicking on “Is Your Texting Game On Point?”

  Whitney groans and pulls out the chair next to me at our little IKEA breakfast table. Too bad we messed up putting it together, because it’s slightly lopsided, but hey, it’s still standing which is all I care about.

  “Dare I even ask what crappy advice is being doled out to you?”

  I begin to read. “Oh, no. I shouldn’t be texting him according to this,” I say anxiously. “Brooks needs to make the first move.”

  “Payton! He did, he put his number into your cell,” Whitney says through a mouthful of yogurt. “Sorry. I couldn’t hold my response on that one.”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “Why didn’t he ask for my number so he could initiate something?”

  Whitney narrows her eyes back. “Because you’re a client? And it was probably safer to put the ball in your court so he could be professional?”

  Okay. That makes sense.

  I continue to read. “Let’s see, be brief. Wait for him to reply before initiating the next message. Don’t reply right away, wait at least ten minutes but waiting for much longer is preferred.” I stop reading and glance at Whitney. “I’m getting overwhelmed.”

  “Quit reading that,” Whitney counsels. “This person spewing out ideas has zero clue what your conversation with Brooks was like. None. You lik
e him. You want to text him. So send him a text. Be you, Payton. Because Brooks likes who you are, not what some stupid article says you should be.”

  I take in Whitney’s words. She’s right. Brooks seemed to like me, talking about royal fashion and my never-ending quest to perfect myself and my love of green tea lattes.

  Me.

  So that is who I’m going to give him.

  Before I totally chicken out and read fifteen more articles on the perfect way to text a romantic interest.

  I pick up my phone and type the first thing that comes to my mind:

  Hey Brooks, Good morning, this is Payton. Working on a Kate post, but not about fascinators. However, you did say you’d surprise me with your knowledge of said subject, so tell me a designer she has worn. Let’s see how surprising you can be, Doctor.

  Then I hit send.

  And the second I do, complete panic grips me.

  I HIT SEND.

  “Gah! How can I take it back?” I cry. “It’s too long. Too stupid! It’s too early!”

  I begin swiping buttons to see if I have a recall text option. I’m going to be sick. Sick! I don’t need an article on dating and texting to tell me my instinctive text was all kinds of wrong.

  “What did you say?”

  Embarrassment fills me. “I’m an idiot. How could you let me text him? I asked him about Kate’s fascinators; could I be any more ridiculous?”

  Whitney stares at me, a crease in her brow. “Well . . . It’s an interesting conversation choice, but I’ll give you bonus points for taking my advice to heart and for being you.”

  “That’s a totally nice way of saying I messed this up.”

  Whitney shakes her head. “No, I didn’t say that. And what do I know? I haven’t been out with a guy since Jordan effectively smashed my heart into ten thousand pieces. That was last year. See? I know nothing. I’m sure he’ll love your text.”

  Then we both stare at my phone.