Green Tea Latte To Go

by Ellis, Aven

Courtney grins. “Just pop open the back door. Mr. Not Bacon rang his doorbell to go outside to use the restroom.”

  “Pig potty,” Jacob explains, grinning. “Not Bacon needs to poop.”

  I stare at Courtney, stunned. “He can ring a doorbell?”

  Courtney’s eyes light up. “Yes. He’s incredibly smart. Mr. Not Bacon can ring the doorbell with his snout. And he does tricks, too.”

  “I had no idea,” I admit. “Wow.”

  Courtney smiles, and I can see the animal lover in her popping right out. “Not only are pigs incredibly smart, but they have so much emotion. That’s why I always wanted a pig as part of the family.”

  No wonder Brooks has one.

  I’m amazed by what I just learned. I slide off my stool and stroll over to the back door, where Mr. Not Bacon is patiently waiting. And I see a doorbell installed right at his level for him to ring.

  Incredible.

  I pop open the door and he strolls outside. I close the door and wait for him to come back.

  “He’ll ring the door when he’s ready,” Courtney assures me, taking another sip of coffee. “There is a doorbell installed on the other side, too.”

  Incredible squared.

  I come back to the kitchen, and I see Courtney’s face is full of hope. She’s smiling, and there’s light in her eyes.

  “I like your ideas,” she says softly. “Would you want to work exclusively for me? You can work as many hours as you want, and I’ll arrange it through your agency so it’s proper. But Monday through Friday?”

  Happiness fills me. I love the idea of having a set schedule and working with Courtney and her family.

  “Yes,” I say, nodding my head.

  “I’m so glad!” Courtney says excitedly.

  Madison squeals loudly, and we both laugh.

  “Okay, but we have a very important task up next,” Courtney says seriously. “After the mail is sorted and you’ve told me all about texting with the sexy vet Dr. Brooks.”

  “Sexy vet,” Jacob repeats. “Sexy vet Books.”

  Why does Jacob only repeat bad words? Why?

  “Don’t worry, he’ll forget those as soon as he watches Curious George,” Courtney assures me. “But do you know I have an amazing closet filled with date clothes I don’t wear? And that’s sad. But I think I know just the person to get some use out of them,” she declares, flashing me a knowing smile.

  CHAPTER 7

  Today’s plan to improve myself item (cont.): Being that this is my first date with a man, in a real adult setting, my date game needs to be on point tonight. Meaning—dress appropriately, like Kate. Spade or Middleton would apply here. I will be thoughtful in my responses. And witty. Witty is good. Listen well. Ask good questions.

  And I’m so nervous. If I can remember to do any of this it will be a miracle.

  ***

  I finish the side braid in my curly hair and gaze at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Thanks to Courtney, I’m dressed in a gorgeous Stella McCartney—yes, Stella—tank top that has yellow and transparent stripes. Utterly. Fantastic. I feel like Kate Middleton in this real designer shirt! Courtney also loaned me some fabulous chandelier earrings, too.

  So I’ve paired her pieces with some of my own things: a light white cardigan, Topshop white ankle skinny jeans, and my taupe and white Sebago shoes. Classy yet casual. Perfect for a coffee date.

  I exhale to try and settle the butterflies in my stomach, but it’s useless. I’m so excited to see Brooks. And nervous. I want nothing more than to pick up where we left off in the vet exam room, but this time, I get a jolt knowing we’re not together because it’s a client/patient appointment.

  We’re spending time together because we want to.

  That thought makes me giddy. I reach for my Bobbi Brown pink coral shimmer blush and blend it across the apples of my cheeks for a nice glow. Not that I need it, of course. Thinking about Brooks has me blushing automatically.

  I apply some nude eye colors on my lids, top off with some extra-lengthening mascara, as I have no eyelashes without it, and finish with a swipe of Fresh Sugar tulip-tinted lip treatment across my lips. Okay. Now I’m ready.

  I spritz some Tocca Florence perfume on the base of my throat and on my hair. Weird habit, but I love smelling perfume on my hair during the day. And this scent is floral and summery and it lingers nicely on my skin.

  Hmmm. Wonder if Brooks will notice?

  Will I be close enough for him to notice?

  I blink.

  No. No obsessing over how close I’ll be to him tonight.

  It’s coffee.

  And tea.

  And questions about pets for my blog article.

  But I really hope I’m close enough to smell his cologne again.

  Gah, no. I shake my head, push aside thoughts of the sensual cologne Brooks wears, and focus on being poised.

  I take a calming breath of air as I exit the bathroom. I retrieve my tote and check my phone, okay, good, no messages from Brooks saying he’s held up trying to save the life of a snake or gerbil.

  I enter the living room, and Whitney glances up from the TV, where she’s watching Flip or Flop, one of those home renovating shows she is obsessed with.

  “Payton, you look so pretty,” Whitney says, breaking into a smile.

  “I can thank Courtney for that,” I say honestly. “This is a Stella McCartney blouse, do you believe it? She loaned it to me.”

  Whitney’s eyes pop. “For real?”

  “Yes,” I say, nodding. “She loaned it to me for tonight.”

  “We should wrap you in a protective plastic coating so you can’t spill tea on it,” Whitney quips.

  “I know, right?”

  “That’s extremely nice for a client,” Whitney says, a thinking expression passing over her face.

  “You know what, Whit? I know this is weird, but when I met Courtney, I felt like I already knew her. She’s so easy to talk to, we like the same things, she’s into clothing and furniture. She likes hearing about Brooks and the previous yahoos I went out with. She’s . . . ” I hesitate for a moment, as I feel guilty even thinking what I’m going to say. “She’s like the big sister to me that Sophie doesn’t want to be.”

  Because in Sophie’s world, I’m not serious enough. I don’t “achieve” like I should, as she repeatedly tells me whenever she sees me. Ever since we’ve been kids I’ve been reminded by my parents and teachers that Sophie was such an “over-achiever.” Didn’t I want to run for Student Council and be like Sophie? Be bilingual? Learn piano? Captain the tennis team? Be valedictorian? Be perfect, like my sister?

  Whenever I’m around Sophie, it’s a constant nitpicking of how I’m not doing enough to reach my potential. She doesn’t understand me, just like Mom doesn’t. And that frustrates them to no end.

  But Courtney—well, Courtney embraces me as I am. She doesn’t tell me I’m not being serious. She genuinely wants to hear about my blogging. She asks me how I research my stories and get ideas. Courtney wanted to know how I began blogging and what I love about it. How I plan to grow my blogs. Questions my parents and Sophie never cared to ask, but within two days, Courtney did.

  “I get that,” Whitney says, her eyes showing nothing but understanding in them. “Courtney accepts you the way you are.” Then she raises her eyebrow. “Sounds like Dr. Brooks fancies you the way you are, too,” she says, putting on a horrible fake British accent.

  Now I know I shouldn’t have put on the shimmer powder because I’m burning bright red now.

  I hope I don’t look like a tomato.

  “Oooh, you do like him, you’re actually blushing!”

  “Stop it,” I say, waving my hand in front of my face to try and cool off. “By the way, your British accent is horrible.”

  Whitney grins. “Hey, I thought it was pretty good.”

  “Pretty bad,” I tease.

  “Well, good thing I don’t need it to bring summer décor to homes around Seattle,” Whitney says.


  “Maybe you need to practice it. By watching some fabulous, sexy British actors on TV.”

  Whitney grabs the remote and hits pause on Flip or Flop. “What is it about British men? They are so sexy.”

  “Henry Cavill, Prince Harry, Benedict Cumberbatch,” I rattle off the top of my head.

  “Nooooooooooo. I mean, they are fine and all, but Tom Hiddleston. He’s gorgeous,” Whitney says.

  I grin at her. “You need to find your very own Tom Hiddleston.”

  Suddenly Whitney’s expression changes. I see sadness lurking behind those green eyes, and I know her heart isn’t ready to move on from Jordan.

  “Yeah, maybe,” she says softly. Then she clears her throat. “I mean, this is stupid, Jordan broke up with me after graduation in December. It’s June. I should be over him, right?”

  “You loved him,” I say gently. “And broken hearts have their own timetable to heal, Whit-Bit. But I’m telling you, finding your own Tom Hiddleston would certainly help. That man knows how to treat a lady like a lady.”

  “Kind of like the sexy British vet that is waiting for you right now?” Whitney redirects.

  I beam back at her. “Yes. Speaking of which, I’m going to see him now.”

  “Have fun,” Whitney says. “I want to hear all about it when you come back!”

  I nod happily and slide out the door. I leave my apartment building and make the walk over to the coffeehouse. It’s typical Seattle—a light rain is blanketing the city. But we natives never pull out umbrellas for this. We’re used to it.

  I pass by all the cute cafes and shops in my neighborhood. I do love Ballard, and find it so charming. It’s a mix of old and new and everything has such a hip vibe.

  As I turn the corner, my phone vibrates in my purse. I move over next to a brew house and retrieve it. And my heart freezes when I see Brooks’ name on my screen.

  Oh, no. I wonder if he’s running late. Or what if he’s cancelling? Maybe he really does have to perform life-saving surgery.

  Or worse—what if he’s changed his mind? And he’s messaging me to cancel with some lame excuse?

  Wait. He could use the surgery excuse and I’d never know the difference.

  Okay. Stop. No more being neurotic. Poise, Payton.

  I repeat the word poise mentally about five times and then gather up enough courage to read his text:

  I’m starting with an apology, Payton. I’m so sorry, but I’ll be ten minutes late this evening. Had to treat a rabbit with a broken leg last minute before I could take Angus home and feed him. But I’m on my way, if this still works for you.

  I read his text in utter amazement. Brooks is worried that being ten minutes late is going to change our date? And he’s notifying me? Most guys don’t even think it’s late unless it’s past a half hour!

  I grin and happily text him back:

  Brooks, please, no apology necessary. I’m almost there, I’ll get us a table. How do you take your coffee? I’ll get one for you.

  Within seconds my phone buzzes:

  No, I want to buy the drinks tonight. Wait for me and I’ll treat.

  Swoon! What a gentleman. I type back:

  While I admire your gentlemanly attributes, as a modern professional woman, I’ll be more than happy to pick up the first round. Please provide your drink order.

  It doesn’t take Brooks long to respond.

  A modern professional woman who enjoys looking at the handbags Her Majesty carries. Quite a paradox, aren’t you?

  My heart skips happily. I love that Brooks is so quick. I reply:

  I don’t care for the term paradox. I would say I am multifaceted. Now may I have your coffee order, sir?

  I hit send and grin as I await his response.

  Multifaceted. I like that. I also like the darkest roast they have available in a grande size, please. But I insist the next round will be on me. See you shortly.

  A tingling sensation sweeps over me. He’s planning on a second round already, as if he knows we are going to go beyond one drink tonight.

  I drop my phone back into my bag and continue my walk in the drizzle toward the coffeehouse. I reach it and pull open the door, the bells familiarly jingling behind me as I do. It’s quiet tonight, so the baristas glance at me as soon as the door opens.

  “Hi, Payton!” Sean calls out.

  “Hi, Sean,” I say, smiling at him.

  I head up to the counter and am greeted by Leslie.

  “Green tea latte to go with coconut milk, shot of raw honey?” Leslie says, reaching for a cup.

  “Actually, for here,” I say, retrieving my wallet. “And I need a grande cup of your strongest roast, please.”

  “You got it,” Leslie says, nodding. She puts in the order and I hand her my debit card. Mellow, acoustic-type music fills the air overhead, and I move to the pickup counter to wait for our drinks.

  Our.

  Happiness radiates through me as I think of this. I can’t wait to learn more about Brooks tonight. I have to remember not to overwhelm him, though. I love to talk. I love asking questions and discovering people. To me, this is the ideal date—drinks and conversation. It’s the kind of date I’ve always wanted, but have never had.

  I’ve found in the past sometimes I’m a bit too much. I can see it in people’s eyes, or hear it in their slow “excuse me, must go talk to so-and-so,” all while stepping away from the girl who can’t stop talking.

  “Here you go, Payton,” Sean says, interrupting my thoughts.

  I pick up the two ceramic mugs and seek out the perfect table. I spy one in the back, next to the overstuffed bookshelf, and sit down. I gaze up at the titles of books, and notice it’s an odd collection. Like Jane Austen is next to Stephen King, who is next to a book on cleaning your home the organic way. Hmmm. That would be a good question for Brooks. If he had to pick a book out of this bookshelf to read, which one would it be?

  Okay. So much for not overwhelming him.

  I take out my phone while I wait. I check my blog hits. Oh, the post on Kate’s dress is doing very well, standard numbers, so that’s good. I check my lifestyle blog and see the post on cute planners is triple what my post about throw pillows did two days before. Stationary is huge right now, I really need to continue to blog on that. And I picked up a lot of new followers, which is good, because this blog is starting to grow.

  I’m about to check my emails when the bells clang against the door. I glance up, and my heart jumps when I see it’s Brooks.

  I hold my breath as he looks around the coffeehouse. Brooks then spots me, and his face lights up with a smile.

  I rise and smile back at him, my heart racing like crazy now. Brooks dodges the tables that dot his path to me, and I study him as he moves. He’s wearing jeans and a pale blue, long-sleeved shirt.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Brooks says as he approaches me.

  “Don’t apologize, you had an emergency,” I say truthfully.

  Brooks sinks into the chair across from me. His brown eyes gaze straight into mine, and the butterflies appear in force, swooping happily in my stomach.

  “Thank you for the drink,” he declares, picking up his mug of coffee.

  I grin at him. “I don’t know about that. How can you be thankful for a black cup of coffee?”

  “It’s not tar,” Brooks says, a sexy smile spreading across his face.

  “Oh, it so is,” I counter.

  “I run on black coffee,” he declares after taking a sip.

  “You need that on a T-shirt. ‘This vet is fueled by black coffee.’”

  Brooks grins and the butterflies shift. “It would be appropriate.”

  I pause for a moment to take a sip of my latte. “How is your rabbit patient?”

  “Muffin? He’s doing well. It was a traumatic fracture of the tibia,” Brooks explains. “I did intramedullary fixation and used intramedullary pins—”

  Brooks abruptly stops speaking and shakes his head.

  “What?” I as
k, confused. “Why did you stop?”

  “I’m sorry. I sound like a textbook talking to you,” Brooks says, an embarrassed expression passing over his gorgeous face. “You’ll be running for that door before your latte is finished.”

  I adore his honest insecurity. For someone who is gorgeous and witty and has a brilliant mind, Brooks is revealing his insecurities to me, which I find both mature and refreshing at the same time.

  “I like hearing about intram—um, pins,” I say, laughing. “Sorry, I can’t remember or pronounce what you called it.”

  Brooks flashes me a gorgeous smile. “Intramedullary.”

  I grin and attempt the word again. “Intramedullary. Intramedullary pins. That’s it. I want to hear about them.”

  “Liar,” Brooks teases, taking a sip of his coffee.

  “No, I’m not,” I counter. “You have a fascinating career. What you do is so important. You heal. You save lives. You make decisions that are impossible to make sometimes, I’m sure. So of course I want to hear about that. I feel lucky to be able to have this conversation with you.”

  He studies me carefully with those rich brown eyes of his. “You mean that, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. I admire how your mind works. You’re brilliant. Why wouldn’t I want to hear about the details of your day?”

  Brooks appears thoughtful for a moment. “Not everyone finds my career as appealing as you do.”

  I realize Brooks is alluding to something with that comment, but now is not the time to ask him about it.

  “Well, I’m not everyone,” I say smartly. “So are you going to keep me in suspense or tell me how you put the pins in Muffin’s leg?”

  Brooks laughs and rakes a hand through his dark hair. “Very well. I’ll explain it.”

  And I listen carefully as he does. Brooks explains how he evaluated the injury with an exam and radiographs, or “rads” as he called them, discussed the options with the owner and determined the path of treatment. How he did surgery to insert the pins and the medications he prescribed, and how they’ll hope for the best with the post-surgery recovery.

  I hear so many things in the way he speaks—how he’s passionate about animals and providing the best care possible for them, but is honest in the fact that he can’t predict the outcome. That sometimes he can’t save them, and that’s the reality of life.