Green Tea Latte To Go

by Ellis, Aven

  They cut to Henna, who is smiling beautifully for the camera as she nods enthusiastically. In fact, this is the most enthusiastic I’ve seen her all day.

  “That’s right, Karen,” Henna says, her eyes shining bright. “I have to say, I met a young woman with the most interesting career. She is a real life pig concierge, catering to Seattle pet owners who have mini pigs.”

  Then it cuts to a video of me attaching the leash to Mr. Not Bacon’s harness, and then Henna begins her voiceover.

  “Ballard resident Payton James likes to bring home the bacon,” Henna says. “But by bringing home the bacon, that means safely bringing home a beloved client’s pot bellied pig . . . of course, sometimes these pets have a mind of their own, making Payton’s job a challenge.”

  And then they show me tugging on Mr. Not Bacon as he drapes himself across the sidewalk.

  Shit.

  Now the shot cuts to me for my whole two minutes of interview time with Henna.

  “This is part of my job,” I say, in a snippet that was spliced in. “As a concierge, I run errands and handle things for a client to make their life easier.”

  Henna goes back to voiceover mode as more footage of Mr. Not Bacon is shown, this time, as he is flying me back up the sidewalk for Cheerios.

  “And Payton has found her niche taking care of Seattle’s pet pigs,” Henna explains.

  Incorrectly, I might add.

  “Payton has been fantastic with Mr. Not Bacon,” Courtney says excitedly.

  Then it jumps again, cutting out all of Courtney’s conversation about how I’ve helped organize her personal life and given her some of her “me time” back and what a difference I’ve made already. In fact, it cuts straight to my boss at the concierge agency, Lisa.

  “We love how Payton simply rolled her sleeves up and took a pig as part of her responsibilities. She obviously has a gift for it.”

  Oh, my God, Lisa said more than that! She told me so!

  “So, pig owners, know your little oinker is in good hands with the pet pig concierge of Seattle, Payton James. If you want more information on Payton and her services, her contact info is on our website.”

  “What a job!” Ric says, laughing for the camera.

  “And the pig was adorable,” Karen breathes. “And doesn’t Payton have another job as well, Henna?”

  I hold my breath.

  Henna listens to the question via her earpiece and nods. “Yes, Payton is also a Seattle blogger. Her links are on our website, too.”

  Karen is now my favorite news anchor in the history of the world.

  Then they say goodnight and the telecast ends.

  Now all phones are going off again, and I swallow hard. Okay, that was a complete disaster but my blog did get mentioned on air. That counts for something, right?

  I look up, and my family is staring at me in shock.

  “They obviously went with the pig angle,” I say flatly, as there is nothing else to say.

  Nobody responds. All I hear are buzzes and beeps and ringtones going off against the backdrop of the theme song for a sitcom rerun coming up next.

  “Sweetheart, I really think it’s time you consult a career counselor,” Mom suggests. “I told you about my frie—”

  I grab my Kate Spade cross body bag off the floor and stand up. “Mom, I’m tired, I’ve had a long day, and I’m not seeing a career counselor. I don’t know why you all are so concerned about me.”

  “Because we love you, Payton, that’s why,” Dad says, furrowing his brow. “If we didn’t care, we wouldn’t say anything.”

  “I’m dating a veterinarian, and he isn’t freaked by my career choice!” I blurt out.

  “What? You’re dating?” Mom cries, her hand flying to her chest. “And you didn’t tell us?”

  Ugh, why did I blurt that out why, why, why?

  “A vet?” Sophie says incredulously. “Seriously?”

  Now I’m getting mad.

  “Yes, a vet finds me interesting and fun and loves my career choice,” I say firmly.

  Nobody responds. I clear my throat.

  “I’m going home now. Please, no more discussion on my career. And believe me when I say I’m not a pig concierge,” I say, walking over to the oversized floral chair where my mom is sitting. “Night,” I say, kissing her on the cheek.

  Then I do the same to my dad and begin to walk toward the front door.

  “So when can we expect this vet to come over for dinner?” Mom suddenly asks.

  “What?” I ask, my stomach dropping out.

  “If you’re dating a vet, we should meet him,” Mom insists, standing up. “So surely he can come over for dinner on Sunday night, right?”

  Now I’m really going to be sick.

  I only thought being labeled Seattle’s Pig Concierge was bad. But now I have to ask Brooks over for a family dinner?

  I can’t. No way. Too soon. What if he totally freaks out?

  Worse, what if he accepts and does come? What if they inundate him with all the reasons I’m not as perfect as Sophie, that I’m a flake, that they hope he’ll somehow “save” me from my unrealistic career choices and make me reach my potential? What if he doubts his opinion of me after this? Or decides he doesn’t want to date a girl with a nutty family?

  Ugh.

  In comparison, being known as the Pig Concierge of Seattle seems better by the moment.

  CHAPTER 20

  Today’s plan to improve myself item: Part of perfecting one’s self is to have confidence. Mature women have confidence in all that they do. So I’m going to be confident and ask Brooks over for dinner at my parents’ house on Sunday night. I’ll frame it as a casual get together, and if he doesn’t want to come, I understand. But in regards to becoming a real life adult, I need to be confident in asking him over.

  Reality: THIS IS RELATIONSHIP SUICIDE.

  We’ve been going out for a week now.

  A WEEK. No man wants to meet a family when they haven’t even decided if they are dating exclusively.

  Whoa. If he’s not exclusive with me it will break my heart.

  He’s exclusive. I mean, he hasn’t said so, but I know it.

  Need to refocus. Back to dinner from hell.

  I should pretend I asked him and tell my family he is on call.

  But I’m a terrible liar. Mom would know I was lying without even looking at me, she just knows.

  And then Sophie would accuse me of making Brooks up.

  There aren’t enough green tea lattes to help me sort through this mess.

  And the last thing in the world I feel is confident . . .

  ***

  I anxiously stare at my laptop, the cursor blinking at me as I try to write a new post for Payton’s Take on Living this morning.

  Of course, it’s hard to concentrate when my stomach is twisted into one huge nervous knot and every few minutes I get another email asking me if I could pet concierge for chinchillas, cats, more pigs, and miniature horses.

  Oy. Oyyyyyyyyyyy.

  I reach for my oversized ceramic cup filled with my green tea latte. I’m sitting at Coffee By Jules at the ungodly hour of five thirty in the morning on Tuesday. I’m doing this so I can have a few minutes with Brooks, who will be here any minute. He has a surgery scheduled this morning, so he’s going to have a cup of coffee with me before heading over to the clinic.

  And I’m going to ask him to come to this so-called casual dinner which is not casual and I’m sure he will know it as much as I do.

  The bells ring against the door, and I see Brooks standing in the doorway to the coffeehouse. My heart flips happily despite my anxiety. I never get tired of seeing him, never. I take in his tall frame, the dark brown hair, the slight shading of stubble against his golden skin.

  The second he spots me his eyes light up, and happiness fills me. Brooks makes his way over to my table and immediately leans down and kisses me on the cheek.

  “Good morning, Sunshine,” he whispers sexily against
my ear, the scent of fresh soap and cologne lingering sexily on his skin. “You look radiant.”

  Normally the scent of his cologne is enough to distract me. Double bonus for that super sexy, fresh from the shower scent. But something else has my complete attention.

  He called me Sunshine.

  Brooks just gave me a nickname.

  THE FEELS I HAVE AT THIS MOMENT!

  “I’ll be right back,” he says, standing up and placing his laptop bag in the empty chair across from me.

  My whole body tingles happily in response. I can’t focus as I watch Brooks head up to the counter and place his order.

  I’m his sunshine.

  He called me radiant.

  And he’s here at five thirty in the morning so he can have breakfast with me.

  Brooks returns with a bowl of oatmeal and sets it down in front of the chair next to me, then sets his cup of black coffee beside it.

  “How are you this morning?” Brooks asks, taking a seat.

  “Well, I have lots of opportunities for pet concierge service if this whole blogging thing doesn’t work out,” I say dryly.

  “Hey, any publicity is good publicity,” Brooks reassures me as he takes a sip of his coffee. “And you knew Mr. Not Bacon was going to be the star of the show.”

  “I know,” I nod. Then I sigh. “I just didn’t think the whole segment was going to be so misleading about what I do.”

  Brooks is silent for a moment. “But you have a way to set the record straight. Your blog. Do a blog about the pigs in your life. Angus and Mr. Not Bacon. Promote it as the voice of the pig concierge, then launch into everything else you do. Get the people intrigued with the animal aspect onto your blog. Your brilliant writing will take care of the rest.”

  My brain is processing what he’s saying and I realize I do have an opportunity here.

  “You’re right,” I say excitedly. “And then I can pick up new readers if they start checking other pieces on the blog, or the link I’ll put in to Payton’s Take on Kate!”

  “That’s my girl,” Brooks says, grinning at me before taking a bite of his oatmeal.

  I can’t breathe.

  First Brooks called me his Sunshine.

  And now his girl.

  “So I’m really your girl, Brooks?” I ask softly, hardly daring to believe he said those words to me.

  Suddenly a look of anxiety passes over his gorgeous face. He slowly puts his spoon down and studies me with his brandy-colored eyes.

  “I hope it’s all right that I called you that. I mean, that’s the way I feel.”

  Brooks stops speaking and rubs his hand along the back of his neck, and I know he’s way out of his comfort zone here.

  “Listen, Payton, I’m not going to play this like out of a single dude’s handbook. I’m not perfect, and I’m sure this is completely wrong, but I’ve never worked like that. I’m rubbish at dating and dating strategy. Which means I’ll probably cock this up somehow but I know I like you. And for the first time in years, I want to see someone. And that’s you. Only you.”

  I sit very still. Brooks wears his heart on his sleeve. He’s not into playing the field or trying to be the cool, unaffected single man.

  And I know I’m falling in love with him.

  “Well, this works out really well because I only want to see you, too,” I say happily.

  An expression of relief washes over his face. “Bloody hell you had me scared there for a second,” he says, grinning at me.

  “I’m the one who has been scared all morning because there is something I want to ask you, and I was terrified it was too soon. And no, it’s not the full English,” I say, cocking an eyebrow at him.

  Brooks laughs and reaches for my free hand underneath the table. He laces his fingers through mine and my body responds to feeling his rough, masculine skin against my own.

  “And what is your question?”

  “My question,” I say, feeling more confident than ever, “has to do with the fact that I mentioned you to my family last night.”

  I study his face, looking for signs of horror. But instead, I see his eyes dancing at me.

  “You did?”

  I nod. “I did. I said I was seeing you.”

  A slow smile spreads across his face. “Good, I like that you told them.”

  “Well, I’m glad. Because they’d like you to come over for dinner on Sunday night.”

  His eyes study mine. “So you want me to meet your family?”

  “Yes,” I say, my heart hammering against my ribs. “But I understand if it’s too soon, I really do. And I promise it won’t change anything between us if you say no.”

  Brooks releases my hand, and I wonder if this is too much. Yes, he wants to see me, but meeting my family is a whole other deal.

  He picks up his spoon and casually takes a bite of oatmeal.

  “Well,” he says, dipping his spoon back into his bowl, “I will if you do one thing for me first.”

  “What?”

  “Why don’t you come round for Sunday Lunch first?” Brooks says slowly. “And you can meet Sylvia. Because I might have mentioned you to her, and she’s dying to meet you, too.”

  Then a slow sexy smile spreads across his face.

  I can’t believe it. I know I’ve got this ridiculous smile on my face, but I don’t care.

  “We were doing the same thing!” I cry in delight.

  “Yes. And it’s obviously meant to be because I’m off on Sunday, and Dr. Nesmith is on call for exotics.” Then he frowns. “Except the Sunday Lunch is a huge meal, so eating another dinner afterward might be a challenge.”

  “Not a problem,” I say easily. “My mom’s main objective is to meet you. I’ll say we’ll swing by for drinks and coffee instead of dinner. Double meal quandary solved.”

  “So does this mean you will come round? I’ll even make banoffee pie for pudding.”

  “What? Pie for pudding?”

  Brooks nods and takes a sip of coffee. “Yes, pie for pudding. Banoffee pie is brilliant. It’s got bananas, cream, and toffee in it. My favorite thing for pudding.”

  I shake my head. “I’m so lost. It’s a pie, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re calling it a pudding.”

  “Well, we’re going to have it for pudding.”

  “Brooks, pudding is pudding.”

  “No, dessert is pudding.”

  “My head just exploded,” I declare, laughing. “So you call dessert pudding, even though you do have actual pudding and not random items served for pudding which are not pudding but actually dessert.”

  “Now I think my head just exploded.”

  I laugh and take a sip of my tea. “Why don’t you call it dessert?”

  “Because it’s pudding.”

  “Gah!” I cry, shaking my head.

  “Is this too much?” Brooks asks, arching an eyebrow at me. “Has my British side drawn you into the abyss?”

  I laugh. “No. But two things. I’m going to bring a real banana pudding over for Sunday Lunch because then we can have pudding for pudding.”

  Brooks laughs. “Very good. Second thing?”

  “Is there any way you can get this Friday or Saturday night off?” I ask. “As in completely, not on call, don’t have to be available off?”

  “You’re in luck,” Brooks declares. “This is my off weekend. Next two weekends will be on call, but this one I’m free. I did some swapping with Dr. Nesmith, because he needed two in a row off, but yes, I’m free.”

  “As you would say, ‘Brilliant.’”

  Brooks wipes his lips with a napkin. “And what is going on in that head of yours?” he asks suspiciously.

  “I’m planning a date for us,” I say matter-of-factly.

  “Yeah?” he asks, his eyes shining in delight.

  “Yes,” I say, smiling at him. “And it will determine how in tune you are with your American side, Dr. Martin.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Today
’s plan to improve myself item: For the first time ever, I’ve planned and paid for an outing for a date. I want to treat Brooks to a fun evening, one he would never expect. So in the self-improvement category of modern dating woman, I can put a big fat check next to it. PS—I think he’s going to love it.

  ***

  “You’re not joking, are you?”

  I grin at Brooks as I hold his hand. It’s Saturday night, and we’re walking with the crowd toward Safeco Field, the picturesque stadium located in the SoDo neighborhood of Seattle. It’s a beautiful park—with a gorgeous brick façade that keeps that retro look in mind—and has incredible views of the city and Puget Sound from the upper deck concourse.

  “Not joking. We are partaking in the great American pastime tonight, which is baseball,” I declare. “I’m testing your American half tonight. If you are truly half American, you should be dialed in on baseball.”

  “I think football is the great American pastime,” Brooks counters. “This town is obsessed with the Seahawks. And rightfully so, it’s a brilliant game.”

  “Brooks, Brooks, Brooks,” I say sadly, shaking my head. “Yes, this town is obsessed with Seahawks football, but baseball is considered the classic national pastime. So right now you’re connecting with your inner American.”

  “Am I going to be tested on my knowledge?” Brooks teases. “Will you end our relationship if I can’t answer questions about the Mariners?”

  FEELS.

  I hide my joy at having him say “our relationship” and flirt with him instead.

  “Well, I absolutely adore your British half, but since you are now living in Seattle, I have to make sure your Seattle half is well-connected. Balance is very important in any relationship.”

  Brooks beams when I say relationship, and my heart flutters knowing he has “the feels” as much as I do.

  Brooks stops walking right in front of The MITT, the huge, bronze-cast, abstract sculpture of a baseball mitt in front of the Left Field Gate.

  “And what about perfection?” Brooks asks, drawing me to his chest. “You seem to desire that. Yet I can tell you right now that’s something I’ll never be able to give you. So how do you feel about that in a relationship?”