Just Friends(45)

“Mm-hmm. But he wants to get addicted to youuuu,” Harper singsongs as she prances away from my ear.

I shake my head.

It seems Harper has found her in with me: gossiping about boys. Before this, she’s been as antsy as a chihuahua around me. I shoot her my deadliest glare, and she smiles with both rows of teeth.

When I turn around, Americano in hand, Calvin is waiting at the bar, eyes already set on me.

It doesn’t mean anything. He’s just really excited for his Americano, and he doesn’t have a scrolling addiction. Which is rare, and that is why his eye contact is startling.

“Calvin,” I call as I slide the paper cup across the bar. “One Americano.”

“Thank you,” he says, swiping the cup. “Oh, it looks like you forgot something.”

“Uh-oh! I’m so sorry. What did I—”

“Your number. It seems to be missing.” He pretends to inspect the cup, looking under it and spinning it a full revolution in his hands with a look of utter confusion.

Despite myself, I exhale a breathy laugh. I respect his commitment to the bit.

“Wow,” I say, fumbling for what to say next.

But a loud thud startles me out of the moment. I turn around to find Declan surrounded by three massive cardboard boxes strewn around the floor.

“Oop,” Calvin exclaims, setting his drink down. “Let me help with that.”

He lifts the part of the counter that separates me from him and passes through like he’s done this before, then crouches down to start gathering the boxes.

“Hey, Calvin,” Declan says with a bored look on his face.

“Hey, buddy. Tough day?” Calvin asks.

“Yeah, you could say that.”

Calvin stacks the final cardboard box into Declan’s arms, making sure they’re balanced before taking a step back.

“Alright. You got it, pal?” Calvin says.

“Yup. Got it,” Declan replies and continues his journey to wherever he’s headed.

Calvin turns around to face me, but he’s closer than expected now that he’s behind the counter.

I look up at him and gulp.

“I guess I should probably get out of here,” he says, shyer than I’d expect him to be capable of.

“I guess so,” I reply as I watch him lift the countertop and pass through. “Oh! My number! One second, let me look for a pen.”

He exhales and puts a sarcastic hand on his chest. “Thank goodness. I thought I was going to have to ask again.”

I chuckle and frantically search for something to write with, but I can’t find anything. Declan strides past me, hands empty this time.

“Hey,” I whisper to him. “Do you have a pen?”

He looks stunned that I’m talking to him for a moment and then says, “Yeah. One sec.”

He disappears to the back room and I tap my foot while I wait for him to reappear.

Sorry, I mouth to Calvin across the bar, and mime waiting for a pen as best as I can.

No worries, he mouths back with a grin.

Declan pummels through the double doors. “Here,” he says, handing me a black pen. He starts walking away the second it meets my hands.

“Thanks,” I say to his back. He doesn’t acknowledge it.

I scribble my number onto Calvin’s cup with a smiley face and my name and then slide it over the bar to him. “Here ya go.”

He studies it. “Blair. That’s a beautiful name.” He looks up with a smile and nods. “I’ll be in contact.”

“Oh, thanks. I will respond to your contact!” I shout as he walks out the front door. “Oh my gosh,” I slap both hands over my mouth, wanting to crawl out of my skin.

Harper looks at me from the cash register, a poorly hidden smile blooming on her face.

“I can’t believe I just said that,” I say to her.

“Honestly, I can’t either,” she giggles, incapable of sounding mean.

“?‘I will respond to your contact’? Who says that?”

“You, apparently.” Harper looks amused to be in on something with me.

Declan shuffles past me again. This man never stops moving.

“Oh, Declan,” I call.

He motions with his eyebrows for me to go on.

“Hey, uhm,” I start, not quite sure what I was planning to say. How do you know the man who asked for my number? didn’t really flow off the tongue. “Who’s Calvin?” I ask instead.

“Calvin?” he repeats, scratching his eyebrow with a slight head tilt.

“Yeah.”

“He owns the auto shop down the road. Comes in pretty often at lunchtime,” he says, looking away.

I nod. “You guys pretty close?” I continue, trying to justify my reason for stopping him.

He shrugs.

I nod, slower this time.

He grabs a rag and starts wiping down the countertop, coffee grounds falling off the side.

“Oh, don’t worry. I can get that,” I say, putting my hand on his arm.

He stiffens slightly and I yank my hand back, embarrassed by my reflex to touch him.

“No. It’s fine,” he says, returning to wiping, the muscles in his forearm flexing and relaxing with the effort.

“Are overtime hours available for tonight?” I ask. Switching topics seems like a good idea.