Weirdly, the question doesn’t feel like it came out of nowhere. And it doesn’t sting as much as I’d expect. I shake my head and gesture for her to follow me up front. “No.”
“So what made you decide to get a dog?”
“He moved in to my trash can and Zen adopted him.”
“I almost got my first pet that way, but my mom refused to keep a raccoon as a house pet.”
That’s absolutely adorable. I can picture her baby-talking a raccoon, feeding it food scraps, making a bed for it on the floor next to hers, and it makes me smile.
Again.
I don’t know that I smiled this much when I was dating Felicia. And that thought isn’t as terrifying as it should be.
I gesture her to go around and sit at one of the stools on the other side of the counter.
“Here.” I set a large café mug in front of her once she’s settled. “How’s this taste?”
I think it tastes like crap, but then, I think all coffee tastes like crap. Zen says it’s a genetic deficiency on my part.
Sabrina lifts the mug to her nose and sniffs. My cock goes half-hard.
When she closes her eyes, sniffs again, and then sips, I have to adjust myself.
There’s something about watching her taste a drink I made that has me utterly enthralled.
I can brew a pot of tea.
I can clean.
I can cook.
But I don’t do it often because it’s just me and Zen and they insist on earning their keep, and also, they prefer takeout.
Watching Sabrina drink something I made—no, wait—shit.
She’s not drinking.
She’s nearly choking into the mug.
“Mmm,” she says without making eye contact. “Delicious.”
It is not. “Delicious?” I repeat back.
“So…unique. And daring. Very bold.”
“It’s bad.”
“No, no, it’s— Okay, yes. It’s bad. It is objectively bad. Did you make it with dirty dishwater?”
“No.”
She sniffs it again, her nose wrinkling. “Did you ferment the coffee beans in a field of decaying lemons?”
That shouldn’t be funny, but I can’t suppress a snort of laughter. “Closer.”
“No offense, but I think Super Coffee Murderer would be a more appropriate nickname for you. The Bean Meanie. The Latte Villain. Is that—did you brew this with pine needles?” She coughs an exaggerated hacking noise and pounds a fist to her chest, making her breasts bounce, which in turn makes my dick strain toward her. “I think there’s pine tar stuck in my throat.”
“It’s a pour-over with heated kombucha and then steamed with the cappuccino thing,” I tell her. And yes, I’m very proud of learning the word pour-over.
“That…is not something I would’ve thought to try.”
“Don’t know if it works if you don’t try it.”
“This was incredibly imaginative of you, but it does not work.” Her brows furrow. “Why do you smile bigger the more I insult you?”
“You’re not insulting me.” I push a second cup in front of her. “Failure is half the process when it comes to learning and experimentation. Here. Try this one too.”
“Did you make it with kombucha?”
“No. For this one, I put my dirty socks on top of the beans.”
She snorts, a smile teasing her lips, that sparkle back in her eyes as she lifts the second cup. “I smell cinnamon.”
“Your nose gets a gold star.”
“I don’t smell coffee.”
“It’s magic hidden coffee.”
She sips.
And she chokes. “Oh my god, you weren’t kidding about the socks. Are you sure there’s nothing poisonous in here?”
“I’m a scientist at heart. You can trust me.”
“What is that?”
“Warm cinnamon kombucha, actually.”
“No.”
“Yep.”
“I knew it wasn’t coffee.”
“Gold star again.”
“I can’t believe you like this stuff but you don’t like coffee.”
“People are weird. Here. Last one.”
She eyes the final mug, this one blue with foam that’s probably too high.
“It’s actually coffee. With milk.” I push it closer to her.
She picks it up and sniffs.
Then sniffs deeper.
I lean closer. The snow has melted out of her curls and her cheeks are still pink, likely from the cold. Whatever shampoo she used is mingling with the scents of coffee and chai, and I want to kiss her.