Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83343 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83343 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“Tea? Coffee?” I suggest, a little unnerved. “We have cartons of orange juice in the back fridge.” I wave towards the unit that holds the cold drinks.
Sandra shuffles towards us and I see her out of the corner of my eye, placing the chocolate gateau on the counter. We’ll do a sweepstake later of what time the first slice will be eaten. It’s always the last to be ordered, but once the first slice has gone, it’s like Black Friday—nonstop orders until it’s gone. Before that, homemade granola bars and carrot cake comprise the bulk of each morning’s business.
“Aren’t you a handsome chap?” Sandra says to the perfect stranger in front of me, who hasn’t even told me if he wants tea or coffee yet. Sandra puts her hands on her hips and steps towards me, and therefore the stranger, as if she’s inspecting him, making sure he’s as good-looking as she first thought. There’s no doubt about it. The dark brown glossy hair, the full lips, that jaw … even the hint of a crease between his eyes adds an intensity to his handsome face.
The customer’s mouth curls up in a quarter smile. “Thank you.”
“And American!” she says as if she’s just been introduced to a zebra. We see Americans every day. Or most days anyway.
Sandra nudges me. “He’s American.”
I can’t help but smile. Sandra is unintentionally funny at least forty percent of the day. The other sixty, she’s singing, which makes her the perfect colleague. Plus she has no filter, a talent for baking, and I’ve known her since I was born. Sandra is family.
“Carrot cake?” I suggest, trying to ignore Sandra and focus on my job—the job I dreamed of growing up, and started when I was sixteen.
“A black coffee,” he says.
Instead of actually fixing the customer a coffee, while I take the payment, Sandra leans on the counter. “You live in America?” she asks. “You over here on holiday?”
“That will be one pound fifty, and the questionnaire from Sandra is entirely optional.”
He chuckles and my thighs flame. It’s true there aren’t many good-looking men who wander onto the Crompton Estate. And I don’t often leave the estate, other than to pop into the village if I need to go to the post office or the supermarket. I don’t cross paths with many men my age who look like the man opposite me, but my body is having such a visceral reaction to him, I’m quite thankful it’s been a while since I ventured farther. Maybe I’ve had some kind of hormonal shift and I’d start convulsing on the floor if I was to visit Cambridge, stumble around a corner and find myself opposite an entire group of men.
Although a dozen men put together are unlikely to have the confidence of the one opposite now. It oozes from every pore of him. In just a few seconds of interaction, I can tell he’s a man who knows what he wants.
A man who gets what he wants.
“It’s not a questionnaire,” says Sandra. “I’m just making small talk. I like people. What can I say?”
“At the moment I live in the States,” he replies.
I’m about to ask him whether he wants to pay by cash or card when he lifts his phone in answer to my unasked question, nodding when I offer him the card reader.
“I have family over here. I’m meeting them this morning to tour the gardens.”
“Lovely,” I say.
“A family man,” Sandra says in confirmation. “Are you married?”
At this, the man chuckles. I’m not quite sure if it’s all the questions or the personal nature of this specific question.
“I’m not.” His gaze slides to mine and then back to Sandra.
“I’ll bring your coffee over, if you want to take a seat. You have a choice of tables.” I want to hit my forehead with my palm. Of course he has a choice of tables. He’s the only one here. It’s not like some are reserved for VIPs.
“Thanks,” he says before turning to go.
I watch as he sits, unfurls his legs under the table and pulls out his phone.
“He’s gorgeous,” Sandra says as we both stare at him.
He looks up abruptly, catching us as we ogle. Embarrassment creeps up my neck and I glance down at the till in front of me as if it’s a laptop and I’m doing important work.
Did he hear Sandra?
“You’re going to get us both in trouble,” I whisper.
“You need a little trouble in your life. A little excitement or adventure.”
“I like my life just fine as it is,” I reply. The Crompton Estate is adventure enough for me. I’m happy here. That’s what counts.
“Twenty years ago, I would have climbed that man like a tree,” Sandra says.
“You were happily married,” I remind her.
She shrugs. “But you’re not.”
“I’m happy.” I’ve known adventure, which is why I like it here, in the coffee shop, singing show tunes and serving up carrot cake.