It All Starts with a Sip
“You need to do something,” my assistant, Kim, said from the doorway of my office, propping a
hand up on her hip.
I glanced up from the report I wasn’t really reading. “What do you mean?”
“Girl, you are dragging.”
“It’s eight o’clock at night.” I tried to justify my sluggishness.
She pursed her lips. “Um-hmm, but you looked like this at eight o’clock this morning.”
I reached back and lifted my hair off my neck, kneading the knotted muscles there. I sighed,
knowing she was right. I’d been lethargic, restless, and listless for days. I hadn’t been sleeping well
either. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me; maybe I need some vitamins, a protein injection, some
caffeine or something.”
She laughed. “Oh, you need a protein injection, all right. How long since you and Say-It-Ain’t-So Joe
broke up?” The lovely nickname she had for my ex, Joseph.
“Nine months.”
“And since then?”
I sighed again. “No one.”
“No one.” She shook her head in disgust. “Not a peck on the cheek or a hand grazing your hind
parts. Jayla, get some already!”
I laughed. “Kim, there’s more to life than sex.”
“How would you know? You have no sex nor life to speak of.”
“That’s harsh. I’m career focused, I am woman, hear me roar.”
“Ya lonely and cranky. Fix it.”
“So you want me to just jump on the next guy I see?”
She turned to leave on her crocodile stilettos and smiled at me over her shoulder. “There’s an idea!”
“Yeah, right—that is SO me. . . .”
“Seriously,” she called out as she strode toward the elevator. “A little spontaneity wouldn’t kill you.”
“That’s what people say to excuse rash behavior.”
“Nothing wrong with cutting loose every once in a while. You don’t have to make it a lifestyle
choice. And don’t stay here all night—you cannot snuggle up to income projections when you’re
old!” Her final words caused a few of the other late-night stragglers to stick their heads out of their
cubes and offices to see whom she was addressing.
“Good NIGHT, Kim.”
“ ’Night, boss.”
The thing of it was, she was right. Since Joseph and I had split (okay, since I had kicked his lying,
cheating, wallet-“borrowing” ass out) I had funneled all of my energy into my career and little else. I
stopped into the coffee shop every morning (specialty mocha and zucchini muffin), I visited my
grandmother once a week, I went out with friends once a month. Everything else was work related.
I had been working at a nonstop pace for months. And I was well on my way to being the youngest
chief financial officer this company had ever seen. Granted, BeniCareCo was a small, independent
health insurance company, but I was making my mark. As the Assistant Vice President of Financial
Operations, I was two steps away from my goal. But I was tired. Maybe the listless, restless thing
was my body’s way of telling me to slow it down.
Slow down for whom and for what? What was I in a rush to get home to? Most of my friends were
either married or on the same crazy cutthroat corporate merry-go-round I was. I was too restless to
curl up with a book. Maybe I’d watch a movie, soak in a long bath. Irritated with myself, I closed the
folder that was in front of me and turned away.
As I swiveled my chair toward the window, I looked out on the late summer night. Chicago was on
the tail end of a heat wave. Downtown Chicago was full of people enjoying the balmy, breezy
weather. Across the street, I saw a couple coming out of the new coffee shop on the corner. The
couple looked happy and carefree, clutching each other with one hand and their coffee with the
other. The sign reading JAY’S COFFEE CAFÉ bathed them in an electric blue and green light.
Suddenly I wanted what they had—their togetherness, their apparent happiness, a shared jovial
moment. I sighed. You have to give to get. You have to look to find. And I hadn’t been doing much
of either lately. Maybe I couldn’t get that “happy couple” vibe right away but for now I’d settle for
their coffee.
By the time I packed up my desk, got downstairs, crossed the street, and entered the coffee shop,
there were no other customers. Actually, looking around, there didn’t appear to be any workers there
either.
“Hello?” I called out.
“We’re closing up,” a deep voice called out from the back.
I was inexplicably disappointed. As if the promise of that light-hearted moment could truly be found
in a cup of coffee. “Story of my life,” I said to no one in particular and pivoted back toward the
door.
“Excuse me?” The voice sounded closer.
I swiveled back around and stopped dead in my tracks. A flash of pure heat passed through me,
awakening nerve endings and receptors that had been long dormant. In front of me stood a
specimen of maleness that could only be described one way: “hotness.” The kind of hotness that
burned right through common sense and rational thought.
In the times I had visited this coffee shop, I had never seen him. And believe me, I would have
remembered. He was gorgeous in an “Oh-My-GOD, where-did-you-come-from” kind of way. The
kind that takes your breath away and leaves you just slightly off-balance. He was a beautiful, exotic
blend of European and African-American ancestry and had a Derek Jeter kind of vibe without all
the unnecessary polish. Raw, earthy, and did I say brutally hot? Light green eyes framed with thick
lashes, wavy brown hair closely cropped to his head, full lips set into a square jawline currently
softened with a smile. He was a solid block of a man, at just six feet tall with the muscles of a gym
regular. Flat front khakis and a navy polo with the shop’s logo imprinted stretched easily across his
frame. He had the look of what I’d call a man’s man, even while wearing a bright pink apron and
clutching a purple mug decorated with green hearts.
The longer I studied him, the more he studied me. I knew what he saw: a curvy woman, busty with
hips that could politely be called “generous”—a true hourglass figure no matter how hard I fought
against it. I was taller than average, with caramel-colored skin and thick wavy hair of the same color
curling past my shoulders. A rounded face often referred to as “cute” with wide, light brown eyes
and a pouty mouth with no gloss left on it from this morning. And there we both stood, somewhat
intrigued by instant chemistry, that undeniable energy— after thirty-three years of living it was
happening to me.
That primal spark calling out from male to female and back again.
I stood staring at him as though he were the last shrimp on the buffet table and I hadn’t had fresh
seafood in a while. Clearly I was deprived of far more than sleep when the mere presence of a male
made me jittery and breathless. Get a grip, Jayla, I told myself sternly, determined to raise my eyes
above his waist and act like I had some good sense.
When I finally lifted my gaze back up to his face, his eyes had gone from casually friendly to heatedly
curious. It wasn’t until the drool was literally pooling at the corners of my mouth that I regained any
semblance of composure. “Oh, I’m sorry, long day,” I lamely explained. “I’ll just get out of your way
so you can close up.” I smiled sadly, tentatively as I turned back toward the door. Was I so starved
for male attention that I had manufactured chemistry with the coffee guy?
“Hey,” he said softly, his voice deep, velvety, and smooth.
I looked back. “Hey?”
“I can always make just one more.” He smiled with a flash of pearly white teeth that sent a tingle
straight up my spine. “Do you mind if I make you my last customer?”
I don’t mind if you make me your concubine. “No, no, that’s fine. I appreciate it. I’m sure you’re ready to
get out of here.”
His look was pensive. “Don’t worry about it, you’re a customer.”
Right. Customer, here to buy coffee. “Well, thanks.”
“Not a problem. Will it make you uncomfortable if I lock up?”
“Not at all, do what you need to do.” I stood primly, clutching my case in front of me.
He brushed past me to lock the door and switch the OPEN sign to CLOSED. He slowly circled the
store, pulling down shades and closing the drapes. It suddenly felt like a close and intimate space
rather than a storefront. Walking back he paused beside me, close enough that the scent of him
wafted to me. I took a deep breath. He smelled like coffee, cinnamon, chocolate, soap, and some
sort of spicy musk. “So, what’ll you have?”
You on a platter, please. . . . I looked up at him and saw by the slight glint in his eyes that he had heard
me loud and clear, even though I hadn’t said it out loud. Okay, maybe the chemistry wasn’t so
manufactured after all. “What’s your specialty?”
“White mocha.” Two words, innocent words at that, but I instantly shivered and flushed. His
nostrils flared and his jaw tightened as he watched me.
“I’ll take it extra large, extra hot.” After the words left my mouth, I realized how they sounded. I was
a little bit out of control.
He swallowed and blinked as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard me correctly. “I beg your pardon?”
I took a step back and grabbed the last remnants of my composure. “The white mocha? Extra large,
extra hot. To go.”
He stepped back as well. “Oh, okay. Will that be all?” He started to move away.
I paused. What if I did what Kim suggested? What if I decided to be a little spontaneous,
proposition the first guy I saw . . . this guy? Not ask his name, not care what his circumstances are,
just ask for what I want in this moment, for right now. I trembled a little just in contemplation.
He saw the tremble, stopped walking, and looked me over from head to toe. Those ivy green eyes
clearly missed nothing, noticing my tension, my fluttering pulse, and my parted lips. Green eyes
heated to laser intensity before sending me a clearly appreciative look. He raised one brow, saying
slowly, “Is there anything I can get you to go with that mocha?”
“Would you mind terribly if I had it here after all?” I said breathlessly, almost panting with
anticipation and nervousness. I’d never propositioned a barista before; okay, or any stranger. What if
he said no? Oh God, what if he said yes?
“The mocha?” He tilted his head and gave a look that said if you want it, ask for it.
“Yes, the mocha and . . .” I set down my purse and my laptop case and stepped to him in my black,
figure-hugging sheath dress and peep-toe heels. “Listen, you don’t know anything about me or what
I’m going through and I don’t know anything about you—”
“I do know something about you,” he interrupted, meeting me until we stood toe to toe. “I know
you are sexy and beautiful and you like coffee. I know you don’t hook up with strange men often.”
“Ever. I don’t hook up with strange men ever,” I corrected him. “And how do you know?”
He reached down and touched the fluttering vein pulsing at the base of my neck, caressing the area
in soft strokes. “Because you’re nervous and unsure. It’s cute, sexy.”
Cute. Sexy. I nodded with no clue what to say next. Should I, shouldn’t I? I had re-engaged my brain
and it was getting in the way of what the rest of me wanted.
He grinned at me. “Let me get you that coffee.”
Coffee. Yes. That is what I came in here for. I stood there and continued to argue with myself. Was
I really going to make a move on some strange guy at the coffee house? I mean, really? I sighed. I
was bold, but I wasn’t that bold. Tonight, the only craving I was going to assuage was for flavored,
expensive caffeine. I watched while he measured beans, steamed milk, and mixed syrups in a cup. I
could watch him all day and feel it was twenty-four hours spent productively. I sighed again.
He looked over at me with a look that sizzled. “So . . . just the coffee?” He was giving me every
opportunity to make a move.
Wimpy Jayla beat Wanton Jayla down. I shrugged. “Just the coffee.”
With a final stir, he capped the beverage and handed me the cup. “Tell me what you think.”
I took a sip, my eyes slid shut, and I moaned. It was the best white mocha on the face of the planet:
sweet, fragrant, hot, rich, and strong. The chocolate flavor didn’t battle the coffee; it was a heavenly
marriage of taste, texture, and spice. I took another sip and enjoyed the flavor of it exploding on my
tongue and sliding down the back of my throat. “Oh my God.” When I opened my eyes, his face
had taken on a predatory gleam. “What?” I asked him.
“Your face when you drank the coffee . . . that was a look I’d like to see again. And again.”
I took a shaky breath and vowed to maintain some semblance of control.
“It’s okay, you know.”
“What’s okay?”
“I’m not going to do anything you don’t want.”
Ha! If he only knew . . . “Thanks.”
“Do you work around here?”
“Across the street. Are you new here? I haven’t seen you before.”
“I’m just helping to close tonight; I’m usually at one of the other stores.”
I nodded. “This is the best white mocha I’ve ever had. There’s something different about it. It’s not
like the others I’ve had here.”
“I added a little something extra. It’s my own private formula.”
“Is that right?”
“Indeed.”
“What would a girl have to do to get the formula?”
“What would a girl be willing to do to get it?”
I let a slow smile spread across my face. This guy was trouble. In all caps and bolded. I liked it. I
took a final sip of the brew and set the cup down. “What do I owe you?”
“It’s on the house.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“Come back and see me. That’s payment enough.”
I flashed a grateful smile and gathered up my things. Nothing like stellar coffee and harmless flirting
with a good-looking man to reinvigorate you. He came around the counter to unlock the door for
me. As I walked past I said, “Thanks. For everything.”
“You’re welcome.” He took a step toward me and leaned down to whisper in my ear. “Just so you
know . . . I would’ve given you anything you asked for.”
I paused midstep and shifted toward him a little. “Anything?”
“Absolutely.”
I lifted my eyes to his and we shared a smile as though we knew far more about each other than we
really did. I nodded. “Good to know.” I moved forward.
“Have a nice night.”
“You do the same.” I strolled out into the night wondering if I’d just dodged a bullet or missed out
on something potentially great. Only time would tell.
Except from White Mocha of “Crush” anthology © 2011 by Michele Grant
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means
without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.