“Good choice,” I reply as I type his order into the register.
He holds up a finger. “What’s your favorite drink here?”
I feel my eyebrows lift. “Me?”
He nods and smirks. “You.”
“Like a coffee drink?”
He nods again. “It’s for a friend.”
“Uh, I guess…” I bite my lip. “I really like our coconut and honey latte.” My voice goes up at the end, like I’m asking a question.
The man barks out a laugh, startling me back a step.
“Sorry, sorry.” He shakes his head. “I’ll do one of those.”
“So, two black coffees or one coffee and one latte?”
“The second option.”
Typing in the new order, I tell him the total.
I’m not sure what’s so funny about a coconut honey latte, but I’m not here to question people’s choices.
He takes his wallet out of his back pocket. “Here you go.”
I glance up, and for the second time since this man has walked in, I freeze. His hand is extended between us, a crisp hundred-dollar bill between his fingers.
He gives it a little shake. “Do you not do cash here?”
“Oh, no, we do. Sorry.” It’s my turn to apologize.
I take the bill and make change while internally chastising myself.Way to act like a poor girl, getting all flustered about a little cash.
I quickly hand the change back, without making eye contact, and spin around to gather his order.
I should’ve told him that I like black coffee, too. Then I could’ve had his order sorted in under a minute. But black coffee isn’t my favorite, coconut honey is. And no one has ever asked me what my favorite anything is, so I didn’t even consider lying.
My hands hesitate when I reach for the whipped cream.
Usually, I’d ask the customer if they’d like some on top, but since the man asked what I like, I decide to make it how I like it.
When the cup is filled to the brim with fresh whipped cream, I drizzle honey over the top, before finally securing the lid.
“Here you go.” I slide the bag with the two muffins across the counter before setting down the to-go cups. “Do you need a drink carrier?”
“Nah, I’m good.” He picks up his items before nodding to a stack of cash on the counter. “That’s for you, Payton.”
He’s striding toward the exit before I catch on to what he said.
He called me Payton.
My fingers tremble as I reach for the bills.
How does he know my name? We don’t wear name tags.
There’s a five on top, with thirty-seven cents on top of that.
