Skinny Cappuccino

CHAPTER 1

Don’t panic. It’s just an alarm. Alarms sound for all sorts of reasons. A system malfunction is entirely possible. Or maybe an explorative rodent dashed across the floor. Or if I want to be cynical, perhaps my coffee shop, Beans Café, has been broken into.

Images of graffiti flash through my mind as I storm the pavement toward my shop. I wipe sweat from my brow and notice mismatched socks. The last thing on my mind is why my wardrobe even contains Mickey Mouse socks; I’d like to think I’m more of a designer label-type of girl, and Mickey Mouse doesn’t exactly scream designer. Since people call me Mickey rather than Michelle, I don’t want people to think that my nickname is after the Disney character on my socks. I’m named Mickey after my dad, end of story. Anyway, I can’t care about this type of trivia now. So I focus on getting to my shop swiftly. God knows what I’ll do if there’s an intruder at the store, but when I leapt from bed, dressing in the dark, I had the foresight to grab my baseball bat, just in case.

I will defend my shop to the death, or at least, I’d like to think I’ll try.

I can’t stop feeling slightly pessimistic because the shop’s front door has a magic trick and there’s no guarantee someone crafty hasn’t cottoned onto this fact. When the door shuts, for all purposes, the barrel lock should secure. In reality, a slight push against the glass causes the latch to unfasten, and presto! The illusion unfolds, and the door opens without needing a key. The shop’s security is a mere mirage, but I’ve got to keep positive. I hope the shop’s not broken into and the alarm sounded because of some anomaly from the installation.

My brain whirs with another possible scenario. Maybe, just maybe, Clive Banks, my business partner, is responsible for setting off the alarm. He isn’t privy to the fact that I’ve installed it, and it’s reasonable to believe he’s gone into the shop early and has been caught unaware.

Clive went missing-in-action on the same day the front door started playing up, which was one week ago. A stab of annoyance sizzles through me as I recall the series of angry voice mail messages I’d left him over the last few days. I’ve had a zero percent success rate reaching Clive.

To be honest, the security system was my last efforta stop-gap, but the cheapest solution. I tried other methods to fix the problem; the handyman left me two hundred quid lighter with no reasonable security solution. The only answer is to buy a new front door, but investigations have proven that they’re obscenely expensive. Several quotes have come back at around four thousand pounds. I’m simply not paying four thousand pounds for the maintenance of the building. I don’t believe it should be anyone’s responsibility but the landlord’s, who just happens to be Clive’s brother, Arthur.

Clive and I are lucky; he bagged a deal on rent by using his family connections. Arthur is managing director of the Banks Property Development Group, and they own the set of shops where Beans Café is located. I’m grateful for the help the Banks family has given Clive and me, truly I am, but neither Banks brother has bothered to call me back—and that’s just rude. But I’ve got my own back. I race across the pavement toward Beans Café and a flicker of amusement makes me smile, for I’ve stopped Clive’s weekly pay cheque and I’ve put both Banks brothers’ names down as essential people to contact if the alarm goes off. Sooner or later, they will check in. Am I vindictive? No. But possibly a little bit clever….

I hear the high-pitched wail of the alarm before the premises actually come into view. It’s still dark and I squint into the distance. Gripping my baseball bat tighter, I approach the entrance and see, standing by the windows, a lone figure.

Clive! I shout, wondering if he can hear me amongst the racket. I practically drop the bat in the excitement and rush forward. I’m simply bursting to hear what story he’s got for me, because where the hell has he been?

Then I stop mid-step as thoughts fly through my mind. For if it was Clive, then he’d use his key and rush inside to investigate. Clive would have phoned by now, asked about the security install and probably yelled some sort of abuse down the phone for being woken up at this ridiculous hour. His brother Arthur should have a key too, as he owns these shops.

So who is this guy? I take a jittery step back, creating distance between myself and the stranger. He turns around; he must have heard me yelling. My baseball bat feels sweaty in my hands. I’ve never seen this man before in my life and my eyes narrow. He’s tall like a real-life action hero, a full head and shoulders above me. I puff out my chest, in an attempt to create the illusion that my body is a little bit larger, for I’m actually quite petite in stature. The stranger doesn’t move closer and that suits me fine because the hairs have risen on the back of my neck.

I struggle with the thought that this guy is not wearing anything that resembles a company uniform. But who else could he be? I expect employees to wear something with a company logo and a nametag. I notice the man wears an expensive-looking coat, probably made out of wool. My legs tremble so much that I can’t move. I’m on high-alert just looking at the size of him. I shoot my fiercest stare. We both scowl, and in this moment I hastily analyse the situation, and rational thoughts return. My gaze darts between the stranger’s face and his clothes, and I consider that there’s possibly a uniform beneath the coat. I’ve got to be reasonable; it’s cold—I’d probably wear a coat if I had to wait outside. He must be from the security company. He must be. There is no other explanation.

The stranger glowers; his gaze is judgemental, and I realise I must look crazy. From his agitated stance, I believe he thinks I’m going to actually use my bat. I know I said I’d defend my shop to the death. But this is reality and I’m not exactly sure how to wield a bat.

What are you going to do, beat me up or smash the windows in? he says.

Me? I finally find my breath and lower the bat, realising how ridiculous I must appear. Oh God, he thinks I’m a psychopath.

Yes you, he pauses and lifts an eyebrow. You’re the only one here with a baseball bat.

Snatching a glance at the shop front, I take in the condition of the door and windows before I eyeball the stranger. I’m not crazy; I’m more of the maternal sort. The shop is my baby and I’m protecting my business interests. I lift my chin to notice the wall-to-ceiling panels of glass are still intact. The door hasn’t been kicked in either.

You must be Michelle.

Releasing a thankful breath, I feel slightly at ease at the thought that this guy knows my name. Feeling mortified by my overreaction, I smile apologetically. I’m sure that another woman, in a similar situation on her own, would react in the same manner. We all know lionesses will fight to save their cubs. I’m just that sort of girl. But it makes sense that this guy’s from the security company; he was super nice on the phone.

Thanks for coming. People generally call me Mickey, always have, so please call me Mickey, I say. And sorry about the bat. We don’t have to talk about it again.

I came as fast as I could when I got the call. Clive’s obviously not here.

I snort as I hastily open the shop door, somewhat satisfied that the security company called Clive too. My plan to get Clive back to the shop is working. Who knows where Clive is, I mutter, trying to keep my tone as light as possible. Although I can’t help wonder when Clive will appear, I’ve managed to arrive at this ungodly hour and if he cared at all he’d be here too.

The siren assaults me as I step over the threshold. My hands fly to my ears as I rush over the pristine wooden floorboards to where the alarm pad is fixed to the wall. The noise rattles through my brain and I punch in the code to stop the sound.

Finally there’s silence; I flick a switch and fairy lights glitter around the bay windows. With ringing ears, I continue investigating the shop, turning on lights while my head darts, taking in the state of the café. Everything appears much the same as it was when I left it the night before. From a brief glance at the perfectly fine oak tables and the timber chairs still stacked atop, there doesn’t appear to have been a burglary.

From the corner of my eye, I notice the security guard observes me. Did you get here in less than five minutes? I ask, glancing at my watch.

I dunno, he says.

I thought I had five minutes to get here and if I called I could cancel and not get a charge out fee… I say, but his face is completely blank. I’ve raced all the way here.

I don’t really know the policy. He puts his hands in his pockets and I frown. Great! He doesn’t know the policy, so I’ll be charged even though I’ve run all the way from my flat. I’m sure I’ve got enough sweat to prove I’m here in less than five minutes, but it’s not like I can bottle perspiration and send it to his manager.

I really don’t want a hefty call out fee, I say.

He gives me a tight smile and I sigh with defeat wondering when his site investigations might begin.

I fold my arms. Did you want to see the storeroom? There might be a breach in there and I honestly don’t know what’s triggered the system. I glance toward the door beside the counter. The man doesn’t immediately move. I gaze awkwardly and can’t help but wonder how he even got this job in security. He’s hopeless. Besides, if he’s going to charge me for a security service, which includes an inspection of the whole premises, then surely he could get on with it and quickly, for who knows what or who could still be lurking around?

He cocks his head to the side and slowly nods. Course. I’ll do that now. He swings open the door and pokes his head inside. I think we can give this place the all clear.

I follow closely behind, wanting to double-check his investigations because I have strong doubts about his diligence. On tiptoe, I peer past his shoulder and survey my storage room. There’s a small window above the desk that I notice is slightly ajar. I release a breath, finding that my computer still rests safe and sound next to a folder of paperwork. I can’t quite see the entire room because I’m standing at the security guard’s shoulder, so I push past and assess everything. I yank open the stock cupboard. The cardboard boxes are neatly stacked inside and a few pieces of black clothing remain hanging. I throw a fleeting glance over my shoulder and notice the man still wears his coat. Even my small operation has some type of dress code! Not that Beans Café has a uniform so to speak; I have a black clothing policy—black trousers, black t-shirts, black caps, that type of thing. I spin round toward the fridge where the staff roster is stuck, and almost clutching at straws, I throw open the door to peruse inside.

All of the supplies are methodically placed on the shelves. Perplexed, I close the door. The contents of this room appear untouched. What caused the alarm? I wonder and glance at the security guard for his opinion on the matter.

He shrugs. I’m not an expert at these things.

My mouth drops open, but I don’t say anything. How can I? He must be the company rookie and it’s not nice to put people down. I shut my mouth and feel my eyebrows knit together with frustration.

I think it might have been this. He leans below the desk and extracts broken pieces of coffee cup. Looks like it might have fallen. He strides toward the small window and secures the latch back in place. A gust of wind probably came through.

I’ve got to keep the place ventilated because of the dampness and all that, I explain, but he hunkers down having found my dustpan.

You don’t have to do that, I say, slightly uncomfortable with him sweeping the pieces of porcelain into a pile. I crouch down beside and reach for the brush. Accidentally I brush his hand and a jolt of electricity rushes through my body. I rip my hand away and his head whips round to face me. We’re both crouched next to the other and we stare deeply into each other’s faces.

Sorry. I was just trying to help. God, he’s handsome. His intense blue eyes stare right into mine and I can’t help but smile. Butterflies rush round my stomach and I instantly look to the ground and focus on the broken mug. I’m grinning stupidly from ear to ear.

I’m almost done, he says and continues to sweep.

Instead of arguing, I stand up. Coffee? I rush out of the storeroom toward my machine.

Sure, he calls, and I busy myself at the coffee counter, hoping my breathing will regulate from whatever happened with the dustpan. Eventually he returns from the storeroom brushing the dust from his hands. I gesture to the sink.

Thanks for doing that, I say.

He turns the tap on and proceeds to lather his hands with soap. So are you enjoying the café industry? he asks, and I notice he has quite large hands. We all know the theory about large hands. Or is that feet? We’ve been here two years and it has its ups and downs, I admit, a little captivated by him and sneak a look at his shoes. So what’ll you have?

A cappuccino. He whirls round from the sink and meets my gaze.

Coming right up, I say looking quickly away.

Could you possibly make it a skinny?

I turn from the coffee machine and my eyes flitter over his physique and notice his hand on his stomach. He can’t be serious because his shirt lies flat. There’s no bulge anywhere near his abdomen. I can’t drink anything unless it is a skinny.

My mouth twitches. Really? I keep the surprise from my voice.

Yup, a skinny.

You can’t have a skinny.

He frowns and his eyes widen a little. Why’s that? he asks in a commanding tone. I’ve the distinct feeling that people don’t usually argue with him.

You need real dairy products or you’ll be too thin and lose your looks. It’s just a dash of milk. If you keep on this skinny business you’ll fade away into a shadow. I swallow and lift my chin.

But…I want skinny. His voice is firm and I look away.

I’m always bossing round my sister who’s always talking about low fat this and low fat that. Having a little bit of fat in your diet is good for you as long as you don’t have too much. But of course you can have skinny if you want.

I do. He eyeballs me and I have to give in. I’m baffled at why I said anything in the first place because the customer should have what the customer wants. After all, isn’t the customer always right? I swivel from the counter and warm the low fat milk, feeling his gaze on me. He’s probably concerned I won’t give him skinny milk, so I elaborately pour the milk, not trying to make a point, but hoping he’ll stop his staring. Surely there’s something else in the coffee shop to examine; I have a little stand in the middle of the shop with giftware. He could stare at that instead of at me.

I’ll tell you a fun fact about making coffee, if you like. I start feeling a little unnerved by his manner.

Shoot.

He’s still studying my every move and I feel jittery. Despite all my arguments to not have skinny milk, the best cappuccinos are made on skim, I say this matter-of-factly. I turn to look at him and notice an amused expression crossing over his face. He beams, and my lips can’t help but follow his curve. I obviously can’t let the topic go and hope I don’t sound too much like a cappuccino crusader, championing for full fat milk. He continues to smile, and I feel that sweet fluttery sensation in my stomach again and look away.

I wouldn’t ordinarily worry so much….

I shrug my shoulders in nonchalance, and he sighs so loudly I stare at him.

You know what brides-to-be are like, and Amanda’s insisting that we, that is, me, all the groomsmen and even my best friend lose a few calories. Even though the wedding’s in about six months, the whole bridal party is being asked to calorie count and send daily numbers, he says, and my hand comes over my mouth as I gasp at how someone could insist people calorie count. I shake my head in bewilderment as he puts his hands in his pockets. She wants us to look amazing for the photographs. You know how women get about photos lasting forever. Or that’s what she keeps banging on about…this is way too much information.

That’s intense. I nod sympathetically, but feel my chest tighten. I can’t help but feel a little disappointed he’s getting married. Okay, Mister, I won’t hassle you or sabotage your calorie-counting efforts.

We both burst out laughing at how ridiculous the scenario sounds. If I knew security guys were this good-looking and flirty, I’d trip the alarm all the time.

What name should I put on the cup?

He cocks his head to the side and his eyebrows knit together.

I know. I use a thick black pen and stencil on a takeaway cup. I’ll call you Mister…. I look up and meet his incredible blue eyes and instantly look back at the paper cup. Mister Skinny…Mister Skinny Cappuccino.

He shakes his head and I notice a flicker in his gaze. If only you were having a coffee so I could write a nickname for you.

Go on then. I raise my eyebrows and hand him a paper cup and marker pen. It’s six in the morning; you think I’m not having a coffee too?

He takes the pen and the challenge. He scrawls something on the cardboard. I’m intrigued and look at the cup he’s written on. Red? I take a strand of my hair and drop it back down. Points for trying, but nowhere near original enough, so try again. I hand the cup back to him.

There’s a glint in his expression as he scribbles. Bat Woman, he reads aloud, a proud expression on his face. "Now that’s more appropriate for you."

Bat Woman? Surely I must appear a little more feminine than that, huh? I raise my eyebrows and take the paper cup from him. Although I agree with you—I’m brave, I always have been.

You’re right, he says. Neither of us speaks as I fill our coffees. You’re a combination, brave and … beautiful.

Oh, oh, brave and beautiful, I belong on a soap opera.

He laughs. This man is totally gorgeous and he’s flirting outrageously with me. I have no idea how to act because he’s getting married, but I can’t stop my lips from curving up into a smile. In fact, you’re the bravest person I’ve ever met, he continues.

You’re not supposed to tease someone when they’re handing you a hot drink.

My decision’s made. He nods. You’re much more of a feisty Red than Bat Woman.

We again hold each other’s gaze as I finally hand him the drink and the hairs on my arms stand up. There’s a jangle from the small bell affixed to the front door and the spell breaks as I glance toward the doorway. It could be Clive.

Hi there, a voice calls. A man wearing a uniform and holding a clipboard tentatively approaches, looking at me and then at Mister Skinny Cappuccino. I’m from Sure Security.

I swivel toward the man at the front door. You’re from Sure Security? I close my gaping mouth.

Well, yes, it’s after six in the morning, what else would I be doing here?

Hustling me for a coffee? I reply, and I don’t dare look at Mister Skinny Cappuccino, for that’s exactly what he’s done.

Is everything all right, Miss? The man from Sure Security frowns. Have you found the breach?

A broken coffee cup. I thought…I thought you were someone else so I didn’t call—even though I got here in less than five minutes? I add that last part hopefully, but sigh as the man shakes his head. I take the invoice he hands me.

Better luck next time. He’s gone as quickly as he came, leaving me contemplating Mister Skinny Cappuccino, who is calmly sipping his drink. He realises I’ve clocked him. I think you’re right about the skim milk. He raises the cup.

I fold my arms and glare as ferociously as possible. Are you going to tell me who you are?

CHAPTER 2

You know who I am. Mister Skinny Cappuccino’s eyes dance playfully with mine. I flick my hair like an angry lion. Feeling foolish, I take a swig from my cup. He must realise recognition dawning upon me because slowly he nods his head of thick hair. We’ve never met.

Arthur? I narrow my gaze and search for a family resemblance between the man gulping down coffee in front of me and my absent business partner. So this is Clive’s brother who Beans Café happens to have a lease with. Beans Café is incredibly lucky for the association with the Banks Property Group because the shop is located in the middle of Angel, London, which is in zone one of the city. The shop’s address would be virtually unaffordable without Clive’s family connection.

How could I not have recognised Arthur as Clive’s brother? Yet they don’t look anything alike. I squint, trying hard to recognise similarities in this man and Clive, whom I know well. Clive’s face comes to mind, memories come thick and fast, and I can’t help but recall my first interaction.

I’d been working part-time at the bookshop during university and Clive grabbed the biography I was reading, right from my hands. I stiffened, slightly shell-shocked because no one snatches paperbacks, particularly if it’s not sale time.

Yet I felt a little woozy from the way Clive’s gaze settled on mine. Rather than telling him off like I usually would, I was amazed at how gorgeous the blonde-haired man with dancing butterscotch eyes was in front of me. What in the devil did he want with me? I simply worked in the bookshop; he could buy the book if he wanted, he just didn’t have to snatch. I floundered for a response; any woman with a pulse would love any opportunity to talk to Clive.

Clive had been unshaven, sporting a food-catcher-length beard that could make the ordinary person appear homeless. But Clive’s breathtaking white-toothed smile put him into a different category altogether, like he belonged in a fashion magazine.

Now I stare at Arthur, who I admit is also appealing but