Quietly, I retreat into my comfortable nook behind the counter and continue to spy on them.
I watch as Fletcher talks quietly with his old football coach for a minute, while I clean the cappuccino machine.
“Oh, that’s simple. I can help with that,” the old man slaps the side of his bald forehead and exclaims. “Amelia?” he calls me.
My ears perk up. “Yes, Mr. Mark?” He comes in here every morning and we’ve become friendly with each other. He often shows me pictures of his grandkids.
He pushes an unwilling Fletcher toward me. “This is Fletcher Payne,” he says to me with both of his hands clasping the taller man’s shoulders as if introducing someone to a blind date.
“Yeah,” I reply, as my eyes dart from the old man to the confused look on Fletcher’s face.
“He was a great kid. One of the best.” He straightens up. “What a fine man he has become.”
“Yeah.” I blush but I can’t disagree with that. My heart beats a little faster as my mind races and tries to figure where this is all going. It feels suspiciously like a set-up, but that can’t be it, can it?
“Well, Fletcher needs someone to work for him, and you.” He grabs one of my hands and pulls me toward them. “You need money.”
I turn beet red. Does everyone know I need money? Do I have “loser” stamped on my forehead? Yes, I need money. I need money to pay the man for breaking his garage door. I don’t need a job from him!
“I—I—” I don’t know how to explain the situation to Mr. Mark. I don’t want him to think I am that pathetic.
“I need someone to help me clean out the house, run errands, fix my garage door.” Fletcher lists everything slowly and pauses. I can feel his intense hazel gaze on my face as he mentions the last item.
I swallow hard and avoid making eye contact with him. He makes me nervous. His hazel eyes look darker this morning, the flecks of gray have turned black like polished onyx. His features are inscrutable and I can’t tell if he is angry or just annoyed.
“Amelia, can you help?” Mr. Mark coaxes gently. “I’m sure he’ll pay well.” He pads the young man triumphantly.
This is just a bad idea. This guy probably hates me now, but I can’t flat-out refuse the kind, old man. I stammer, “Su—sure.”
“Good!” Mr. Mark slaps both of us on the back. “Now, that’s settled. Amelia, sweetie, can you get me a danish and a cup of coffee?”
“I’ll see you at seven tomorrow morning. You know where I live.” Fletcher doesn’t even allow me to talk to him or ask for a later appointment time. I groan silently but nod at him. He quickly disappears through the double doors.
“Here’s your coffee and danish, Mr. Mark.” I place the mug and the pastry he has ordered on the little table in front of him.
“Thank you, sweetie.”
“Um, is it really alright?” I wipe my hands on my apron. If I can work off my debt, that would be great. But I have a feeling this man named Fletcher doesn’t really want me around him. “I mean, I don’t really know him.”
“Oh, don’t worry, sweetie. He’s a nice boy, I can vouch for him.” I don’t want to point out that he is no longer a boy and that after all these years, Mr. Mark might not know the man that well. His stern expression always makes me feel like I owe him money. Well, I guess that makes sense since I do!
I can’t believe that I’ll be going back into that house. I get nervous just thinking about being alone with him in that cramped living room. He is so cold and intimidating. But I find it hard to get him off my mind. For a moment, I think about his brooding dark eyes and I blush again. Sometimes I feel like they don’t just see me, but they look straight into my core. Just for a quick minute, I wonder what it would be like to stare back into those eyes and feel those brawny arms wrapped around my waist. I surprise myself with a loud, girlish giggle.
Snap out of it, I chastise myself. I’m just bored. This is the morning lull before the lunch crowd comes in. Rich men like Fletcher only toy around with women, I should know better. There is too much to be done for me to waste time on silly daydreams. I remember the landlord’s notice that is still sitting on the kitchen counter at home. I bite down on my lip. At least working for Fletcher will take care of my debt. That is at least one less payment I need to worry about.
The double doors fly open again and Fletcher flies in. His hazel eyes are bright and he seems a little out of breath because he has been running.
My mouth parts as I watch the rise and fall of his broad shoulders.
“Did you forget something?” I ask him breathlessly.
“Yes,” he says as my eyes wander down to his lips.
He grins. “I forgot to pay.” He holds up a crisp dollar bill in my face.
I laugh nervously and snag the dollar out from between his fingers.
“Actually, I want to tell you—” He starts and then shrugs. “Just forget about tomorrow.”
“What? Why?” I stuff the dollar into the cash register. No tip. Great.
“It was Coach’s idea. I just mentioned to him I could use some help, but I’ll be fine.” He shrugs and avoids looking at me. “Don’t worry about the garage door. You don’t need to pay me for that. I don’t need your money.”
Normally, I would have just bit my tongue and let him do or say whatever he wants. I really don’t have the money, after all. However, my fingernails dig into the flesh of my palms and I can feel my anger boiling over. Some people live in
