Romance By The Cup
Romance By The Cup
Short Story ~ Free Read
February 14, 2007
Miranda Howard is an artist who recently got screwed over by her agent, so she had to quit coming to her favorite coffee shop to economize.
After returning to her favorite java spot, she strikes up a conversation with another regular. One problem, she thinks he’s a bit too stuffy for his own good.
First impressions aren’t always foolproof, sometimes you just need to order Romance by the Cup.
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Miranda Howard stared into the steam rising from her low-foam, soy, double-shot, sugar-free vanilla latté as if it held the answers to her problems.
Miranda sighed and her breath dissipated the coffee-scented cloud. Oh well. It was only money. She still had enough to get by.
It was good to be back at the coffee shop again, though. She’d had to economize lately and this was one of the treats she’d been forced to forego. Luckily, her latest batch of paintings had sold well, thanks to her new agent, and she could take up her coffee again.
She stirred the spoon around just to hear it clink against the sturdy cup and leaned her chin on one hand. Who was in her head today?
Miranda dug a sketch pad and pencil out of her cavernous quilted bag and opened to a page with a half-finished face. She glanced at the enormous clock over the coffee bar, then at the door as it opened. There he was. Right on time.
He ordered his usual – full-fat, lots of foam, double-shot mocha – then scanned the shop for an empty table, his eyes passing over the human element to focus on his goal. He sat down, opened his laptop and begin writing.
Proposals, she imagined. Briefs, memos and important documents. Things with words like “incentivize” and “extensibility.” Or maybe not. He didn’t look like the type to indulge in meaningless marketing psycho-babble. He looked more like he would write “get results” and “finish the job.”
She wondered what was on his bedside table. Lamp, alarm clock, the latest issue of Forbes. No. Forbes was too slick. The Wall Street Journal.
Still, something always felt out of place about him. As if he wasn’t entirely comfortable in his expensive suits, silk ties and Italian shoes. Whatever he wrote absorbed him utterly, but the trappings of his career confined him.
He wasn’t exactly a handsome man. Average height, slightly husky build. His hair was thick, but an ordinary shade of medium blond. His face reminded her of a Norman conqueror. Deep set eyes, long straight nose, blunt cheekbones. It was a face that hid emotion well.
It was a face that was staring in her direction.
“Oh!” Drops of coffee splashed onto her worn jeans. A tiny brown splotch appeared on the corner of the open page, but didn’t intrude on the sketch. Before she could even reach for a napkin, he was there.
“I’m sorry.” They both said it at the same time, then smiled. She took the napkin he offered and blotted up the small spots before she forged ahead.
“I apologize if I was staring at you. Bad habit.”
“Not at all. Having a beautiful woman stare at me should get me through the day just fine.” He smiled, not with his mouth, but with his eyes.
Miranda felt her face heat. She’d never learned to take compliments well and she struggled to respond with a simple “Thank you.”
“You haven’t been here for a while.”
“Well, thank you for noticing. I had to be gone for a while, but I think I’ll be able to return more often now.”
“I hope nothing serious was keeping you away.”
“No, nothing very serious. Only money.” She smiled, inviting him into the joke.
“Money’s easy. It’s getting good coffee that’s hard.”
She laughed. He cracked a smile.
“I’m Miranda Howard,” she said, sticking her hand out for a friendly shake. When their palms met, a slight charge of static electricity zapped them. Their fingers squeezed together for a moment, united in the tiny, delicious tingle. His hand was warm and dry and completely engulfed hers, a quality she’d always found attractive.
“Ken McKinnon,” he answered, releasing her from his grasp. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say until he looked down at the small table. “That’s a sketch of me.”
Miranda could have died right then. She was surprised her eyebrows didn’t burst into flame, as hot as she burned. “Yeah, I’m an artist.”
His gaze traveled over her again, assimilating the new information. She found his cool assessment refreshing. Most of the people she knew said the first thing that popped into their head. She certainly did. This thoughtfulness was soothing. “Right. Miranda Howard. I know your name. You did drop off the world for a few months. If you don’t mind my asking, what happened?”
What happened was that her agent was a complete and utter jerk. Ron Delacorte had been skimming an extra ten percent off her commissions for years and she’d trusted him.
When the IRS sent a letter requesting an audit, she readily complied. Her sister-in-law was a CPA, so when she discovered the discrepancy, Miranda called Ron. His answering machine very kindly told her that he was on an extended holiday in a South American country that didn’t have an extradition agreement with the US. A holiday conveniently financed by her money.
“I hope he gets eaten by piranhas with blunt teeth.” Miranda sighed. “Eh. It’s not important anymore, really. I’m okay and I’m back.” She shrugged, working to regain her composure.
“Drawing a picture of me. I find that interesting.”
He hesitated, the first time she’d seen him unsure of anything, and held up a finger, silently asking her to wait. He rummaged in his briefcase for a moment and pulled out a legal pad and a pen. Simple roller ball, but one of the heavy ones. Not cheap. Miranda was a pen connoisseur.
He wrote. After a few moments, she hooked a toe around the other chair at her table and he eased into it. Strangely, she wasn’t offended by him ignoring her. Instead, she had the sense that she knew that brand of concentration well and that, far from ignoring her, he was focusing on her to the exclusion of all the other goings-on in the café.
Ken was an artist. Not the same way she was – he didn’t draw or sketch or mold dreams out of clay – but with words. Miranda sipped her coffee, then pulled her sketch book closer.
They worked together at the table until Miranda, absorbed in the image she was creating, reached over and pulled a lock of his hair down, rumpling his polished look. He looked up, the fire of creation still burning in his eyes, and she turned the sketch toward him. She usually didn’t let her models see their sketches, afraid their reactions would influence the next steps, but this was different.
Ken put out a finger, but only touched the small coffee stain at the bottom. Wordless, he handed her the notepad.
Beauty of a different kind leaped out at her. He had written to her, for her. A glowing paean of herself. With words, he captured all she had been and all she hoped to be. Nothing specific, nothing that anyone who read it would identify as the Miranda Howard they thought they knew, but it was her all the same.
An unexpected tear stung her eye before it fell. She raised her head and he touched her, his hand wonderfully strong as it cupped her cheek. His thumb brushed away the tear.
Miranda rested her hand over his and sniffled. “That’s my line,” she said, smiling. “Thank you. I had no idea this is what you did here. I thought you spent your time cranking out memos and briefs.”
He smiled again, a quick turn of his lips. “I do that to pay the rent. This is what I do to live.” Ken glanced down at his watch. “It’s almost time for me to leave. Will you be here tomorrow?”
“I’m planning on it. Will you?”
“I’ll buy you coffee.” His voice was decisive. As if things would happen they way he said simply because he said it. Miranda’s brow rose. No point in letting him think that would happen too often.
He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingertips. “I’ll take that bet, Miranda Howard.”
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