Just His Type

Another evening. Another thirsty straight guy.

Chloe clocked him the second he came in.

Jason. Or Jasper. Or whatever his name was. It didn't matter. He was exactly the type that flocked to her café—the shy, repressed type who thought a pair of tattoos and cherry lipstick made her some kind of kink unlock.

She didn't even look up.

"I’ll be with you in a sec," she muttered, deadpan, wiping down the counter.

He smiled like she'd just offered to blow him.

God, get a hobby, she thought, rolling her eyes. What do these dudes think this is, a Hallmark movie? I fucking work here. I'm not your edgy dream girl.

And she loved being edgy. That was the point. Black jeans, cropped tee, nose ring, purple hair—all of it was her. She didn't do cute. She didn't do girly. She did power. Control. Women.

Her fingers tugged the knot of her apron tighter.

She remembered last Pride when some girl at the bar had kissed her before even asking her name. That kiss had more electricity than six months of Jason's lingering glances combined. That kiss had landed her in that girl's bedroom for a night that she wouldn't forget for a long time.

He's probably a virgin, she thought with a scoff. I could sneeze and he'd propose.

She didn't hate him. But she didn't respect him either.

She leaned over to clean a caramel spill and felt the familiar swing of her ponytail—the dyed lavender ends brushing her cheek. She'd touch up the roots tonight. Maybe try a deep violet next.

She stood back up.

And blinked.

The world was warm. Cozy. Glowy, even.

Chloe tilted her head slightly and smiled.

Jason was at his usual table, like always. He looked so sweet in that jacket—so strong, but also kind of shy. That little flush on his cheeks? Adorable.

Ohmygosh, she thought, a happy tingle fluttering down her spine. He's here. Again!

She giggled to herself, brushing invisible lint from her apron. It was always so weird seeing her reflection in the café windows—she looked like one of those ironic indie girls in a band. But that wasn't her at all. That was just… work.

The café had a vibe, and the manager said they all had to "embody the brand." So she dyed her hair purple, wore edgy makeup, even bought a kit to make temporary tattoos. But back home? Back where she could be herself?

Ugh, she thought, the second I get home it's ponytail out, lashes off, and into something pink and fuzzy.

She was sooo not a rocker girl. She liked sundresses. She watched baking shows. She dreamed about her wedding. She even had a Pinterest board for nurseries.

Her real hair was soft honey blonde, and she couldn't wait to grow it out again.

And Jason? Jason was everything she'd ever wanted. Big. Sweet. Safe. A little awkward, but that made him more adorable. Total husband material.

He doesn't even know how perfect we are together, she thought. But he will.

She gave her lip gloss a little swipe—her favorite cherry mocha shade—and walked toward him, heart fluttering.

"Well hey there, stranger," she said with a playful smile. "You gonna keep making eyes at me from across the room, or you gonna order something?"

He blinked at her, confused. Maybe surprised she was talking to him?

She leaned forward, elbows on the counter, chin in her hands.

"Let me guess. Mocha, extra whip? Or are you gonna surprise me today?"

He stammered. "Uh… sure. Mocha."

He's nervous! Ohmygosh he's so cute when he’s nervous! she squealed silently.

She reached for the cup and grabbed a pen, fighting the butterflies in her stomach.

Should I write my number? Too forward? No. He needs to know I'm serious. I'm not just some coffee shop girl—I'm his future wife. The future mother of his children.

"Name?" she asked, batting her lashes. "Or do I just write 'Cutie' and add my number underneath?"

His awkward little laugh made her toes curl in her shoes. "Jason."

"Jason," she repeated slowly, as if she hadn't memorized it from the first time she served him, as if saying it tasted as sweet as sugar. "Cute name."

She passed him the cup, fingers brushing his, and felt a spark. One day she wouldn't just be serving him coffee. One day she would serve him dinner, at a large table, taking care of her man the way a woman should.

I bet his hands are so strong, she thought dreamily. Strong enough to hold a baby. Or me. Or both.

She turned to the machine, cheeks warm.

"We've got to stop doing this," she said with a smirk.

"Doing what?" he asked.

She looked at him over her shoulder, gave a wink that practically melted her insides.

"Pretending we're not into each other."