Nonetheless, I’d wanted our first date to be special and I wasn’t sure why.
I usually let the woman pick the location of the first date because it gave me a clue as to how she thought and let me know how she ranked against the requirements on my checklist. But this time, I didn’t even ask Selena what she enjoyed. I just wanted to spend time with her, to get to know her better.
I considered using my private jet or having my yacht shipped down for a full night getaway, but my real name was engraved on all the seats, and I’d have to do some major explaining and possibly blow my cover.
I decided to stay local and paid the Botanical Gardens two hundred thousand dollars to ensure that we would have the place to ourselves. I made arrangements to fly in a chef and two staff members from Boston’s best restaurant—Oleana, and arranged for us to be chauffeured around for a night on the town right after.
My checklist clearly stated that I shouldn’t waste my time since she didn’t make any immediate plans to reschedule, but I didn’t want to let her get away. Part of it was an intense sexual attraction—I’d fantasized about her ever since we first met, but I couldn’t figure out what the other part was.
For the first time, in as long as I could remember, I wanted to pursue someone again.
I went to Sweet Seasons every day, but she purposely avoided me each time: She always made another waitress take my order, refused to look in my direction, and on the rare occasion that our eyes met, she turned away.
I scribbled notes on napkins—“Are you okay?” “Was it something I said?” “So, we can’t just be friends?” “Can we talk about it?” “Did you really mean we could go out some other time?”—and asked the other waitresses to give them to her but I wasn’t sure if she ever received them.
The one time that she had no other choice but to take my order since I came right at closing, she stuck to the Sweet Seasons’ script. Once she brought me my pie boxes, I asked her why she was ignoring me and she said, “I’m sorry. That’s not on our menu. Have a great night, sir.”
I was convinced she wouldn’t answer my texts or phone calls, but I hoped she would eventually call to reschedule our date.
Several days passed and she never did.
“Today is the day, team!” Lola stood atop a table. “Today we are going to the university’s opening game and we are going to seduce them with our pumpkin spice latte, our delectable hot chocolate, and our rich and creamy deluxe coffee!”
The team members clapped loudly and cheered. Lola doled out instructions for transporting the coffee machines and cups, and handed me a stack of flyers.
She was going against company policy by taking merchandise out of the store, but I couldn’t say anything without arousing suspicion.
She handed me another stack of flyers and I cleared my throat. “Didn’t you already promote things at your grand opening three months ago? Isn’t it a bit unethical to take our products and warmers to a football game?”
She clutched her chest as if she’d just been shot. “We never had a real grand opening. Corporate thought they could open up a business here and people would just fly in. It might work that way up north, but this is the South. You have to prove you can be trusted down here, and you have to earn that trust.
“What better way to earn trust than to offer your products at local events? Like football games? No other coffee shop here does that, so when it gets cold outside and the game is dragging on and on and the fans don’t want to go home, they’ll all be clamoring for a cup of our hot chocolate or one of our creamy deluxe coffees.”
That’s actually a really great idea…
She looked at her name tag then looked at mine. “Yep, mine still says manager and yours stills says barista. Keep questioning my actions and yours will say unemployed.”
I held back a laugh. “I’m sorry Lola.”
“It’s okay! Every coffee bean wants to be a part of the coffee! It takes time to get grounded though, give it some time.”
After selling every ounce of coffee we’d brought to the football game, Lola agreed to let the team go home if we promised to come in an hour early the next day.
I untied my apron and sighed. I was still upset about Selena canceling our date. No matter how hard I tried to let it go, I couldn’t.
I called to indefinitely cancel the flight for the chef and his team and headed to Sweet Seasons. I wanted to know about those so-called “things” she was going through.
I’d been sitting at the coffee counter for five minutes when an older woman, who looked very much like Selena, handed me a menu.
“You back for more pie?” she smiled.
“No...Not today,” I stopped and took a long look at her.
She was the spitting image of Selena: From her small button nose, to her deep gray eyes, to the very heart shape of her face.
I would’ve thought she was Selena’s mother if I didn’t know any better, but I knew that was impossible. My intern’s report said Selena’s family lived in Texas, so I shook it off as an eerie coincidence.
“Um,” I cleared my throat. “I’m looking for a particular waitress that works here…Silky black hair, pretty gray eyes, really beautiful. She’s got—”
“Selena?”
“Yeah,” I tried to sound nonchalant.
“Oh. She was off today, darling.”
“Does she work tomorrow?”