𝓒𝓵𝓪𝓻𝓪

Someone handed in a note, addressed to me.

Around me, my coworkers were buzzing, making drinks and handing customers their orders. Cautiously, I opened the letter, and seeing it was addressed from Maverick, I threw it away.

I thought about quitting. He knew where I worked and where I lived. He could do anything to me.

I avoided him when I could, walking quickly into the back room when I saw him coming to the cafe. With each interaction I rarely had with him, he always asked me out for a date.

I declined.

Give him a chance, Violet had said.

I couldn't. I never could.

So many possibilities, so many things he could do to me if I gave him the slightest chance of hope.

I glanced back up through the windows, and before I could hide, the officer walked in.

"Clara, doing okay today?" He asked, a slight smile on his lips.

I nodded, determined not to speak to him, to not look at him, hoping he wouldn't see my fear, hoping he would leave.

He put some cash on the counter and ordered a coffee. Hesitantly, I reached across and took his money. "So," he started, "if I asked, is it still going to be a no?" He gave an amused laugh.

I nodded, putting his change back on the counter, before he held up a hand, so I took it back. "You seem pretty determined not to talk to me today."

I glanced up but didn't look him in the eyes. Then I left to make his coffee. He followed along behind the counter, towering over the barrier of display cases filled with pastries and other items.

Maverick was a handsome man; I will admit that. He was young, maybe a year or two older than me. Tall, over six foot. He had amber eyes that reminded me of dark apple juice and perfect dimples when he smiled. Thick eyebrows and dark brown hair that almost looked black. I couldn't help but think of Fall when I saw him.

A lot of girls seemed attracted to him.

When he'd come in to order his coffee, almost every day at noon, many pairs of eyes would trail after him.

I prayed many times that another girl would catch his attention, but he wasn't interested. He ignored them.

I finished his coffee and grabbed a marker to write his name on the side. He always complemented my handwriting.

I set it down on the slab of wood on top of the glass case.

He studied it as he grabbed the cup, his large hand making it look smaller than it was. He looked at the soft curve of the M and the loops in the C and K. "You're writing is beautiful," he said, as he always did. And I nodded, as I always did.