I Saw Her First - Excerpt​

Chapter One

Daisy

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You know something isn’t quite right when a cupcake makes you question everything about your life.

It’s not a bad cupcake by any means; red velvet, with that decadent cream cheese frosting that melts on your tongue. I know because we’ve sold them here at Joe’s Coffee for years, and I’ve eaten more than a few. Usually, I savor one with a chai latte on my break, but today this particular cupcake seems to do nothing more than make me wonder how I got here.

“Seven years.” My boss, Dave, beams at me. “You’re the longest-running employee here at Joe’s, Daisy.”

I stare at the cupcake in his hands, into which he’s jammed a slightly askew birthday candle. The tiny flame flickers, waiting for me to blow it out. Two of my co-workers loiter nearby because Dave forced them to be here, not because they’re interested.

In fact, to my left, Celine mutters, “Seven years? Fuck, if I’d been here that long I’d kill myself.”

I glance from the candle to where she’s scrolling, half asleep, through her phone. She seems to sense it because her gaze flicks up.

“No offense,” she adds in that way people do that seems to somehow add more offense to the original statement. She runs her silver tongue-piercing along her bottom lip, a habit she’s had the entire four months she’s worked here, then drops her gaze again with a yawn. She’s not used to being here so early—it’s usually only me opening up at six in the morning—but Dave insisted we all gather before opening, “for the occasion.”

“Hey, come on now,” he says, throwing Celine a look of disapproval she misses because she’s once again engrossed in her phone. “It’s great. I hope you’re all still here when I celebrate my seventh year.”

To my right, Jaya snorts, and I don’t have to look to know she’s sharing an eye-roll with Brett. We all know Dave would die here, given half the chance. He’s like a labradoodle: perky and easily excitable, and loyal to a fault. Until it closed, he used to manage a Starbucks in the West Village, and he’d been there for over a decade. He only started here eight months ago after our last manager quit, and already he’s got a ten-year plan, most of which involves “fun workplace incentives” to “boost morale.”

It’s not like Joe’s Coffee is an especially bad place to work. The shop itself has a great vibe. Set in an old building on Fruit Street in the historic district of Brooklyn Heights, it’s got exposed brick walls painted a clean white, an old-fashioned tin ceiling, and double bay windows facing the quiet, residential street. Black and white photos detailing the area’s history cover the walls, small cast iron tables scatter across the bare wood floor, and the marble counter nestles at the rear.

I’ve always loved the atmosphere in here. That’s not the issue. The issue is, well, being a barista was never my long-term plan.

Still, life never really goes according to plan, does it?

I clear my throat. “Er, thanks, Dave.” Pushing my mouth into a smile, I blow out the candle and take the cupcake from him.

 

Celine announces she’s going to go sleep in her car until her shift starts at ten, Brett mutters that he’s going to Trader Joe’s, and Jaya hoists her yoga mat onto her shoulder before sauntering out for her early class. Dave heads out the back to do paperwork, leaving me with my cupcake in the empty coffee shop. I watch the thin thread of smoke rise from the cooling candle, wondering how I ended up here; stuck in a job I’d never intended to be in long term, and still a virgin.

Oh, did I not mention that?

Yeah, I’m a virgin. And I’m beginning to think I might die a virgin.

Okay, I know that’s dramatic. I’m only twenty-five, and it’s not like my doctor diagnosed me with a life-threatening illness or anything, but when you get to this age and you still haven’t had sex, things feel a little bleak.

High school was… complicated, to say the least, so I never had the chance to lose my virginity like most of the people I knew. It seemed to just get harder after that. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve dated, but it’s never gotten to the point where I wanted to take it further with any of them.

In reality, I know that “virginity” is only a social construct created by men to keep women pure, and if we’re getting really technical, my hymen was no doubt broken by horse-riding as a teenager, or using tampons, or my vibrator. I’m not from the Dark Ages.

But also… there’s no denying that people still view those with less experience—those like me—as different. Whenever I’ve told guys, they’ve always been surprised, if not a little judgmental. (One particular guy told me it was “whack” that I hadn’t had sex and that he could “definitely help me out with that issue.” Gross.)

At my age, it feels like some kind of mark against me. The older I get, the less I feel like telling the guys I date—and the less I feel like sleeping with any of them. Maybe I keep choosing immature men, I don’t know, but the thought of sleeping with a guy my age has almost zero appeal. I haven’t gone on a date in forever because, honestly? I’m sick of wasting my time.

So, here I am. A twenty-five-year-old virgin with no career prospects.

An uneasy feeling rises inside me as I glance at the cupcake in my hand. I try not to think about this stuff too much, but it’s hard to avoid when someone waves it under your nose like this. I didn’t even realize I’d been here that long, but it didn’t get past Dave. He never misses an opportunity to celebrate, and despite my usual cheery outlook, celebrating is the last thing I feel like doing right now.

A suffocating feeling claws its way across my chest as I stare at the cupcake, trying to pinpoint what the sensation is. It’s the feeling of being stuck; being stuck in my life and not knowing how to fix it.

The door to the coffee shop opens behind me, and I set the cupcake on the back counter with a sigh. I’ll have to deal with this quarter-life crisis later. I flick the espresso machine on and, in spite of everything, a smile tugs at my lips because even without looking, I know who walked through the door.

Weston.

He’s always the first here, and lately, he’s become the best thing about working at Joe’s. It’s not only his good looks: salt-and-pepper hair that leans more toward salt than pepper, three-day scruff on his square jaw, and a sparkle in his blue eyes.
 

Well, maybe it’s a little of that. I’m only human.

But there’s more to Weston than a pretty face. He’s been my secret project for the past year. Which isn’t as creepy as it sounds, I swear.

My only goal was to make him smile.

It took far longer than I could have imagined. For the first month, he wouldn’t even make eye contact, which made things tricky. Then one morning I tried something new: I created my first piece of latte art. It wasn’t much—only a cresting ocean wave swirled into the milk of his coffee, but it made him pause when I set his cup down in front of him. Finally, finally, instead of muttering a simple thanks, he glanced up.

Is it too ridiculous to say that the minute his ocean-blue eyes met mine, I fell in love a little?

Probably, so I’ll keep that tidbit to myself.

Anyway, he didn’t smile, more like gave me a searching look before mumbling his usual thanks, but it felt like progress, and I accepted the challenge. I took every opportunity to practice my latte art, and I’ve developed quite the talent for it, if I may say so myself.

It was the morning I handed him a sunrise, with caramel syrup rays of sunlight—a gamble because he’s never asked for syrup in his coffee before—that his gaze lingered on mine before his mouth tilted into a tired smile, and this time it wasn’t his usual thanks. Instead, he glanced at my nametag before looking back at my face, saying, “Thank you, Daisy.”

I was a goner.

Seven years in this place and not one guy who’s made my heart leap from a single smile.

Until Weston.

“Good morning,” I call, finally glancing up from the coffee machine. My gaze lands on the handsome older man, dressed in his usual wool coat over a navy-blue suit and tie, hair styled with just the right amount of product. My belly does a little flip when he sends a warm smile my way. In the time he’s been coming here, he’s graduated from reluctant smiles and single-word responses to actually making small talk. I know it’s silly, but I always look forward to chatting with him each day.

“Morning,” he replies in a voice still a little rough from sleep. He rubs his hands, cupping them together and warming them with his breath. “Cold out there.”

“It sure is.” I’d had the same thought when I stepped off the subway this morning. “So much for spring.”

Weston hums in agreement as he shrugs off his coat. He bumps the noticeboard by the door as he does so, sending a sheet of paper fluttering to the ground. It’s a flier for a local Thai restaurant that opened up down the block a few months back. I should make Weston’s coffee, but I can’t take my eyes off the way his six-foot-something frame bends to retrieve the flier. His suit fits him so perfectly it must be custom-made, the dark navy fabric complemented by the brown Italian leather loafers on his large feet. I’m so mesmerized by his movements that he straightens and glances over to catch me staring.

Shit.

“It’s good,” I blurt, ignoring the heat I can feel on my neck. “The Thai place, I mean.” I gesture to the flier. “The ginger duck is my favorite.”

Weston scrapes a palm across his stubble as he examines the flier, before pinning it back on the noticeboard. I motion for him to take a seat at his usual table in the window, where I’ve already laid out the newspaper I know he likes to read, then force myself to focus on the coffee machine. Today I’m experimenting with a new design in his latte: a musical note. It takes a few moments of concentration to get it right—which has nothing to do with Weston’s presence distracting me—but finally the image takes shape. Perfect.

I step from behind the counter and wander to his table with a smile. The subtle but spicy scent of his cologne hits the minute I’m in his orbit, rich and warm with hints of bergamot, and I can’t help but inhale a deep lungful.

He is so gorgeous. A thick head of hair that would have once been chestnut brown but is now dappled with silver, broad shoulders that fill out his suit jacket, tiny creases fanning out from his blue eyes as he glances up from his paper. I don’t know a single person who still reads an actual newspaper, but I love that about him. It makes him seem like he’s from another time.
 

Which he kind of is, I guess. I don’t know his exact age, but probably early-to-mid forties. In other words, almost two decades older than me.

I swallow, setting his coffee down. This is exactly why I need to get on with it and lose my virginity. It’s making me do absurd things, like develop a crush on one of our regulars who is, technically, old enough to be my dad.

“Thanks, Daisy.” His eyes shimmer with a smile as he takes in the musical note I’ve carefully crafted into the foam of his drink. “You’re quite the artist.”

Before I can stop myself, my gaze strays to the black and white photographs hanging on the wall of Joe’s. They’re artsy shots of Brooklyn Heights taken by a local artist, and every time I look at them I feel a tiny tug in my heart; one I’ve gotten very good at ignoring. They’re a painful reminder that once upon a time I was an artist who’d planned to pursue a career in photography.

But that was a different life.

Weston cradles the latte in his hands. I haven’t felt the urge to express myself in any form for a long time, but finding new ways to make Weston smile through the simple act of creating these tiny scenes in his coffee has re-ignited that spark. I find myself scouring Pinterest after work for latte art ideas, and coming in early each morning to practice. I might be unable to pick up a camera, but playing with art in this way feels doable. It feels safe.

“Thanks,” I murmur in response, but instead of being able to bask in the usual glow I get from our conversations, that tiny tendril of stuckness weaves through me again. My gaze moves from the image swirled in the milk to the gold band on Weston’s left hand, and my heart clenches in the way it always does when I force myself to acknowledge it.

Of all the men in the city, why did my heart choose him? Someone who is so utterly, completely, unavailable?

I give Weston a faint smile and head back to the counter. My celebration cupcake is still sitting there taunting me, and I glare at it. I’m suddenly overcome with the urge to do something drastic and life-changing.

But what?

I guess I could quit, but like everyone else, I have bills to pay. Besides, it’s not like I hate my job, and I don’t know what else I would do. I’ve worked at Joe’s since I moved to the city, and I don’t have any other plans.

I snatch the cupcake off the counter with a frown, knowing I could find some random guy and have sex—hell, I could probably accomplish that one tonight, if I tried—but what would that achieve, really? Somehow, that doesn’t feel like enough, and it’s not sex I want, it’s love. I want to fall in love—with a man who isn’t married—but that’s not something you can make happen just because you want it.

I swipe my finger through the frosting and bring it to my lips with a shake of my head. Seven years in the city and my life hasn’t changed since the day I moved here. The thought makes me cringe.

I don’t know what, but something has to change, and soon.​​

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​© 2024 Jen Morris​