She then leans forward and is about to pick up the papers I just carelessly threw from the console. But I beat her to it.
“I’ll pay you back for the hospital bill.” Her eyebrows rise, and when those violet eyes narrow on me, the entire candy skids down my throat.
Fuck. I grab the half-empty water bottle still sitting on my lap and gulp down some more water.
“N-no need.”
Unlike most people, her eyebrows don’t go up to her hairline upon hearing my voice, rather the confused expression stays on her face, and for some fucking inexplicable reason, I like it. I like that I possibly don’t sound like a weirdo to her.
“I can’t do that. I’m already beyond thankful that you didn’t leave me on the street to die. The nurse said she was aware that I left my insurance card at home. How did you…?”
“You t-told me you d-don’t have in-surance.”
“I did? When?”
I find her wide eyes almost hilarious, because she didn’t just tell me but kind of begged me.
“While I was car-rying you t-to my car.”
A flush creeps up her cheeks, and her nervous gaze skids from me to the dashboard. “Um, yeah. I think I should pay you even more. Like some sort of…transportation fee.”
I try hard to cover my smile behind the plastic bottle. “It’s-s okay.”
“But why was everyone calling you my husband?” she asks, her forehead creasing.
I pull on the sleeves of my jacket before throwing a sideways glance at her. “When the nurse handed me the add-mission form”—I uncap the water bottle and take another sip—“she ass-umed I was the husband. I jus-st nodded.”
I don’t tell her that’s because I fucking avoid speaking.
“Oh, okay,” she says slowly.
Thank fuck my answer is enough to appease her.
“Thank you so much once again, um…” She looks at me from under her lashes. “Don’t you think I should know your name? If due to some reason the hospital calls and asks me about my husband, I should know who has gone to the bathroom.”
I chuckle at her refreshing sense of humor. “Zane.”
She offers me her hand. “I’m Vi. Short for Vienna.”
“Really?” My head jerks up when her soft fingers graze my palm, and she nods. Her violet eyes gleam with excitement.
“You’re famous as my savior in the café.” Her smile drops a little as she says, “And today you really were.”
My heart unexpectedly sinks at the forlorn expression on her face. I clear my throat once before asking, “What d-do you mean?”
She clutches her handbag close to her chest and grins after turning toward me in her seat.
My brain is having a hard time keeping up with her changing mood.
“Joe, the owner of Steamy Beans Café, made a deal with me three months back. See, the Vienna coffee, which is apparently your fave, was my idea.” She points her finger toward me, shaking it aggressively. “You tell me why people should stick to macchiatos and lattes and not taste the original blends. We don’t even serve Vienna in the original style, which is melange, by the way.”
Somehow, she has taken the lack of original coffees in this town as some sort of personal offense. To not add more fuel to her tizzy, I decide to keep my mouth shut and not disclose my true feelings about her coffee.
Unlike my brother Zach, I’m not a foodie, but the unconventional name of the drink had piqued my curiosity. After relocating here from St. Peppers three months back, I had visited the café outside our company office in Cherrywood on my first day in this town.
But one sip and I knew—the too-frothy and too-creamy drink was a far cry from my taste. The paper cup, which I’d been about to dump before ordering a straight black coffee, had remained in my hand when the barista clapped, hooted, and took hold of my jacket sleeve, giving me a side hug as best she could with the side counter separating us. The next day, before I could place my order, she had set down a cup filled with that same drink, and she’d even made a swan with the cream. Since then, there’d been new coffee art every day as part of my daily morning routine.
What I hadn’t known that morning was that someday I’d be in the car with that same barista after calling her my wife at the hospital because she doesn’t have insurance.