Latte Darling: Book Two of The Darling Series
Latte Darling: Chapter 1

“Oh, um, excuse me,” I lift my hand, catching the eye of the server that’s about to walk past.

“Hey, honey,” the woman stops and smiles down at me. “Would you like another?”

My teeth clamp down on my lip before I can stop them, and I nod.

I don’t need it. I definitely shouldn’t have it. But I didn’t drive here tonight, and in five minutes this guy will officially be late, and I can’t handle the stress.

Okay, so in five minutes it will be the time we agreed to meet, but come on, if you’re not early you’re late. And if you’re late, someone might get mad. And if someone gets mad there might be confrontation. And if there’s confrontation there will be tears. And ohmygod I’m not gonna make it through the night!

Watching the server lean against the bar as she waits for my drink to be made, I lift my nearly empty glass, pinch the tiny straw between my lips, and suck down the rest of my first vodka cranberry.

Usually I’d stick to hard cider if I’m drinking out, but there’s nothing usual about tonight.

Air rattles through the straw and I set my glass back down on the table.

I’ve never been here before, but since I was already trying something new, I figured I might as well do new all the way around. Which, in theory, sounded like a great idea. In practice, it’s dumb. Like, super dumb. Because not only am I about to meet some stranger named Brian for a first date, but I’m also about to do it in a totally new location. But since he let me pick the when and where, I have only myself to blame.

The Bar is aptly named and currently living up to its 3.5-star Google rating. The lighting is dim and the music – some sort of rock – is loud, but the table isn’t sticky, and the drinks aren’t expensive. And it’s only a few towns over so the Uber wasn’t too bad.

Plus, my bestie, Elouise, knows where I am. And I sent her a screenshot of Brian’s profile picture so if I go missing, she has something to show the police.

My hands twitch to pick up my still empty glass, so I put them in my lap and wedge my fingers between my thighs.

My jeans are skintight, and extremely uncomfortable to sit in, but they make my butt look cute when I’m standing.

At just over five feet, my curves are better suited for a woman a foot taller than me. But since I’m done growing, and I can’t stop myself from consuming the calories that lead to my extra softness, I need clothes that hold it all in. Hence the tight-as-hell denim.

Elouise once called me a short, black haired, Jessica Rabbit, but she was just being nice. The only thing JR and I have in common is big tits.

Pulling free from its spot between my thighs, one of my hands reaches up to smooth down my hair.

My long black locks are usually a curly mess, but I straightened them tonight. I don’t know why I bothered, since this Minnesota summer is in full swing. The hot humid air outside setting off my frizz.

Giving up, I shove my hand back between my thighs. My shoulders automatically hunching forward, my nerves reaching an all-time high as my leg starts to bounce.

Just when I think a panic attack is imminent, the server is back.

“Here you go, hun.” She swaps out my empty with a fresh glass.

My mumbled thank you is lost in the din of voices and music, but she still smiles before turning to attend another table.

The drink is filled all the way to the brim so I hold my hair back and lean forward until I can sip through the straw.

Elouise convinced me to wear my cap-sleeved, low cut, bright white shirt, claiming it makes my hair pop. And she’s right. The black against the white cotton stands out. But spilling red liquid down the front would stand out even more and that’s not something I’m looking to add to my aesthetic.

Closing my eyes, I continue to sip.

Brian seemed nice the couple of times we messaged. He was pretty vague, saying he was in management, but I was vague too, only mentioning that I worked at a coffee shop. As the owner, I don’t really want to tell someone where I work until I trust them. So, he just knows me as Maddie the Barista.

He made a joke about bringing him a Frappuccino for our date. Not sure how to reply, I’d just sent a laughing emoji. The assumption he made about which chain I worked at was a little annoying but not worth correcting. But maybe that’s what I get for agreeing to date a 25-year-old.

Honestly, I was a little surprised that he wanted to go out, since I was truthful about being 31 on my profile. But if he wants to date an older woman, who am I to turn him down?

The sound of air rattling through my straw makes my eyes pop open.

Releasing the straw from between my lips I sit up straight and stare down at my empty glass.

Probably shouldn’t have done that.

“This one is on the house.”

I lift my face towards the voice and replace my server back with a brand new vodka cranberry.

I absolutely do not need that one.

But since I don’t know how to say no, I squeak out, “Thank you so much!”

She winks, taking my empty glass, and I’m left alone again.

This time I sit on my hands.

Two drinks is usually my limit. Especially two strong drinks. And since I just had two in less than – I tap my phone screen to see the time – fifteen minutes, I should probably ease off.

And now I’m back to chewing my lip because Brian is officially one minute late.

Paranoia starts to creep in so I pick up my phone and open the dating app to check that there aren’t any missed messages.

Nothing.

It’s Friday night and our last correspondence was Wednesday evening when we agreed on a time and place to meet.

My body warms in nervous anticipation and I drop my phone back on the table.

I take a slow inhale through my nose.

Stay calm. You don’t want to be sweating when he shows up.

My exhale is choppier than I’d like.

When does a few minutes late turn into he’s standing me up?

Seriously, this is the sort of stuff I need to be looking up before a date.

I eye my phone, consider opening a search, but instead just tap the screen.

Two minutes late.

Okay, one more sip won’t kill me. And if he’s not showing up anyways then what does it matter if I get completely drunk?

I bundle up my hair, holding it back in a makeshift ponytail this time with one hand, the other holding the glass in place as I lean forward to take a sip.

Seriously, how does that server carry these over? The liquid is all the way to the top.

One more sip.

Okay, two.

“Are you Maddie?” a deep, gravelly voice asks from right in front of me.

Still bent over the table, my eyes dart up and I replace myself staring at the front of a person’s jeans. A man’s jeans. His crotch. Holy hotdogs, I’m staring at a crotch that’s level with my table.

Letting the straw release from between my lips, I slowly bring my eyes up. And up. And up.

This man is… huge.

Faded jeans give way to a black zip up hoodie that’s probably big enough for me to use as a sleeping bag. The material looks thin and soft, and I want to rub my cheek against it.

The shirt stretches over his frame as he takes a deep breath, filling his lungs, and I think maybe I just want to rub my face on him.

I’ve heard the term barrel-chested before, but for the first time I feel like I finally understand. He’s not fat. He’s just… thick. One of his hands shifts next to his side and my eyes are drawn back down.

Both of his sleeves are pushed up to his elbows and – I swallow – his arms are covered in tattoos. I can’t make out the details of the dark markings in the low light of the bar, but my body doesn’t care. The reaction I have to this man is visceral and I haven’t even-

Every thought I have floats straight into a brick wall when my eyes move up to his face.

The lightest-blue eyes I’ve ever seen are staring down at me.

Jez-zus.

I’m pretty sure my tongue is lolling out onto the table, but I can’t stop myself from taking the rest of him in. The tanned skin. The salt and pepper beard. The matching grey-streaked hair that’s just long enough to be unruly.

This man is an absolute Silver Fox and my libido that’s been slumbering in hibernation for the last decade just woke the fuck up.

I swear my eyes have turned into tiny hearts as I blink up at this handsome giant, and that’s when I remember I’m still bent over the table, my low-cut shirt surely gaping obscenely.

Letting go of the hold I had on my hair, I bolt upright in my chair.

His eyes remain locked on my face as he continues to stare.

Wait… Did he say something?