Mr Garcia: Chapter 1

The whirl of the traffic spins past at a deafening speed.

People, like ants, conform as they rush along the congested sidewalk.

Morning rush hour in London is always hectic. A fast-paced mecca filled with the busiest of the busy people, and I’m no different, I’m rushing to get to my job at a coffee house.

I’m late, as usual, after studying into the early hours of this morning.

I really need to get a High Distinction on my test this afternoon. Getting a full scholarship for my law degree was amazing but living on the other side of the world from my family and friends now is not.

If I get enough HDs, I’m hoping to transfer back to the United States and study there. At least then I’ll have my family, and being a broke student won’t be so fucking lonely.

I stride up to a busy four-way intersection. It’s packed, and a lot of people are waiting for the lights to change to cross the street. I stand up against the row of shops, waiting, only to glance over and see a man on his knees, disheveled and shoeless. He sits on his knees holding a cup out, asking for spare change from those around him. I take out my purse, damn it, I don’t have any cash on me.

My heart constricts as everyone pretends not to see him, like he doesn’t exist or matter—a stain on society.

How did we become so numb to the homeless and poor? It’s just assumed he’s an addict. That’s how these people justify ignoring him. They think that if they react, then they will be feeding his addiction. They think you have to be cruel to be kind.

I don’t get it; I really don’t.

I exhale at the thought of our depressing reality. One filled with brand names and social media. Everything this poor man is not.

From the corner of my eye, I see a man stop in front of him.

He’s tall, wearing an expensive suit. He looks cultured and wealthy, with black hair and a handsome face.

He stands and looks down at the man.

Oh no, what’s he going to do? Is he going to kick him off the street for begging?

Is he going to call the police? Or worse…

He drops to one knee in front of the homeless man, and my heart constricts.

The lights change, but I’m too worried to walk across the street. I need to see what this guy is going to do. He’d better not drag him to his feet, or I’ll lose my shit.

He’s harmless. Leave him alone.

I get a vision of me kicking the handsome man in the balls in the beggar’s defense.

Stupid, rich twat.

The man in the suit says something, and the homeless man nods. I watch as he reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket to retrieve his wallet, pulls out a fifty-pound note, and he hands it over.

What?

He asks the homeless man a question, and the beggar smiles up at him as though God himself has just bestowed a sacred gift. The homeless man puts his hand out to shake the handsome man’s hand, and he shakes it with no hesitation.

With a kind nod, the rich guy stands, completely oblivious to anyone around him, and he bids him goodbye before he turns and crosses the street.

I watch him walking away, and I smile to myself, my faith in the human race restored.

Wow, that was unexpected. I continue on my way with a spring in my step. I finally cross the street and make my journey via two streets before I walk two blocks, and I catch sight of the man in the suit up ahead again. I crane my neck to look ahead to see him, he disinfects his hands with a small bottle of hand sanitizer that he has pulled out from his pocket.

My heart swells. He waited until he was out of the homeless man’s sight to clean his hands.

Thoughtful, too.

I stop still and watch him, he’s handsome and possibly in his mid-thirties.

I wonder who his wife is, lucky bitch. I bet his kids are kind, too.

He disappears around the corner, and I turn and walk into my coffee shop, listening to the bell over the door ringing out.

Monica looks up from her place on the register. “Hey.”

“Hi.” I smile and walk past her, out the back to put my bag in a locker.

The café is packed with every seat occupied. Damn it, I was hoping for a slow morning. I need to save my energy for my exam this afternoon.

“Hey, chick,” Lance says as he carries a box of cups out the back door.

“I thought you were working tonight,” I frown.

“I got called in.” He sighs. “So not in the mood for this fucking shithole today.”

“Join the club.” I put my black and white apron on and tie it at the back before I walk to my place at the cash register. “I’ll take over.”

I bump Monica out of the way with my hip, and she stumbles to the side.

“Good,” she mumbles, “I’m dying of Bourbon-itis.”

“Bourbon is bad. That shit will kill you,” I whisper.

The next person in line steps forward.

“Hello. How can I help you?”

“Do you have goat’s milk?” the trendy-looking woman asks.

“Umm.” I glance behind me to ask Monica but she’s disappeared. I’ve never heard of goat’s milk before.

“I want a goat’s milk turmeric latte, thank you,” the customer says.

“Let me go check.” I quickly dart out the back to find someone to ask. Lance is cutting up boxes. “Do we serve goat’s milk turmeric lattes?”

Lance screws up his face. “Who the fuck would want to drink that shit?”

“This nut out there.”

“Fuck’s sake,” he mutters dryly. “People are trying too hard to be trendy. Goat’s milk turmeric. Now I’ve heard it all.”

“So, that’s a no?”

“Hard no.” He smashes a box up. “This is a goat free milking zone.”

I giggle. Monica walks past us, out the back door and into the alley. “Going to the bathroom. I feel sick.”

“You okay?” I call, watching as she runs for the door.

“What’s wrong with her?” Lance asks.

“Hungover. Bourbon.”

Lance winces. “Nasty.”

“Cover the coffee machine for me, will you?” Monica says as the door bangs shut behind her.

I go back to the front of the shop to see I now have a huge line waiting. Great. “I’m sorry, we don’t have any goat’s milk turmeric.”

“Why not?” the customer asks.

“Because we don’t stock it. I’m sorry.” I fake a smile. “This is a goat milk free coffee house.”

“That’s not good enough. I want to see the manager.”

Oh, fuck off, bitch. I’m not in the mood for you today. There isn’t even a manager on duty.

“Now!” she demands.

I fake another smile. “I’ll just go get him.” I march out the back to Lance. “She wants to see the manager.”

“Who does?”

“The goat chick.”

“What about?”

“I don’t know. Fucking goats! Get out there.” I march back out to the register. “He won’t be a moment.” I smile. “Can you please step aside so I can serve the next person?”

She glares at me and crosses her arms, she then steps to the side and waits.

“Can I help you?” I ask the next man.

“Hi.” He grins. Oh God…. not you. “It’s me, Michael.”

“Yes.” I cringe. “I remember. Hi, Michael. What can I get you?”

“I’ll have the usual.” He winks.

I take his order and the bell rings over the door to tell me someone else has entered. “That will be four pounds ninety-five,” I say coldly.

I take Michael’s card and swipe it through the card machine. I can’t make casual conversation with Michael because he’s way too flirty.

“I want goat’s milk,” I hear the woman demanding.

“Well, we don’t have any,” Lance replies. I can tell by the tone of his voice that he isn’t in the mood for this crap today, either.

“I want you to put it on the menu immediately.”

I glance over to Lance. His face is murderous, and I bite my lip to hide my smile.

“Look, lady, if you want goat’s milk, you’re going to have to go somewhere else. We are not into milking goats.”

“You’d rather milk a cow?”

“Or kick them out of my coffee shop,” Lance mutters dryly. “Either, or.”

Jeez… I drop my head to hide my smile.

“Did you just call me a cow?” the woman gasps.

Shit, buzz off, bitch. Enough with the dramatics. Just leave already.

“Can I help you?” I ask the next customer and look up at the queue.

Big brown eyes stare back at me, and I step back in surprise.

It’s him.

The guy from the street.

“Hi.” I smile bashfully and tuck a piece of hair behind my ear.

He’s wearing a perfectly fitted dark navy suit and a crisp white shirt. He looks like he may be European or something.

“Hello.” His voice is deep and husky.

I feel my cheeks blush and I smile nervously. “Hi.”

We stare at each other. Fuck me. This guy is completely gorgeous.

A trace of a smile crosses his face as if reading my mind.

I smile goofily over at him and hunch my shoulders.

He raises his brows. “Do you want to know my order?”

“Oh.” I pause. “I was waiting for you.” I lie. Fuck, I’m acting like a star struck teenager. Get it together, stupid. “What would you like?”

“I’ll have a double macchiato, please.”

I twist my lips to hide my smile. Even his coffee is hot.

“Would you like anything else?” I ask.

He raises his eyebrow. “Such as?”

I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out.

He smirks, realizing he has me completely flustered.

Oh, hell, act fucking cool, will you?

“A muffin?” I reply. “They’re delicious.”

“All right.” His eyes hold mine. “Why don’t you surprise me, April?”

I stare at him as my brain misfires. “How do you know my name?”

“It’s on your apron.”

I scrunch my eyes shut. “Oh… right.” Please, Mother Earth, swallow me whole. Way to bimbo it out. “Ah, excuse me. I’m not with it today,” I stammer.

“You look completely with it to me.” He gives me his first genuine smile, and I feel it to my toes.

It’s official: this man is delicious.

“And your name?” I ask, holding my pen to his cup.

“Sebastian.”

“Mr. Sebastian?”

“Mr. Garcia.”

Sebastian Garcia. Even his name is hot. “Would you like another coffee for your wife?”

“There’s no wife.”

“Girlfriend?”

“No girlfriend.” A smile crosses his face once more. He knows I’m fishing for information.

Our eyes are locked, and the air crackles between us.

The man behind him in the line sighs heavily. “I’m in a rush, you know.”

Oh, get lost. I’m trying to flirt here.

Dickhead.

Mr. Garcia steps to the side, and I bring my attention to the man behind him. “Can I help you?”

“I want a toasted ham and cheese sandwich, and you’d better make it quick,” he barks.

“Of course, sir.” Fuck, why is every asshole in London in my café today?

“Excuse me.” I hear from the side.

The man and I look up to see Mr. Garcia has taken a step toward us.

“What?” the asshole snaps.

“What did you just say?” Mr. Garcia raises an eyebrow, clearly annoyed.

The man shrivels, taken aback. “I’m in a rush.”

“No need to be rude.” Mr. Garcia’s eyes hold his. “Apologize.”

The man rolls his eyes.

“Now.”

“Sorry,” the man mumbles to me.

I press my lips together to hide my smile.

Mr. Garcia steps back to his place by the wall.

I feel my cheeks flush with excitement.

Saw-oon.

“That won’t be a minute,” I say, and the man nods, not saying another word.

I glance around, wondering who is making the coffees.

Oh, shit, I’m supposed to be.

Wait, how do you make a double macchiato again?

I have never done this before. Although, I have watched the others do it a million times. I concentrate and do what I think they do. I turn back to the customers.

“Mr. Garcia,” I call, and he steps forward. “Here you go.”

His eyes hold mine as he takes it from me. “Thank you.” He nods and then turns, and I watch him walk toward the door. Shit… that’s it?

Turn around and ask me out, damn it.

He stops on the spot and I hold my breath, he turns back. “April, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I smile. “I hope so.”

He dips his head, and with one more breathtaking smile, he turns and walks out onto the street. Like a little kid, I pick up a cloth and practically run to the front of the café so I can watch which direction he takes.

I pretend to wipe a table near the window so I can spy.

Sebastian walks past a few shops, and I see him take a sip of his coffee and then wince. He screws up his face, and with a shake of his head, he throws it in a trash can.

What? After all that, he didn’t even drink it!

My mouth falls open.

“Am I going to get served here or what?” the rude man calls from the counter.

“Yes, of course, sir.” I fake another smile and make my way back to the coffee machine.

You’re going to get the worst fucking coffee I’ve ever made, asshole.

And judging by Mr. Garcia’s reaction, that’s pretty bad.

I walk down the corridor of Holmes Court, my dormitory accommodation at university.

I think I flunked my exam, damn it.

The sound of laughter echoes through the hall, and a faint techno beat can be heard in the distance. Coming home to this place is a living Hell.

I have never hated living somewhere as much as I hate it here. I mean, everyone is nice enough, but I feel like their grandmother. At the age of twenty-five, I’m considered a mature student, yet for some unknown reason, my scholarship houses me with the freshmen, all of which are eighteen and on their first leave of absence from home.

Everyone is either blind drunk or having sex, and I don’t really care what they do, but do they have to make so much fucking noise when they do it?

This place is like a twenty-four-seven nightclub. They party all night and sleep all day.

How they are actually passing any of their subjects is beyond me.

I exhale heavily as I trudge up the stairs. The music is getting louder now. Of course, it is.

Penelope Wittcom: my neighbor and arch enemy. We share a common wall and on my side of it, I try to study, sleep and be a respectable student. On her side it’s party and orgy central. Her bedroom is known around campus as the ‘Rave Cave’.

Open all fucking night.

She even has a disco ball in there.

People come and go at all hours, slamming doors, partying and yahooing. To be honest, I think she may be dealing drugs. She has to be. Nobody can be that popular and have so many visitors. It’s annoying that she’s so intelligent and she’s going to become a computer scientist.

And that’s not the worst of it by far.

I’ve never heard so much screaming during sex in my life!

I’ve lost count at how many men she has gone through. I mean, good for her—at least one of us is getting it—but does she have to howl every time she comes?

I’ve put in complaints. I’ve requested to move buildings. I’ve done everything possible. But it’s pretty hard to be heard when Penelope is sleeping with the floor manager.

And besides, I’m on a scholarship. I’m not paying to live here so I have to suck it up.

I just have to get through the rest of this year, and hopefully my grades will be good enough to get a scholarship to return to The States.

When I left my cheating, douchebag ex-husband Roy, I walked out with nothing. Every cent I had earned is in the house that he still lives in, and until he agrees to sell it, I have to live with the fallout.

I’m in my second year of law school, which I’m so proud of, but I also need to live while I study. I’ve applied for every job under the sun but my course hours are intense, and nothing ever seems to fit in with my schedule. I’m grateful for my job at the café, but with only three shifts a week, it just doesn’t pay enough for me to get an apartment of my own. So, for now, this is my life.

The music is really pumping when I walk past Penelope’s room. Her door is propped open. Four or five guys are sitting on her floor, and the distinct smell of cigarette smoke invades the corridor.

I walk past them without so much as a smile, and I close my door behind me. The loud music only softens a little, so I put my headphones on. Who knew I would need noise cancelling headphones just to get through my day?

I flick the television on, which is connected by Bluetooth to my headphones. I grab a mineral water from the fridge, flop onto the couch, and I begin to scroll through my phone. I open an email.

I sit up instantly.

I applied for this job months ago. A girl who used to work at the café worked at Club Exotic one night a week at the bar, and it covered her entire rent.

I jump off the couch in excitement.

I mean, I know it’s not ideal. It’s a gentlemen’s club, but it is only behind the bar.

How hard can it be to pour drinks?

Plus, I’ve had to listen to Penelope having sex every night for free, anyway. I’m pretty sure my pure eyes and ears can handle anything these days.

If I don’t find something beforehand, this could work out okay. I speed read the email again. Gosh, that’s five weeks away, though.

Damn it, five weeks is a long time.

My phone begins to vibrate.

“Hello.”

“Hello, April?”

“Yes.” I don’t recognize the voice.

“This is Anika from Club Exotic.”

“Oh,” I frown. “I actually just opened an email from you.”

“Yes, that’s why I’m calling. We’ve just had somebody leave without notice and you were the first person on our interview list who has answered.”

“Okay…”

“Do you want to come in tomorrow for an interview? I know it’s last minute, but otherwise your interview isn’t until next month.”

I quickly run through my schedule for tomorrow. I guess I can skip my lecture. “Yeah, sure. That would be great. What time?”

“Can you be here at eleven?”

I don’t finish my shift at the café till 10.30 a.m. Although, I could get ready before my shift. “Okay, that sounds great, thank you.” I smile, excited. “I’ll see you then.”

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I’ll have a toasted cheese on rye and a flat white, please.”

“Sure.” I smile as I tap his order into the computer. It’s another day at the cafe, another few pounds. “That will be nine pounds ninety-five, thanks.”

He hands over his money, and I hear the distant bell over the door as someone new enters the building.

This is the longest shift I’ve ever done at the café. I’m nervous about my interview this morning. After thinking on it all night, I’ve decided that I really want that job.

If I could just work two shifts a week, then I could move out of the dorm and into my own studio apartment.

Imagine that!

Don’t get excited. You haven’t gotten it yet, I remind myself.

“Can I help you?” I ask as I glance up and stare straight into the eyes of Mr. Garcia.

He came back.

“Hello,” he says in his deep voice.

The air between us doing that thing again… electricity and butterflies all rolled into one.

“You back for more of my great coffee?” I smirk.

He gives me a slow, sexy smile. “I am.”