Story 18 | My Americano Prince, Riley Green But Better
Based on a reader-submitted writing prompt: An overtired barista is excited for her cute regular to stop in – but he doesn’t show.
If you follow me on Instagram, then you know the writing of this story itself was full of plot twists.
I had baby all settled to sleep for the night and embarked on a reprise of my writing challenge: limited to two hours and 1000 words, write a short story start to finish, based this time on your reader-submitted prompts.
I was off to a strong start. One of the three prompts immediately intrigued me: “an overtired barista is excited for her cute regular to stop in – but he doesn’t show.” There was conflict, tension and tone. I started pulling ingredients for the story and jotted down notes in a flurry - there’s a time limit, after all.
But then, plot twist: I heard a cry. Turns out, baby didn’t just need comforting, she needed a full and proper feeding. As a result, instead of finishing my story by midnight, I was just starting and debating if I should just wait until the morning, sleep being a precious commodity currently.
But then, plot twist: inspiration hit. I wrote a full and proper draft in a little over an hour. I should have known it would work out; this process of writing weekly stories has been training my creativity to show up when I sit down to write. Plus, I am a night owl.
Next week, I’ll share all the insight on the ingredients I combined to create this treat of a story.
Enjoy! And may your crush be on time to see you this week!
My Americano Prince, Riley Green But Better
I had pictured this morning going differently. Ideally, my neighbors wouldn’t have hosted a rager of a party in their backyard last night, complete with an entire DJ booth immediately outside my bedroom window. Honestly, I didn’t think they were capable of such coordination, really rather impressive if you consider how poorly they maintain their home in general. And the music they were playing wasn’t even good. If they were going to disrupt my sleep so thoroughly, at least make it danceable, is that too much to ask? Ideally, I would have fallen asleep earlier so that I wouldn’t have slept through my alarm, meaning I skipped a shower for washing my face, rushed my makeup and still didn’t get to work on time, but I wasn’t that late, I really feel like my coworker Erin is overreacting. She’s on break now, leaving me to man the counter solo for 20 minutes, her form of retribution. Girl, bye. I need a break from her attitude.
Ideally, today, I would be some modicum of alert, I would at least feel clean and at best would feel ravishing or vivacious, I would be capable of flirting or at least representing myself well when he comes in, which should be any minute now. Be cool. Ideally, and now we’re reaching, I’d ooze pheromones and charisma, and my smokeshow Americano Tuesday-Thursday 8:30am regular would think I’m just as delicious as I think he is.
The way I was taken aback when he first walked in a few months back. He puts Riley Green to shame, and that man is fiiiine, all muscles and mustache, I wish I could feel both, his arms wrapped around me and his mustache tickling my…
What am I supposed to be doing? I’ve been steaming this milk for way too long. Right, that woman’s order. Focus. Or at least don’t completely zone out in front of the customers. He’ll be here soon.
That first day he walked in, I must have done the most visible double-take, it couldn’t have been helped, you would have done the same, no matter your taste in hot men. I legit thought he was Riley Green, which would have been cool but unattainable, so not really useful. Instead, this vision of a man walked in, all jeans that fit just right, t-shirt that strained across the chest and biceps thank you, worn-in baseball cap and boots that weren’t quite cowboy boots but still good, smoldery smiling eyes that meet mine, and he’s hotter than Riley Green which I know doesn’t sound real, but he’s a civilian not a country star, so there’s a chance. He has the mustache, the muscles, the hint of dark, disheveled curls peeking out from his baseball cap, the smart green eyes that just pierce my very soul. Good Lord, that t-shirt he was wearing fit so well. Imagine if it were a white t-shirt and not whatever graphic tee he was wearing and if it were raining but still warm so he wouldn’t be cold, but he got a little wet running into the coffee shop from his car and he took off his hat and ran his hands through his hair…
Oop, I should be responding to this customer with words. Maybe a nod, some nonverbal cues, anything. Daydreaming about my favorite steaming cup of Americano manhood and standing there gaping at her like no one’s home is not the move. Wake up, sweetie. He should be here by now. It’s not like him to run late. He’s so precise and attentive like that.
The plan is that we’re going to fall in love, him first of course, and the first step is that I am supposed to talk to him today, you know, about non-coffee-order stuff. Usually when he comes in, I competently take his order and write his name on his cup without hearts surrounding and without my number because I bet he likes a chase and make a super yummy drink for him but I do try to channel heart-eyes when I pass that full, warm cup back to him. I like to watch him take his credit card out of his wallet, his strong, callused fingers searching and pulling for that right card. One day, he came in wearing a henley – a thick, waffle-knit henley – I noticed, obviously, but I was able to keep it together. Henleys should be a controlled substance and it’s the best because the men don’t even know the effect they have, they just wear them all willy-nilly like it’s a functional garment. What are those buttons really doing for you, sir? My Americano prince held the front door open for an older woman, which was so sweet because she’s not competition. He’s more than just eye candy, he’s a good person. But then. While I was taking his order, I kid you not, he and his gorgeous hands freaking pushed the sleeves of his henley up, slowly inviting the world to ogle his tan forearms, all veins and light hair, which I had seen in the aforementioned t-shirt but not a slow-motion reveal from the sleeve of a henley which is obviously very different. I could just picture what would happen if…
My goodness, I don’t even know what this man in front of me just ordered. I can tell from his tone that he has repeated himself and is a just a hint of annoyed and is showing grace, which is of course better than if he felt bad for me doing this job. I hate that. I like making coffee for people. I think I need a coffee at this point. I am basically asleep right now. All I know is, my favorite Americano is late and maybe that’s a good thing because I’m in no shape to be alluring. This man’s order went to my subconscious or muscle memory or something because I’m going through the motions and the coffee is being made but my brain is not registering.
Let the automation continue, I have more important things to consider. Where is my sweet, sweet Americano crush? He’s definitely late now. What will I talk with him about? I need to have a plan but also be loose enough to banter back depending on what he adds to our repartee. Maybe I ask if he listens to Riley Green, he’s a man’s man of a country star, it’s plausible, and then I ask if he wants to recreate his recent music video because they didn’t do a great job on casting, and he and I would take the smolder factor up significantly and they wouldn’t have had to rely so heavily on Riley Green’s back muscles to carry the performance, though they did.
Wait, muscles. That man customer. I recognize those muscles. I hand him the cup of coffee I just made, and it all starts to click. Americano, black. His name on the cup. It’s him, but it’s not him. What’s off? Why didn’t I see him? I stare at this man’s mushy white face, no poker face to my open, active puzzling.
Oh, no.
He shaved the mustache.
Ick.
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New favorite plot twist XD