Yes, she does.
How about the goateed guy who’s FaceTiming his roommate to discuss whether the guy on the other side of the screen Venmoed enough money to cover his portion of the extra-cheap ramen noodles they made last night? Meanwhile, goateed guy is sipping the granddaddy of expensive coffee shop concoctions—a grande latte made with espresso beans harvested by rare raccoons or something like that.
The number of things wrong with this tableau is too many to list.
Over there at a nearby table is a tattooed guy headbanging to Metallica rather than Sara Bareilles.
I’m not a big fan of either, but only one of those artists is supposed to be audible—the Sara Bareilles tunes Doctor Insomnia’s coffee shop is piping through its sound system, rather than the metal screaming from the guy’s headphones.
Noise-canceling for him maybe.
Not for the rest of us.
The Doctor Insomnia’s owner ambles from behind the counter to ask the Metallica fan to turn it down.
I mouth thank you to Tommy, who gives me a don’t mention it nod.
I return to my computer screen and the design Reid and I have been immersed in for the last two hours, fine-tuning the leaves on a book cover. He’s bent over his laptop too, AirPods in. I wish I could work with music in my ears. Never been able to.
A few minutes later, the gabby redhead finishes a mind-numbing conversation about the merits of SoulCycle when you’re back on the dating market. Her eyes swing to the restrooms, then she scans the shop.
Yup, I know what’s coming.
The call-in-a-favor-from-a-stranger.
And after the morning I’ve had, I am not in the mood.
I rap on the table to get my business partner’s attention. He removes an AirPod as I issue my prediction. “Count of ten. She’s going to ask us to watch her laptop while she goes to the restroom.”
He groans under his breath. “Don’t do it, Lucas. Don’t say it.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes you sound like a dick,” he mutters.
“Maybe I am one.”
“You’re just in a right pissy mood because of your brother.”
He’s right. He’s always right on this count, but I can’t think about Rowan this second. “Be that as it may, if we had a dime for every time someone turned around and asked us to babysit a laptop . . .”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’d have enough for a couple of Metro trips, mate.”
“The Metro isn’t free. I’d take a MetroCard on the house.”
“Yeah? How’s that working out for you? Anyone paying you for the number of times a stranger’s asked you to keep an eye on a piece of electronics in a café?”
“No, but asking a stranger to watch your laptop is an evolutionary litmus test. It’s Darwin’s way of culling men and women from the herd.”
“You’re a piece of work. Also, for the record, I can’t decide if I wish our new office space were ready so we could work there, or if watching you lose your mind at coffee shops every day is tops as the best spectator sport ever,” he says, while the woman in the corner rises, surveying the landscape of patrons once more.
And I count down.
Ten, nine, eight.
The headbanger’s eyes are closed, so the redhead aims her crosshairs at the goateed guy first.
Seven, six, five.
Then an older woman with her hands full of three toddlers.
Four, three, two.
Then at us.
Two guys in dress shirts and nice jeans, with expensive computers.
One. Target acquired.
Squaring her shoulders, she makes her move, crossing the few feet to our nearby table.
“Hey there,” she says, then hooks her thumb in the direction of the restroom. “You look like nice guys, so I’m hoping you can just watch my laptop for, like, a sliver of a sec while I run to the big girls’ room. I drank too much chai tea.”
“The hazards of coffee shops,” I deadpan, right as Reid cuts in, saying, “Absolutely.”
She blinks, not sure who’s answering her or who to talk to.
“So you’ll do it?” she asks, her expression bordering on desperate.
“Happy to,” Reid says.
“Nope,” I say in unison.
“You’re British,” she says to him in a flirty tone, her lips quirking up as my friend answers her.
“I am? First I’m learning of this.” He flashes her a smile, turning on the charm.
“I love British accents,” she says, grinning right back at him.
“What do you know? I come fully equipped with one.”
“What else do you come fully equipped with?” she purrs.
If Reid were truly flirting, I’d feel like an asshole for doing this. But I know this guy—he’s not on the market.
“Question though,” I say to the woman, who’s demonstrated all the facets of coffee shop douchery while we’ve worked here on our project the last week. “How do you know we won’t steal your laptop during that ‘sliver of a sec’? What makes you think we’re nice guys? Is it his accent? Or my smile?” I give her my best I’m a dick grin.
“Now, now, Lucas. That’s not true. Only one of us is a nice guy,” Reid says to the woman, as he pats his chest and mouths, I am.
“In that case . . .” She stammers, then lunges several feet to her table, grabs her laptop, and clutches it to her chest. “I’ll just take it with me.”
“Good plan,” I say, nodding my approval.
“Asshole,” she mutters as she rushes to the restroom.
I turn back to the screen, but Reid is staring at me, jaw agape.
“Seriously? She was flirting with me. That was my chance. My golden chance. Fully equipped. I am indeed fully equipped, and I’m happy to show her how the equipment fully works. Not to mention she’s the first pretty woman to ask us to babysit a computer in the last week.”
“But how does she know I’m not a hacker? A thief? Head of a black-market ring of stolen laptops and the credit cards auto-filled on them? I’m doing the world a service by saying no to those requests, even if it makes me look like a dick.” I tap my temple. “I’m making her think next time she asks someone she doesn’t know to watch an expensive machine.” I smile proudly. “I’m rather helpful, you see.”
He huffs. “Oh, right. You’re a brand-new vigilante do-gooder. Captain No. Saving the world by refusing to let people be stupid.”
“Captain No. I like the sound of that.”
He rolls his eyes. “Because that’s precisely what the world needs. We’ve been sorely lacking in Stupidity Police.”
I preen. “Thank you. I should note that my efforts served a double purpose. Not only did I save a stranger from her own poor judgment, I saved you from a poor dating choice.”
Offended, Reid straightens his spine. “I can make my own poor dating choices, thank you very much.”
“Not if I can help it. One, you don’t need to babysit a hot babe’s laptop to get laid. Two, you’re not interested, man.”
“Who says I’m not interested?”
I roll my eyes. “You act like you’re interested in dating, but all you do is window-shop. You’re still hung up on that girl you met three years ago in Paris.”