I open the door to the coffee shop, and the smell of roasted coffee beans hits my senses. I’ve already had two cups of coffee today because I woke up at 4:30 AM and couldn’t go back to sleep after my dream about Ev—Miss Jones.
No one likes that guy who shows up to a coffee meeting and then says he already had his coffee that day, so I fall into line behind a man in a nicely tailored suit and wonder if I should have dressed up too. Maybe it would have aided my efforts of being professional with Evie—DANG IT—Miss Jones!
I’m looking down at my jeans and gray Henley tee when I feel a warm hand on my forearm. I turn around, and my eyes collide with a woodland forest. And just like that, I’m dead. She brought a freaking ladder. It’s all over for me.
“Mr. Broaden, good morning.” Miss Jones is all business too. This is good. I’m definitely not wondering if her lips would feel as warm and soft as they did in my dream.
“Miss Jones, thanks for meeting me. Can I get you a coffee?” I notice that she has the same binder from yesterday tucked under her arm. The dog is here again too. I wonder if she’s brought him to give me a demonstration of his skills.
Something different, my eyes note without my approval, is that she’s wearing a pair of tight jeans with a rip on the thigh.
It’s fine. I’m fine. Moving on.
“I was actually going to ask you the same thing.” I frown at her, and so she adds, “I buy all of my potential recipients a coffee during these meetings.”
“But do all your potential recipients insult you at your first meetings?”
She smiles and tucks her blonde hair behind her ear. “Oh, yes. You’d be surprised the number of times I’ve been likened to a man.”
I cringe, thinking back to that comment. The reminder that I was horrible to this woman hits me in the chest. “Right. In that case, can I get you a muffin as well?” I aim a smile at her, and then when I realize it probably looks flirtatious, I wipe it away.
“Chocolate chip, please.”
Honestly, I’m a little struck that she agreed to the muffin so easily. Usually, women would never admit to wanting a pastry full of calories and sugar. I expected her to reject it or suggest a veggie omelet bite instead. I like this better, though.
Once we both have our coffees and pastries in hand, we make our way to a table by the window. We sit down, and I note that her dog, Charlie, lays down at her feet without her even having to ask him.
I honestly had no idea dogs could be that well behaved. He’s huge. If he wanted to, he could be knocking over tables and swiping all the muffins off of the barista’s counter, but instead, he’s nearly invisible. It’s impressive the way he tucked himself at her feet, half-in/half-out of the table. I wonder if Miss Jones was the one to train him.
She must see me staring at him, because she smiles and looks down at him. “This is Charlie. He’s four years old and a major bed hog.”
I’m choosing to pass right over the thought of Miss Jones in a bed.
“Is he a potential dog you would match with my daughter?”
“Only if the good Lord calls me home today.” Her comment is so shocking that my eyebrows shoot up. She laughs and picks at her muffin, taking one small bite—a chocolate-chip-only bite. “Charlie belongs to me, not the company. He’s been my personal seizure-assist dog for the last three years.” Did she say seizure-assist dog? Charlie is her service dog? She sees the shock on my face and continues, “That’s partly why I was determined to speak with you yesterday. I know exactly what it’s like to be in your daughter’s shoes.”
Oh, well, great. Now I’m sure I could win an award for being so rude to her yesterday. Any day now, I’ll be receiving a pin that I’ll be forced to wear on my shirt that says, I’m the biggest jerk in the world! Ask me how I accomplished it!
“I had no idea,” I say, still trying to absorb the information.
She laughs, and the sound trickles down my back. “Of course you didn’t. How could you have when you wouldn’t let me say more than three words at a time yesterday?” Her smile turns mischievous, and my stomach tightens.
I like that she’s not letting me off the hook easily. “Yeah. About that. I’m really sorry for the way I treated you. It really wasn’t like me, and you kind of caught me on a bad day.”
“Said every jerk since the beginning of time,” she says with a smirk as she pinches off another chocolate chip.
“You’re going to make me grovel, aren’t you?” I think I might be flirting again, but honestly, it’s not my fault. She’s giving me these eyes that say she’s taken off her suit jacket and rolled up her sleeves. Business is forgotten.
“Possibly. I’m hoping I can squeeze at least one more muffin out of it.”
I contemplate buying her the whole display case. There’s not one part of me that likes where my head is at. Miss Jones is capturing my attention like no woman has before. It doesn’t feel safe. This must be how a bug feels right before it gets zapped.
I clear my throat after a sip of coffee burns my mouth and nod toward her binder. “I feel like I should be honest with you. I’m not completely sold on the idea of a service dog for Sam yet.”
“Okay.” She draws out the word like she can sense there’s more and doesn’t know how to respond yet.
“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up on my purchasing a dog since there’s only a small chance that I will. Today, I’m just hoping to get more information.”
She’s smiling at me curiously. “Mr. Broaden, this is twice now that you’ve made a comment implying that I am desperate for you to buy one of my dogs. Why is that?”
I tell myself to not say what I’m thinking, but it doesn’t work. “Well, to be honest, I’ve seen the average price of one of your dogs. They cost a fortune. I can only imagine that the commission is enough incentive for you to pressure me into buying one.” Wow. I had no idea I could be any more rude to this woman than I already have been. Turns out, I had more left in the tank than I suspected.
Miss Jones breaks out in a mirthless laugh. She’s looking at me like I just ate cat food, thinking it was caviar. She pulls her feet up in her seat and sits cross-legged, and leans forward, resting her elbows on the table like she’s about to tell me a juicy secret.
“Jacob, may I call you Jacob?” I consider telling her to call me Jake but decide against it. “To continue your metaphor, these dogs are not used cars I’m trying to move off of a lot. They are highly trained animals that enhance the quality of—and often save—the lives of those living with disabilities. They do cost a lot of money to purchase, but that’s only because it costs an enormous amount to care for a service dog. Not only do we have to pay a breeder, but the extra health tests that a service dog has to undergo are not cheap.”
I open my mouth to say something—anything—but she’s apparently revoked my talking privileges, because she plows on. “And then there is food, grooming, training equipment, and the teeny-tiny salary that my colleague and I make in order to eat. And if you still don’t believe me that I’m not making commissions off of our dogs, I will be happy to show you my checking account, and you’ll be impressed to see that the total is exactly the same as my age.”