I cooled my burning face before passing the order to Mom.
"…Mix sandwich, toasted. Coffee too."
"Coward," she muttered.
"Huh? What?" I snapped.
Dissed out of nowhere. Then—
"Didn't know you had pickup skills," she smirked.
"…Wasn't picking up," I shot back.
"You two sounded chummy."
"I yelled 'welcome'—you didn't hear?"
"Not having fun's no excuse… Wait, huh?" she faltered.
I wasn't chipper. I don't hate him—him popping by to see me? Not bad. Never told him not to come. Part of me hoped he might, and yeah, I'm kinda glad he did. But in front of Mom? He'll pull something, and I'm jittery. Gotta ditch him fast.
"No guy immunity makes you this timid? This chance won't come twice—grab his number! He's into you!" Mom ranted.
She's nuts—hitting on a customer as staff? That'd tank the shop's rep!
"Don't think chances double-dip! Listen, or you'll regret it!" Her dead-serious glare bore into me.
"…What do I do?" I mumbled, instantly regretting it.
"Spill coffee, offer cleaning cash, say you'll apologize later—snag his address or number!"
"That's insane! It won't work—he'd just get mad!" I protested.
He'd freak! Normal guys don't spill their address like that—could sue me for less! But Mom pointed at me, smug as hell.
"What?" I blinked.
"That's how I got you," she grinned.
…Huh? … What!?
"…Seriously? Dad got jumped?"
"Don't twist it! Started rough, ended in love—chill!" she laughed.
Started rough—ended in surrender? Wild story. Dad still visited until recently—didn't hate her, I think. He's been gone lately; guy stuff, whatever. I resented him bailing once, got bitter, but I'm older now—kinda get it. Too late to ditch the dye or soften my tongue—sticking it out 'til graduation.
Mom, still fired up, smacked my butt. "Love underdogs like us can't picky-pick—this world's harsh!"
"Am I… getting lectured?" I groaned.
I didn't do shit! And her genes cursed me with this chest—she's still preaching, boobs bouncing, defying gravity at nearly forty. She looks ageless—mid-twenties, maybe. Hope I inherited that—I wanna stay hot too.
"Here—sandwich, coffee, your latte. Can't spill? Ask to chat and sit with him!" she shoved the tray at me.
"…Won't that scare him off?"
"He might not return anyway—strike first! Big-chested gals like us can't play coy with prey in sight!"
Butt-smacked and steamrolled, I took the tray, nodding grudgingly.
Now what? Tell Miyagi to play stranger? Or spill and boot him? Pretending's a hassle—Mom'll nag for his contact later. Kicking him out's rude with an hour left—he's a paying guest. Screw it—whatever. I'll sip latte, ogle his perfect face, and roll with it.
"Here ya go," I said, setting his sandwich and coffee down.
"Thanks," he replied.
"Mind if I crash?" I asked, plopping my latte across from him before he answered.
"Huh?" he blinked.