Like a Fox

Like A Fox

By J.M. Sevilla

Copyright 2015 J.M. Sevilla

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

Like a Fox

By J.M. Sevilla

For Mike and Nancy – eloped after two weeks of dating and thirty-six years later are still going strong. Thank you for being kickass in-laws, the best grandparents to my kiddles, and for raising the most incredible man I have ever met.

Chapter 1

I pull open the front door to my townhome, tugging my blazer tighter around me and wrapping a knitted scarf around my neck. Early morning fog from the nearby ocean mists my street, the town invisible behind its walls.

This is my favorite time of day, before anyone has risen and the streets are quiet and vacant; especially in winter, when it becomes thick with fog. Fog has a mysterious, almost magical feeling. It awakens me as I disappear into it, heading towards the café/bookstore my family owns: Brennan’s Novel Tea Café. Brennan is my mother’s last name; my father took it when they married, not fond of his own family and loving my mom’s.

I live in Sebastopol, a small town in Northern California, where the homes are old and charming and shops are owned by people who truly love what they are selling with a contagious passion. I’ve lived here all of my twenty-four years of life and loved every minute of it.

I stop at the bagel shop, the only place open at this hour besides a local coffee shop and my family’s café. I’m greeted by the owner, who hands off a few dozen fresh from the oven.

Another few blocks and I arrive at my destination. It’s two shops turned into one. My dad wanted a café, my mom a bookstore. A couple years in they knocked down the adjoining wall, hating that they worked so close but never got to see each other.

The bell on the door chimes as I enter. The bare windows that face the street have crystals hanging that catch the sun, making rainbows dance around the room on sunny days. All the tables and chairs are mismatched that either my father found at garage sales, on the side of the road, or were passed on to him. Instead of cheapening the place it adds charm; a homey feel like you’re in someone’s kitchen for a visit. Crocheted or knitted pot holders line the walls, anybody free to leave one behind, or anything really that they feel adds to the decorum.

Sal is the only customer, which is typical, although during tourist season we might have an extra body or two. Sal was the café’s first customer, and has been loyally coming back every day for thirty years. My dad refuses to open later because of that.

“Freya!” My dad greets with a large smile, setting down Sal’s plate of tofu scramble. He takes the boxes of bagels and places them on the bar before giving me a giant hug like he hasn’t seen me in forever, even though it’s only been since the end of my shift yesterday.

I hug him back, taking in his familiar smell of kitchen grease and pot.

My father is a stereotypical hippie. His graying shoulder-length hair is tied back in a low ponytail. Today he’s wearing a tie-dyed shirt, Birkenstocks, and MC Hammer style pants he found at the thrift store. He’s always laid back, never taking life too seriously and laughing every chance he can. This café is the only place he shows his other side, the one that can turn all business and become hard and demanding if an order is delayed and we won’t have fresh eggs for the day.

Sammy, our morning fry cook, greets me from the kitchen that views the café, “What’s cookin’ good lookin’?”

He says that every morning, then laughs his deep-throated smoker’s laugh that reminds me of old jazz clubs. Sammy looks like a cross between blues artists Buddy Guy and Muddy Waters. I tell him this often, just to see how happy it makes him; they are some of his idols.

“Coffee?” I ask with a grin, even though I already know the answer. This is our morning routine and we never veer from it.

“You know it,” Sammy smiles his flirty smile, following it with a wink.

I dump out the sludge my dad has the nerve to call coffee and make a fresh pot. While I wait for it steep, I place fresh bagels in the covered glass container on the counter and put the rest away in the back.

I bring Sal a fresh cup, taking away the one my father had brought him. Sal only smiles, not perking up until he’s had at least two cups of coffee.

I bring over Sammy’s mug, who in return hands over a plate of poached egg on toast that he makes me every morning. I eat it in the kitchen, chatting with him.

“Rudy found me a new record,” he happily tells me. Rudy owns the music store three buildings over. He sells used instruments and records. Sammy takes a sip of the coffee, letting out a content sigh with closed eyes. “Won’t tell me who it is.”

“Must be a good one,” I say around my toast. Rudy always keeps it a surprise if he knows Sammy will like it.

“I’m hoping its Robert Johnson. Still haven’t found one of his yet.”

Sammy had lost all his possessions in a fire twenty years ago, including his most prized records from his childhood. His wife died five years later from cancer. Sammy now devotes his life to finding every last record he had once owned, not able to handle the grief of losing the love of his life. He always says, “Music sings to my soul and saves me.” We’ve all added to his collection.

I finish off my plate and clean it, knowing the morning crowd will be arriving soon.

And it does. The next few hours fly by.

As the rush dies down, the butterflies in my stomach amp up. I don’t have to look at the clock to know it’s close to nine. That’s when
he
comes. The man I have been secretly lusting after for the past three weeks. He shows up at the same time every morning, seven days a week.

My heart stops when he enters and I pretend to wipe down the counter, peering at him through my lashes. He’s all muscles and hard edges, with a crooked nose that has obviously been broken a few times. It pairs nicely with his upper lip, which has a small scar that extends towards his cheek. Not in a scary way, more like a dog had bitten him as a child or something. There isn’t a soft thing about him; not even his eyes, which are a dark brown that match his perfectly groomed hair. His hands are big, the kind that could crush a can in his palm and make it seem like anybody could do it. He’s always dressed in the type of denim jeans that make your stomach clench because they fit so scrumptiously, a button-up that he layers under a sweater vest, and a peacoat with a popped collar.

He strolls through the café to the far back, a newspaper tucked under his arm that he pulls out and places on the table as he slides off his coat, draping it over the same seat he always takes: the one in the far back corner that allows you to see through the entire café and gives you a nice view out the long window. He never talks except to place his order. When he speaks, a slight Eastern European accent comes out. One day I had asked him about it, except I didn’t want to offend him by mistaking his accent so I kept it general since I couldn’t quite place it.

“So, is that European?” I had asked. Smooth, I know.

“Yes,” he replied, never glancing up from his paper.

I didn’t push him to say where. Some people don’t come for conversation, and I respect that.

Today I get as close as I can without touching him, loving to feel the sparks that travel through me when he’s near. “Morning. The usual?”

“Yes,” he answers to his paper.

When it’s ready I bring his plate over. He never acknowledges me when I place down his food.

“More coffee?” I ask with a smile when I notice he needs a top-up.

I get my usual response of a quick glance up, fingers sliding the mug towards me, mumbling a, “thanks,” and going back to his newspaper.

Routine. That’s what everyone seems to want in the morning, and I don’t mind one bit. There’s comfort in routine. They know what to expect, I know what to expect. We can all live out our mornings in peace.

I make my rounds to the other tables, chatting with those who like to talk, flirting with the old men who mean no harm but love the chance to flirt with a twenty-four-year-old. I give them a wink at the end and it makes their day.

The bell dings at the door, crisp winter air following behind my older sister of two years as she rushes in.

I don’t bother pointing out that she’s twenty minutes late; her being on time would be a miracle.

Maya bumps my hip with hers, tying her apron around her waist. She handmade the apron out of an old thrift store skirt by taking the back out and sewing pockets on the front. Stripping down clothes from second hand stores and turning them into something different is my sister’s thing, her passion. So are sex and coffee; it all depends on her mood. Right now I know what comes first.

I pour her a freshly brewed cup of coffee.

Maya inhales the aroma, eyes closing in bliss as she takes a sip, “Mm.”

Everything she does comes across as sensual foreplay without her even trying. When she actually tries, any man within range becomes infatuated with her.

She tugs on the end of my ponytail, “Thanks.”

Maya puts her mug down to pull her hair up on top of her head. Her sun-kissed brown hair that matches my own is now a heap on the top of her head. On her it has a disheveled sexiness to it. My sister can’t help it; everything about her speaks sex, from the way her hips sway, to the heart shaped plumpness of her mouth.

She gets to work restocking the pastries while I bring out food that’s ready. On my way back a familiar song plays from the speakers.

I pound on the wall that stands between me and the kitchen, “Turn it up! That’s my song!”

Sammy puts it to a volume that won’t bother the customers, but loud enough you can feel it through your veins. My hips move to the bluesy beat, eyes briefly closing from the singer’s seductive voice.

My sister comes from the back with napkins, twirling around, hips moving just like mine.

We grew up on blues thanks to Sammy. At eight and ten we were singing with the men as though we could understand what they sang so deeply about. We still don’t exactly get it all, but we
feel
it, and sometimes that’s all that matters with music.

Tight-buns (Maya and mine’s nickname for my secret crush) leaves money and a generous tip on the table before I have brought over the bill. It’s the same every morning.

“See you tomorrow!” My sister shouts at him as the door closes behind him.

He never responds. It always makes Maya laugh.

“So,” she begins, and I know that twinkle in her eye, “you coming out with us tonight?”

“I don’t know…”

“Ray won’t be going,” she adds, pouring another cup of coffee for herself.

I perk up from my hunched over position on the counter, “Really?”

“Yup, he’s watching his niece so his brother can spend some time with his wife.”

“Okay,” I agree with an extra-large smile, knowing I just made my sister’s day.

She does a little shimmy to show her excitement, giving me a wink and an ass-slap as she goes to greet the couple who just sat down.

Ray is my ex. Our story is rather generic: boy and girl have same group of friends, boy likes girl, asks girl out, girl accepts because he’s always been so sweet, girl realizes she doesn’t feel the sparks she craves, girl dumps boy, boy is heartbroken and gives her sad, puppy dog eyes whenever they are around each other. I hate those eyes. They make me feel like a lousy person, but we never had that spark, that chemistry I’m searching for. It’s been over a year and he still has hopes we’ll get back together. What makes it worse is he’s such a great guy, and I really wanted to like him. So much so I let it go on for almost six months hoping it just needed time to build. Anyway, enough about my boring relationships. They’ve never been interesting or really worth talking about. You want hot and steamy? You need to go find the other Brennan sister.

My mom calls me over from the bookstore end, excited to show me the new releases that just arrived. We ooh and ahh over the covers and descriptions.

The bookstore end of our family business looks exactly how you would expect a bookstore to look: wooden aisles shelving thousands of books, all placed in categories alphabetically.

My mom and I are similar in personality, as opposed to Maya who can relate more to our dad. We’re both quieter, more reserved. We both have never touched drugs. I didn’t even drink until I turned twenty-one. I’m the type of person that gets anxiety when a cop is driving behind me even though I’m doing nothing wrong. I also share my mother’s brown eyes that are pretty ordinary. Maya got dad’s beautiful blue ones.

My mom’s the understated beauty, the kind you don’t notice right away but then bam, it hits you and you wonder how you never noticed it before. That’s my favorite kind of beauty, because that means their personality shined through and made them glow.

I help her remake the main display that you can see from the café. This week we’re featuring indie books from all genres, hoping a new angle will sell more books. The only reason the bookstore has survived is because it’s connected to the café. We all know it would be better business to pack it up and allow for a bigger kitchen and more seating, but no one has the heart to take it away from her. She is still disillusioned that e-books are only a fad and people will go back to paperback. I have to hide my Kindle whenever she comes over to my place like it’s porn and I should be ashamed for my mother to find out I enjoy such filth.

I hold up a copy of a romance novel, lifting an eyebrow. And by romance novel I mean a couple naked on a bed, the book cover cutting off the naughty bits.

My mom blushes, placing it with the authors on display.