I broke my heart once, and I don’t like breaking it again.
I drive my car to the coffee shop where my next visit is. I’m already late. I am surprised to see the parking lot that I almost don’t have a space to park my car.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee, cinnamon, vanilla, and sugar wafting in the entire place as I enter. The tables are almost full, and the waitstaff is busy. Nobody notices me yet, which is good!
I walk to the aisle only to be surprised to the woman in a black apron—her hair tied in a neat bun, makeup-free face, and a hint of lip gloss on her healing lips. Jane Doe is wearing a light pink shirt, skinny jeans, and flats.
The woman that I thought about frequently has a tray on her hand with a cup of coffee and a pastry.
Fuck!
She’s working in my coffee shop and does
