Author's Note: I appreciate any comments or constructive criticism on this piece, as it is one of my first Literotica posts. Duly note that this submission is copyrighted solely to me, LilyArc, and that any coincidences made in the story relating to people, places, or events are just that. Thank you for reading, LilyArc.
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The only logical thought in her head was that she shouldn't be staring at him like this.
A litany of reasons as to why bubbled up in response:
He was five years her junior.
He was still in high school.
You're behaving like a cougar.
The last excuse gave her pause and she lowered her eyes from the pale narrow face of her eye candy to the magazine in front of her.
Every morning for the past three months, Peyton Gray had come into the Side Street Brewery, a quaint little coffee shop just on the edge of the artsy district of Hamish, Maine; a sleepy fishing town tucked back into a guarded cove and well off the beaten path.
Peyton could go on and on in description of the colorful beachside houses clashing with the modern seaside fishing cottages along the harbor front, or the abrupt overgrowth of temperate forest that shot to the heavens along rocky and mountainous terrain. She could describe every shop in the town if she had been in a better mood, but ever since her return from California three months ago, her emotions had taken a turn for the worst.
And it was all because of her coffee shop eye candy.
Three months ago, while tucking away into a novel with a glass of Napa Valley wine, Peyton had gotten the urgent phone call from her mother to return home. Her childhood friend and lifetime muse had been killed in a boating accident.
Without a thought she had packed up a suitcase and caught the first flight out of Los Angeles, fighting the urge to dissolve into tears the entire route. Aiden Hart had been a good person, naïve and sweet and unwilling to cause anyone harm. As children she had harbored him like the rocky cliffs of her hometown, weathering the storm as she guarded his childlike nature from corruption and ill will.
She had been the one to help him "come out" to his family at the age of fifteen, and gave him solace when he felt like no one could understand him, which was normal at that age to feel. It wasn't too long after, at seventeen, that Aiden met his lifetime partner of William Morris Hunt and their life together had turned out grandly. The couple had stayed in Hamish after returning from the university, raising stray pups and the occasional coon, and ran their small comic book store and William's bar on the weekends.
To think that peaceful, easy life had been ripped apart one stormy night at the docks absolutely floored Peyton. Aiden, ever the curious type, had taken to boating and quite often went out of the harbor into the wide open sea to catch dinner. It was his way of reciprocating for William's manliness, no doubt, and he had become quite the seaman. But all the talent at the helm hadn't prevented him from navigating, and ultimately drowning, in one of the worst storms to hit the Maine coastline in almost half a century. William, a stout fisherman type, had been all but destroyed at the news.
Needless to say, after the funeral, William had sold the bar and comic book shop, packed his things, and transported his furry friends and his alcoholic bum to sunny Key West, Florida, with no intention of returning.
But Peyton had stayed behind, lingering at the place of her childhood for reasons she couldn't understand. Her folks had long since moved, coming back to Maine only when it suited them. That's where Peyton stayed now, at her parents' rusty red cottage on the rugged cliff deemed the "Overlook", well within sights of Lighthouse Island and well away from the charming town she had so many memories of.
And one day, when she had been in an explorative mood and in need for coffee, Peyton had wound up here, at Side Street, where her unhealthy curiousity (she refused to call it "obsession") had begun.
That first visit to the shop she could distinctly remember him not working the espresso machine, in fact she was fairly certain that the boy hadn't been at work at all. If he had, she would've cut tail and run, making note to never go back, but it hadn't played out that way. No, her merry ass had skipped into the shop every day for a week, making herself a familiar face and adding new friends to her small list that seemed to be ever-growing the longer she stayed home.
The second week was when the eye candy had made his appearance, and immediately she found herself floored when ordering her coffee. If it hadn't been for dear Margaret, the elderly co-owner who also baked the breads and other treats for the shop, Peyton would've floundered at the register for an eternity grappling for a response to his "Good morning, what can I get you?" salutation.
Her eye candy, this boy five years her junior, was as reserved as they come. Peyton quickly grasped the notion that it was not out of shyness that he kept his mouth shut, but out of choice. Nothing in his careful, labored movements as he saddled up her coffee spoke of a twitchy teen boy. Nothing in those ice green eyes told her anything. The soft but firm way he spoke to her suggested in every sense that he was there to serve her coffee, not spirit away her good sense. He was polite and efficient, controlled and aloof.
It frightened the hell out of her.
But yet, every day, Peyton was back for more torture. She was careful about it, of course, arriving the same time every morning and leaving after an hour of looking through a magazine or reading a chapter of a new book she had picked up from a local book vendor. She did not go out of her way to greet him or illicit conversation; she did not longingly stare over her coffee cup at him though she was sorely tempted to.
No, Peyton was a good girl and was adamant about doing the right thing, which only placed her in the current funk she was in.
Which brought Peyton the present. She was currently breaking one of her own Golden Rules, her pulse picking up swiftly at the wrongness of it. Yes, she was staring, and yes, she was attracted to his entire package; it couldn't be helped.
