Chapter 1
The first time he saw her, it was through a foggy window across the street from the Golden Archer Cafe – his shop. Even despite the rainy mist of a gross October morning, her red hair was striking, a beacon of scarlet curls scooped into a tidy ponytail. He almost burned the hell out of his hand with the milk steamer when he watched her take off in a dead run and launch into a triple cartwheel–front flip combination, which she stuck perfectly, arms held aloft and one leg slightly forward in perfect form. 10 out of 10.
He didn’t know much about performance acrobatics, and even less why a clearly skilled gymnast would be practicing in the dance studio across from a cafe and an organic vegan grocer – not his shop – but he knew immediately that he wanted, no, needed to meet her.
It would figure that today, of all rotten days, his hearing aid would short-circuit.
He was a modestly tech-savvy person – you didn’t get to be head barista of a hipster cafe based on charm alone, or an ex-agent for a private multinational security organization, for that matter. Still, knowledge of weaponry and espresso machines aside, he couldn’t for the life of him figure out how to fix the damn hearing aid.
At least he didn’t have to listen to the generic chill wave Spotify playlist or chatter of the peppy teenagers clustered around the nearby table, far too close to his bar.
It was difficult taking orders like this, but nothing an explanatory “Hi, I’m Deaf” name tag and dry erase board couldn’t solve. Most of the customers were only too happy to accommodate – the woman who rolled her eyes and stormed out with her wide-eyed kid in tow was an unfortunate exception – and the day had so far been a pleasant one.
Until the red-haired gymnast went for her coffee break.
He’d been watching her for a few hours and so didn’t miss her donning a black coat and locking up the studio. For a brief, panicky moment he considered running out onto the street like an idiot and trying to mime his way into grabbing her number, but then she headed right to the cafe.
The door opened, the bell rang (probably), and there she was: shaking droplets of rain from her perfectly fitted coat and messy ponytail and stepping up to the counter. He was captivated by her mouth and very nearly missed the fact that she was speaking. “Let me stop you there,” he said, pointing with an apologetic smile to his name tag.
Confusion flashed over her face as she struggled to process (it was a cute face, all pink cheeks and full lips and blonde, curling eyelashes), and then realization transformed her question to a dimpled smile. She raised her own hands and he started to pass over the dry-erase board, but then–
Do you speak ASL? she signed quite confidently.
Too stunned to do anything at first, he nodded.
Her smile widened to reveal perfect white teeth and laugh lines that crinkled around her eyes.
Awesome, so do I.
Sorry, he signed back, reclaiming what was left of his dignity after a full 5 seconds of gaping. My hearing aid is busted and I’m fully deaf without it.
She looked at the device when he pointed to it, leaning over the counter just enough that the collar of her coat shifted to reveal a red tank-top underneath and just the hint of cleavage.
I could fix it, if you like. He blinked.
The words left his mouth before his logic could catch up with his surprise.
“Aren’t you a dancer?”
Her own smile shifted to something wary.
“Sorry,” he said for the third time in this rapidly spiraling-into-awkwardness conversation.
I noticed you across the street; I hadn’t seen you in the studio before.
The slightest relief relaxed the tension in her face and shoulders. He wondered if all dancers had such military-straight posture.
I’m good at a lot of things, she signed by way of vague explanation.
Dancing and electronics included?
A nod, a lopsided grin.
Well, if you fix things as beautifully as you land front flips, then I’m in good hands.
This time he knew the risk, and he took it. That cagey suspicion fought with an adorable blush that crept from her ears to the tip of her nose.
How about you fix my drink, and I fix your hearing aid?
“Deal,” he agreed, offering a hand to shake on it. She accepted without hesitation and with a surprisingly strong grip – close-cropped nails and simple clear polish – punctuated by a faint white scar along the backs of her knuckles, as if she’d been struck hard by something with a sharp edge.
She scribbled her order on the white board – triple espresso, light foam, one sugar – and immediately set about dismantling the hearing aid. He watched her work with mixed trepidation and curiosity – it wasn’t cheap, after all – marveling over the fact that she apparently kept a kit of miniature tools in her coat pocket.
By the time the drink was ready, so was she. They exchanged cup for device and she stood beside the bar, blowing gently on the steamy drink as he tested the repair.
A poppy song and wave of coffee house chatter rushed over him and he winced, momentarily grieving the loss of auditory peace.
“You okay?” Her voice, raspy and feminine, cut through the noise like a life-line.
“Now I am,” he said. His own voice sounded alien, as it always did when he’d just turned on his hearing aid.
“If you don’t mind my asking...” He didn’t mind, not really. But he raised a brow and offered a non-committal “hmm?”
She bit her lip but pressed forward, her own curiosity winning out over whatever politeness was dictating in her mind.
“Were you born this way? Or did something happen? It’s okay if you don’t want to say.”
He shook his head, feigning nonchalance while trying to understand exactly what she wanted from him, now that their exchange had been made. Were they caught in ‘compulsory small talk after services were rendered territory’, or something more?
“I was on the bad end of a very big explosion a few years back. Eardrums ruptured and never properly recovered.”
“Noise-Induced Hearing Loss,” she nodded in apparent recognition. “That must have been some blast.”
Oh yes, to put it mildly. His left hip and the permanently numb portion of his spine where a metal rod had been installed weren’t so happy about it either.
“It wasn’t so bad, once you got past the broken back and bleeding out of the ears. Recovery was the real bastard.”
She took a thoughtful sip from her cup. “Were you special ops?”
He laughed, half in awe of her blind intuition and half in nervous disbelief. Who was this girl?
“Were you?” he countered.
She shrugged, that same sideways smile pursing her mouth. The coy tilt of her head and the way she looked up at him through the fringe of strawberry blonde lashes were almost certainly on purpose – he was finding it hard to care.
“I get around.” Her answer was (or should have been) as alarming as it was unsatisfying. The follow up Cheshire grin even more so.
“Who are you?” He lowered his voice, studying her face carefully, searching for a hint of deceit, a tell to indicate her thoughts.
“Natalie,” she answered, seeming unphased but also holding eye contact a little too well, “I teach martial arts at the Red Room Dojo downtown.”
“What brings you to hipster paradise?”
She scoffed in mock offense.
“What, I’m not hipster enough for you?”
He took the excuse to size her up, from the tips of her expensive sneakers to the wisps of red hair escaping her ponytail.
“Is that a trick question?”
She threw back her head in a full-bodied laugh, the column of her pale throat luminous in the dim light.
“My sister owns the dance studio. She’s out of town for the week and asked me to check in every day–get the mail and make sure nothing is stolen. I figured I’d get some practice in while not surrounded by a hoard of kids in yellow belts butchering their katas. Didn’t expect to meet a handsome barista, though.”
It was just simple and domestic enough to be believable. But 15 years of professional paranoia has a way of bleeding over into retirement.
“I’m Clint,” he said. “Thanks, for fixing my hearing aid, by the way–I should learn how to repair that thing someday.”
Natalie sipped at her coffee and winked over the rim. “I’d be happy to show you. But for now, I need to get back to the Red Room. See you around, Clint.”
He watched her walk out of the shop (the bell was indeed working) and return to the studio. He sped through a couple orders, flashing a smile at the chattering girls who’d finally decided to buy drinks, and cursing them as they filtered–as a single entity–through the door, obscuring his view. By the time they were gone, so was Natalie.
He spent the rest of the day utterly distracted, eventually removing his hearing aid and reverting back to the small-talk-free, albeit more complicated, order taking process, just so he could filter out the obnoxious ambience and pointless comments to focus on his own thoughts.
Who was she? What did she want? The conversation itself had been relatively harmless, aside from her questions, but he couldn’t shake the sense there was something else. Some unspoken intent, or quirk of character she was self-conscious about displaying.
There’d been a time or two where she’d withdrawn in a way that was all too familiar–it was the same response he had when anticipating an interrogation. And she’d guessed his background, or close enough to be more than coincidence.
He was still mulling it over as he shut down the bar and register, hauled the trash out to the compactor, set up stock for tomorrow’s opener, and tapped in the alarm code before locking up for the night.
As he walked home through the autumn mist, hands warm in his wool pockets and knit scarf around his face, his curiosity warred with the memory of that red hair, the dimpled smile, the sultry voice and–god help him–the acrobatics routine she’d performed in the studio.
It was difficult to get a clear view of her figure under the coat, but even through the foggy window, he’d recognized her strength and unwavering self-assuredness.
She was fit and feminine, good with electronics, maybe flirted with him, and was without a doubt, a very dangerous person.
“I’m screwed,” he concluded as he pushed open the door to his apartment and flipped on the lights. Someone was waiting for him in the living room.
