Page 66 of Naked Coffee Guy

I looked up from my guitar to regard the handyman in the kitchen. He’s sipping the soda I just gave him, and I have been trying my hardest to keep my eyes from wandering over the tight fit of his jeans against his groin.

Damn dry spell. This was not a good mix when the maintenance guy was this hot. Focus, Maren.

“Something like that,” I muttered, then went back to my strumming. I’d been working on a song for a few weeks, and the lyrics weren’t coming to me. And the fact that this guy, Mitchel or Malcolm or whatever, was still here, distracting me from my mission was irritating the hell out of me. I had my first gig in a week at an outdoor bar and restaurant called Hillside, and I still needed to come up with a few more songs to make a full set list so that it didn’t sound like a bad karaoke show of covers. I didn’t have time for maintenance issues, even if I was anxious for him to fix that damn egg smell coming out of my faucet.

“What do you mean, what do you mean, what do mean…” I sang quietly from the couch, feeling shy because I hadn’t really played for anyone else before, but had no choice if I wanted to be ready for the show.

“You’re good,” he said, and I looked up to see him right behind me.

The compliment hit me just right, soothing my inner critic that had been in rare form all morning.

“Thanks,” I said. A strand of hair fell in my face as I ducked my head, and I tucked it behind my ear before going back to my strumming. The guy moved around my apartment as I continued to play with lyrics. He kept shining a flashlight in different areas, his smooth-shaven face furrowed in concentration.

“Hey, these dark spots up here need a professional to look at them,” he said.

“Isn’t that what you are?” I asked, then grinned at him with angelic eyes.

“Hardy-Har-Har. I’m going to mention it to the manager, but you need to fill out a request, and then keep on your landlord until he brings a specialist out. Promise me you will.”

I nodded, already forgetting what he said. “You make me want to believe,” I sang under my breath. “But your…” I hummed a few bars, ignoring him as I finally settled on a melody I liked, even as I struggled with the lyrics.

“Your mouth tells two different tales,” the handyman murmured.

I stopped playing and looked at him. “What?”

He shook his head. “Sorry. I was just…forget it.”

“No, what did you say?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, grinning. I think his cheeks are getting pink. “Your mouth tells two different tales. You know, like the person is talking out both sides of their mouth. He’s telling you things you want to believe, but it’s not the truth.”

I nod slowly, then pluck the chords and begin again, this time using his words to fill in the missing piece.

When you say these things to me

You make me want to believe

But your mouth tells two different tales

What do you mean, what do you mean, what do you mean?

My face broke into a wide grin. “Thank you! I’ve been messing with this for weeks, and it was like this huge block was in the way.” I was suddenly glad I had an issue this guy could fix. “I’m Maren, by the way.”

“Malcolm,” he replied. He looked around my apartment, but instead of focusing on maintenance issues, his gaze settled on the posters of my idols on the wall. “So, tell me about these ladies with guitars.”

* * *

Today

“Thank you so much for coming.” I strum a few bars on the guitar, then look back out at the Hillside crowd. It’s hard to believe I’ve been doing this for seven years now, and while I still haven’t found the fame and fortune I’ve been hoping for all my life, I realize just how much this stage means to me, and the crowd that comes with it.

In front of me are a group of locals that come to almost every show to sing along, making me feel like I’m a much bigger musician than I am. At a table in the back are a few of my music students and their parents, forcing me to keep this show clean and free of any “F” bombs, which is not that easy to do.

Then there’s the table off to the side, always reserved for my people. My family. Claire and her son Finn, plus her fiancé and owner of this bar, Ethan. My former coworker and roommate, Nina, sporting a lovely shade of pink hair.

And Mac, his tan arms crossed in front of him as he watches me with a smile in his eyes. That man is going to be the end of me, I know.

Ever since the day in his office, we’ve been inseparable to the point that he asked me to move in with him just last week.