(Prompt photo by Bonnie Kittle on Unsplash.com)

"Is this seat taken?"

"No, go ahead."

My response is curt and clearly states I wish to be left alone. I look back to my laptop. The word document – just a moment ago a brand-new world I was happily committing to paper - is now nothing but a string of words. Just like that, I'm no longer on a beach in the middle of a summer storm, but back in the café, and it's a little disconcerting, feels a little bit like whiplash.

The mother sitting at the table next to mine scolds her toddler for sticking his fingers into a mug of hot chocolate. The child complains, loudly, and makes to lick it off while she tries to clean him up with wet wipes. Behind them, an important-looking grumpy man with a laptop and a phone to his ear becomes grumpier by the minute. He's broody, rather on the hostile side; perfect material for an office romance. I wonder if he's having an affair with his PA. All the clichés say he would, and this world is made up of clichés. That's why they sell. It's also why I'm able to pay my rent by writing yet another book about men with abs and women with sparkling eyes. Boasting the type of cover which puts perfume commercials to shame. At least it doesn't have my name on it.

The man who forced me out of my reverie sits by me. I can see his face reflecting in the edge of my laptop screen, and it is a rather nice face. He's smiling. I'd call it a smirk, but both of us are way past our teenage years, and that sort of behaviour, along with that type of vocabulary, is exclusive to one's formative years. Despite this, he is definitely smirking. He's not even coy about it, looking over me not-at-all discretely, reading the words on my screen, with his green tie, and it's not my fault those remind me of Slytherin. He's blond, too – go figure. Of course, I'm sceptical of him. Stereotypes, even from a made-up world, hold fast. The odd little shadow of a smile dancing in and out of his expression doesn't help at all. It's the kind of a smile that says he knows things others don't, and is immensely proud of possessing this forbidden knowledge.

I look him straight in the eye, unblinking, and letter by letter delete the last few sentences, forcefully jabbing at the backspace key.

Finally, the not-smirk disappears and he has the decency to look embarrassed.

"Sorry. I've been told my nosiness will get me killed one day. Please do ignore me. Or don't, it's up to you. Call me Nate. Actually, please don't - I hate it. My name is Nathan."

He's fumbling the introduction, tripping over his words. The cool, obnoxious exterior crumbles. It would appear I have misjudged him. To be frank, if he doesn't want to be misjudged, he should stay away from Slytherin colours.

"Laura."

He reaches out to shake my hand, and I accept, although it's rather perplexing. It's been a while since someone shook my hand – the last agent, I think? But not in this kind of setting. Whatever kind of setting this is.

"Hi, Laura. Nice to meet you. I'm so sorry to interrupt. Or rather, to have interrupted. Can I get you a coffee to make up for it?"

I can't help the sour laugh from escaping my lips. "Does that line usually work for you?"

He looks scandalized.

"Of course not. It's not a line. I simply can see – from your expression, which is terrifying, by the way, good job – that I have disturbed you. I want to make it better. Let me make it better? What is it that you're drinking..." he looks into the mostly-empty mug to the left of my laptop, "is that a latte?"

I nod and he gets up too fast, almost tripping over the leg of his chair. I can't help but watch as he apologises to it and makes his way to the counter, where a very bored barista takes down his order. He is rather ridiculous, Nathan is, in an endearing kind of way. I close down the laptop as he walks back to me, holding on to two cups of coffee for dear life.

"There you go, one latte. Again, I'm sorry. It must be frustrating, being distracted in the middle of doing something."

"It's fine. It wasn't going anywhere, regardless."

"No?"

He looks genuinely interested, and he's a stranger at a coffee shop. What's the worst that can happen?

"No. I'm a ghost-writer - I write these shitty romance novels, and then someone with more charisma sells them as theirs. This one," I rap my fingernail three times on the closed laptop lid, "is a load of rubbish."

Nathan takes a sip of his too-hot coffee and tries to play it off as nothing. "Have you written anything I would have read?"

"I don't know. Do you read smutty romances with topless men on the covers often?"

He almost spits out his coffee, and reddens around the neck and ears, just a fraction, but noticeable enough. It makes his eyes stand out, and they are green, and suddenly the tie looks less Slytherin-esque and more clever-man-knows-how-to-dress... esque.

"You know, I had a job interview before coming here, but this conversation feels more difficult."

I ignore the slight insult. "How did it go?"

"Fantastic."

A little bit of the arrogance he had at first reappears, a slither of self-confidence which lights up his whole face and makes him seem older, more mature, less a child likely to trip over his own feet. It's a good look on him, I decide, as much as confidence is a good look on anyone.

"Congratulations, then."

We seem to have come to a natural stop in the conversation, where – as two strangers – we really ought to pretend to get engrossed in our respective phones, but he doesn't look away from me, doesn't follow the 2019 social conventions, and for the first time in my entire life I seem to be out of words.

Of course, if I'm being honest, I'm not looking away either. There is something about his eyes, in how they pin me to his, keep me half wishing to run away, half to melt into a puddle or giggle like a red-faced schoolgirl. The sunlight coming in from the window makes them seem brighter, almost unnaturally so and -

Bloody hell. How many times have I written this crap? No, scratch that. Even I don't write crap like that. That's some cheesy filth right there.

"I should probably get back to work."

He looks disappointed. He has no reason to be disappointed. "You could. Or, and I think this is a much better idea, you could drink your coffee and make a new friend."

"A new friend. I hope you know how creepy that sounds."

"Fuck. Yes, it does. I'm so sorry." He doesn't apologise to me, but to the mother of a toddler sitting next to us, who clears her throat loudly as he swears. The toddler's fingers are now chocolate-free, and he's busying himself with a blueberry muffin. "Regardless, would it not be nice to get away from a story which you said – these are your words – isn't working, and do something else? We could go on a date. It would be fun."

"You're very forward you know."

"I do. That's another quality of mine I've been told will be the death of me. But what do you say?"

Surprisingly, I consider it, sip on my new latte to give myself a moment to think. He's quite good looking, though a little unhinged. What the hell, I think. "Sure."