Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion's starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there – fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know, none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge – they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I've got a sneaky feeling you'll find that love actually is all around. [1]
Emma Swan stood in line at her regular Starbucks on Villiers Street, tapping her foot impatiently at the impossibly long line ahead of her. She was already running late for work, and she hated being late, but she absolutely could not function without her morning coffee. She was supposed to be meeting with some lawyer named Loxley about a case they were prosecuting, though she would much rather be working one of her other cases than dealing with some uptight lawyer bitch. Emma did not get along well with lawyers.
She was two people away from ordering, but the man at the register seemed to be taking impossibly long to make up his mind. He was cute, or at least he might have been if he could order faster than snail's pace. As he shifted his weight, Emma caught a glimpse of a young boy standing next to him, arms crossed over his chest and a look of irritation on his face.
"Dad," the young boy whined, but his father appeared to be out of patience.
"No, Henry, you cannot have coffee, now stop making such a fuss, we're holding up the line," the man said sternly before turning back to face the barista. "One small hot chocolate please, with whipped cream and cinnamon, and one large dark roast, please."
He leaned over the counter to whisper something quietly to the barista and then handed over a few bills and ushered his son away from the register without waiting for change. When it was Emma's turn to order, she asked for her winter usual – large peppermint mocha with skim milk, but when she made to swipe her card, the barista stopped her.
"The man ahead of you paid for your drink," she informed Emma, nodding to where the handsome man was accepting both his and his son's drinks.
Irritation boiled in Emma's stomach as she approached them, pulling cash from her wallet as she did so.
"I don't married men buying me drinks," she snapped, thrusting out her hand with the money.
"Henry, go put some extra cinnamon on your hot chocolate, I feel sure they didn't give you enough," the man told his son, who flounced away, before turning back to Emma. "I didn't mean to offend you, love."
"You didn't – I'm not – I just don't need married guys hitting on me," Emma stammered, somewhat thrown off by his impossibly blue eyes and admittedly very attractive voice.
"I'm not married, love," he said with a smile, and Emma had to fight to keep a clear head.
"With a girlfriend then, whatever," she snapped, once again shoving the money toward him, but he declined to answer. "And don't call me that."
"No girlfriend either, and since I don't know your name, I've nothing else to call you," he smirked.
"I, well, I –" Emma stuttered, feeling very foolish.
"You assumed that because I have a son, I must have a wife as well," he grinned, and Emma blushed. "Tut, tut, love, you know what they say when you assume…"
"Look, it doesn't matter, the point is that I don't need you to buy my coffee for me, I'm perfectly capable of getting my own –" she told him, hands on her hips and a defiant look on her face.
"Listen, Miss…?"
"Swan," she answered sullenly.
"Miss Swan, I was not attempting to hit on you, I was merely offering an apologetic gesture for taking so long with our order," the man said, grinning ear to ear.
"Oh," Emma said, feeling flustered and surprised. "Well, well…"
"Emma!" the barista called out, and she moved to accept her coffee, grabbing a beverage sleeve as she did.
"I believe 'thank you' is the customary expression of gratitude, Emma," he smiled as she turned away from the counter, and she couldn't help but think that she really liked the way her named rolled off his tongue.
"Thanks," she grumbled, and she checked her watch, noting with some alarm that she was now very late. "I have to go, late for a meeting."
With that she turned and stalked out of the coffee shop, feeling embarrassed and irritated, but not before she heard his chuckle from behind her.
[1] Hugh Grant, Love Actually (2003)