The Return of the Yeti

iambeagle does her best to spot typos, but since I'm the Queen of Typos, some might creep in.

I don't own Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended.

7. January 3, 2012 at 8:00 AM

At Home

"Rose, can I borrow your beige wool sweater? You know, the one that's super thick and makes your skin itch?" I stutter. My teeth are chattering, I'm so cold.

"Sure. But can I get it back when I get home?"

"Emmett said he heard the super say that boiler will be repaired today," Alice yells from the bathroom door wrapped in her duvet with a toothbrush in her hand.

"Let's hope," Rose says and runs out the door.

I get dressed in three layers, including Rose's sweater, and my coat.

Standing in the door ten minutes later, I take quick inventory.

Metro Card in pocket, check.

Traveling cup filled with coffee in hand ('cause Starbucks is out of the question today), check.

Scarf, hat and gloves, check, check, check.

As I fly out the door glancing at my phone, I realize I'm kind of late, so I pick up my pace.

I'd like to get an earlier start in the mornings in the New Year.

Best,
Heidi

I read as I whisk down my block until my face hits something hard. And warm.

And then my hands feel warm, too. Like, really warm … and wet.

"Shit," I mumble before looking up and seeing brown hair and thick eyebrows, furrowed. "I'm sorry." Shifting my focus further down, I stare at a guy's chest and the big brown stain that's there. Judging by the size of the stain, it looks like spilled my entire cup of coffee on him. Some ended up on my gloves, but most of it clearly ended up on his shirt.

"Are you okay?" he asks, picking up the lid to my cup from the ground and handing it to me.

"Shit. I'm so sorry. I should've screwed the lid on properly."

"It's okay." He smiles, pushing his hands into this pockets, looking like he isn't in the least bit bothered by his soiled shirt. It's soaked through though and the coffee, which was warm in my mug, must be cold and sticky by now.

"For what it's worth, it's really not okay and I'm still sorry."

He laughs. "Here," he takes my empty travel cup out of my hand without hesitation, "let me refill this for you."

"Uh, no. Why?" I stare at him like he's a little green space-alien. He's still grinning widely.

"Um, cause I work here?" He points at the coffee shop behind him. He takes two steps toward the door and then holds it open for me. "Come on. I'll refill your cup while you wash your hands."

I follow him inside where the usual crowd of work-at-home artist, or whatever they're doing to make a living, is busy typing away on their MacBooks.

"The bathroom is there." He nods toward a door.

Inside the small bathroom, I wrap the gloves up in toilette paper, stuff them in my bag and wash my hands quickly.

When I return, he's standing behind the counter, frothing milk. He changed into a simple white tee. I watch him pour some espresso in my mug before he fills it with milk and dashes it with cinnamon.

"You really didn't have to do this," I tell him when he turns around to hand me my coffee.

"It's nothing. I was in your way and made you spill our coffee. Don't want you getting caffeine withdrawal on account of me standing around on the sidewalk."

"Right. Whatever. More like, I didn't watch where I was going and assaulted a stranger."

He grins some more. I shake my head. Clearly, he's suffering from a chemical imbalance in his brain. No normal person is that chipper this early in the morning, particularly not after they've had a cup of coffee spilled on them.

"So …" He bites his bottom lip and then smirks. "I didn't get to introduce myself the other night." He holds out his hand. "I'm Edward."

I swear I've never seen him before. He's sort of good looking, so I think I would remember and while I still wrack my brain from where I should know him, he takes his hand back slowly and rubs his chin with it, looking almost embarrassed with a pink stain to his cheeks.

"What night?" I ask.

"I believe it was New Year's. You were wearing a cute, black dress."

I still don't remember him and it must show.

"You were with your friend—a tall blonde over at Sam's? You ordered a vodka cranberry, if I remember correctly."

Realization dawns on me. I should be the one turning pink, not him.

"You were the guy who paid for the drinks? What happened to the beard? Never mind. Don't answer. Dumb question. Well, thank you anyway. Now I owe you big time. Drinks and coffee," I rattle on, while he eyes me with a curious expression on his face.

"You don't owe me a thing-"

"Yeah, I do," I insist, feeling uncomfortable and put on the spot. "Well, I gotta run." I turn and start walking toward the door.

"Hey, you forgot something!"

"What?" I look back, searching the counter for my cell phone or some other item I always misplace only to find a perfectly clean surface devoid of any clutter.

"You don't owe me a thing except your name. I still don't know what to call you," he explains

"Bella. My name is Bella."

"Well, nice to meet you, Bella."

"Yeah, you too," I mumble, continuing on my way out the door.

"Wait," he says before I can make my escape. When I look back at him, he's holding a white paper bag up to me.

"Um...I …" I stutter. I want to tell him that I already do owe him more than my name and this is really not necessary. Never mind that I really would like to lose five pounds and the butter croissant, or whatever else is in that bag, is possibly not helping, but all of that would just make me sound like an ungrateful bitch and so I shut up, walk back, take the bag and murmur, "Thanks."

"Have a nice day, Bella." I hear him say when I'm almost out the door.

Ever spilled something on a cute guy? Please do share.