Several minutes later and the barista continues to hover over Jamie, happily chatting away with him like I’m not even there while she eagerly scribbles his order on her little note pad, leaning her hip into the table right next to his arm.
She turns to me briefly, her expression immediately turning bored. “And you?” she says with one brow arched in clear annoyance, as if the mere sight of me is pestering her.
I can only sigh internally. I can’t even be mad. I brought this on myself, after all. Everyone practically worships the ground he walks on. I can’t say I’m surprised that people would wonder what the hell I’m doing having coffee with someone who constantly gets treated like he poops gold. Heck, I’m still wondering that myself.