Peppermint mocha with a side of McLatte

Recently, I received several queries about the status of my budding "romance" with Hottie McLatte. Unfortunately, I had no news to report, as I hadn't been by his Starbucks in a couple weeks. When we left things, I was worried Hottie McLatte and I might have lost our spark, because I was the recipient of neither a friendly discount nor so much as a lustful gaze. I figured either he fell out of love, or his manager told him he should stop giving employee discounts to every girl who bats her eye lashes. 

But today, boys and girls, our affections reemerged. It bubbled over, steaming and sweet, with the bold jolt of new love. 

Okay, maybe not exactly, but can you humor me here? I took a one-time semi-flirtation and managed to stretch it out over several weeks in the interest of editorial content. This is for you, readers. 

Okay, maybe not exactly. It's really an entirely self-serving endeavor. But I'm not here to talk about my motives. I am here to tell you that today, McLatte and I sallied forth into new territory-- he opened up to me about his past. We shared laughs, prolonged eye contact (my fave), and a warm goodbye. I left with a mocha in my hand, and McLatte on the brain. 

Here's how it went down. I strolled into the Back Bay Starbucks, and saw McLatte placing an order at the counter. I think he glanced my way, but I was too busy nonchalantly drooling over the tempting treats in the glass display. I consider my even seeing him today a serendipitous occasion orchestrated by our Creator because I probably would have missed him, had I not decided to cut out of work a half hour early to stop a Barnes and Noble to pick up this month's gal-pals book club selection.

McLatte and I eventually caught each other's eyes, and he came over to say hello. I asked him if he was working, and he said he was just about to leave, to go home and relax, which might be the last time in a while, because he was starting up school again in January. Woah, holy overshare, Batman. Except not all, because I love oversharing, and I even have a tag in this blog called "Sharing is caring." Turns out McLatte is going back to school to study civil engineering, and the socially-awkward dateless girl inside of me emerged; I grinned like an idiot and exclaimed, "SMARTYPANTS!" Because some things are beyond my intellectual capacity. Things like science. Or engineering. Or the Internet. 

Mercifully, it was time for me to place my order, which I did, while McLatte McSauntered over to the counter to wait for his drink. I played it cool, and stared lustfully at their holiday coffee beans (special brews for Thanksgiving, people) while he made conversation with a man. The queued crowd waiting for their coffees eventually dispersed, until there was a lone cup, which had been sitting there for several minutes. I picked it up; the name written on the side said "Harvey." By this time, McLatte's friend had also left, and he asked the name on the cup. I told him, and he said it was his. 

I knew his name isn't Harvey, so I teased him about picking such a pseudonym that is not at all befitting of his countenance of demeanor. Then, in overarching overshare number 2, he started telling me about how in high school his nickname was Tyson, which led us into discussions about his successes in boxing and football. 

*swoon* 

It was in this moment, however, that I realized McLatte appeared significantly older than I remember. We're all familiar with the forgiving, if not downright flattering, lighting of Starbucks, and he always looked especially fetching behind the counter in the dim lights. In the slightly brighter area of the store, I could see McLatte looked more like 26, instead of the 23 I had guessed, which, let's be honest, only made him more attractive. Also, upon his mention of boxing, it was as if some scars on his forehead emerged like Rudolph's glowing nose, but in a hotter, much more erotic way. Are you still with me? We know how I love a weathered gentleman lover. 

As we continued our conversation, I saw McLatte pour approximately a third of a cup of sugar into his coffee. Conservative estimate. I exclaimed in horror, to McLatte's surprise and delight. This is the man who had made fun of me on more than one occasion for refusing whipped cream, or requesting sugar-free syrup ("You have to live a little!).  Well McLatte, tell me this, will you still love me if I can only wear pants with elastic waists and shirts I sew at home out of bedsheets? 

 While our laughter hung in the air, I figured it was best to make a quick exit while I was ahead. Before I yelled something like "SMARTYPANTS!" again or accidentally referred outloud to him as "Hottie McLatte." I said I had to be on my way, and as I turned to go, he said "All right, Catherine." He said my name with such warm affection. It made my heart swell and my uterus contract just a teensy bit. 

Until next time, McLatte. Until next time.