And Your Girl Can Sing

Chapter 24: A New Proposition, Brought To You By Sir McCharmly Himself

The events of last night had led to an explosion the next morning by none other than Mila, who opened Anna's door aggressively with the certificate of acceptance in her hand. I jumped, and my head hit the headboard of the bed. Groaning a little, I listened to her growl turn into a yell.

"Anna! What is the meaning of this?"

"Mutter, I got accepted into Art school—"

"Crazy child. You do realize your future is here, the baking shop, richtig? Correct?" Mila muttered, her voice rising with every syllable. I crawled under my covers in the room next door, noticing exactly how thin these walls were. Anna said some words in German back at Mila, the words flying from her mouth like bullets, so fast that I couldn't understand anything. I took a glance at my watch. Our shop was about to open. I got up quietly and started to dress, my nervous hands buttoning up my collared shirt. I slipped quietly past Anna and Mila and swung open the door into work time.

Already there was someone waiting to be let in. I yelled out a quick, "Entschuldigen Sie! One moment!" as I unbolted the door.

"It's all right," said a familiar voice, and my eyes travelled up his wool jacket to the baby faced Paul McCartney, cheeks still red from the cold, eyes bright from the morning.

"Paul! What a surprise. Please come in."

"My pleasure, Cora," he said, and winked at me. I blushed slightly, still unsure what to think of him. "You buttoned your shirt wrong," he smirked, and touched the button right below my collar, which had skipped a hole to reveal a large gap, attributed to my lightning-fast speed at which I had dressed myself that morning, which I was sure revealed much more I didn't need.

I yanked my shirt away. "Thanks," I muttered, caught and unsure what to say next.

"Can I order any more dessert today?" He asked, pulling out a chair and taking off his jacket. I stood, at a momentary loss for words, my cheeks colored more pink than I would have liked.

"James Paul McCartney!" I whisper-yelled, just having gotten the reference he just made. "You will never have any dessert!"

"Cora! Let the man order whatever he wants," came an order from behind me. Mila. "I'm in a terrible mood today. My darling daughter decided to go behind my back and apply for art school." Mila came striding up to us, notepad in hand, and plonked a glass of water in front of Paul. "Crazy girl. What am I going to do with her? Art is going to get you nowhere. And what if she has a tattoo or something she's not telling me about?" Mila slapped the table. "Now what can I get you, sir?"

Paul looked up at her, wide eyed, at a loss for words.

***

About fifteen minutes in. Yup, he wasn't here just for coffee.

There were no other customers there, so I had to focus on Paul. I watched him sip from the pink mug that Mila had pushed into my hands to give to him, and then immediately strode back to yell at Anna. His large doe eyes kept traveling in my direction. I rolled my eyes and wiped the countertop with a wet rag.

"Ye already wiped it, love," Paul called out.

"Shut up," I shot back at him.

"Three times."

"Sanitation is important, you know."

Paul sipped his drink again, a nonexistent sip. I wondered why no other customers had come in yet, and then remembered it was a Sunday. Sundays were always slow until noon, when people arrived back from church—or more likely arrived back from the pounding hangovers they had gotten the night before.