A Gift Like You


 
 
 
 
 A GIFT LIKE YOU
 
 
 
 
 JILLIAN LIOTA
 
 
 
 
 
 This book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
 Copyright © 2023 by Jillian Liota
 All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission from the author is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
 Love Is A Verb Books
 Cover Design and Formatting by Blue Moon Creative Studio
 Editing by C. Marie
 ISBN 978-1-952549-33-5 (paperback)
 ISBN 978-1-952549-29-8 (ebook)
 ISBN 978-1-952549-30-4 (kindle)
 
 
 
 
 for anyone who has felt grief during the holidays
 
 may this year bring new life, joy and happiness to your table
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 CONTENTS
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Chapter 1
 
 
 Chapter 2
 
 
 Chapter 3
 
 
 Chapter 4
 
 
 Chapter 5
 
 
 Chapter 6
 
 
 
 
 The Trouble with Wanting
 
 
 About the Author
 
 
 Acknowledgments
 
 
 Also by Jillian Liota
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER ONE
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Lindsey
 
 
 “Sweetheart, I don’t know what you put in this coffee, but it always tastes better when you’re the one serving it to me.”
 I beam at Mr. Charleston and pretend to dramatically toss my hair over my shoulder, even though it’s pulled up into a messy bun on the top of my head.
 “Ah, well, I only put the top-shelf cocaine in my favorite customers’ drinks,” I tease. Then I lean forward and put a hand to my mouth so I can faux whisper, “The tips are always better when I do that.”
 Mr. Charleston laughs, a slightly wheezy chuckle that has become so familiar to me over the past few months.
 “You sweet thing,” he says. “You know, I have a grandson who could use some sass like yours in his life.”
 I continue to smile and shake my head at him. “You don’t say.”
 Except his words aren’t any kind of surprise. He’s only been talking about his grandson, Cooper, since the day we met six months ago.
 I’d just moved in across the street, and when I saw Mr. Charleston trying to lug his trash out to the sidewalk, I ran over to help since his aging body looked to be having a hard time.
 “You’re such a sweet thing,” he told me that day as I rolled the bin to the curb for him. “My grandson is coming to visit me this week, and I think you two could really hit it off.”
 I just laughed—which is what I do each time he mentions Cooper—and while I’ve yet to meet this mystery grandson of his, I love to indulge Mr. Charleston’s fantasy that the two of us would be a perfect match. Though in reality, the idea that anybody would be a perfect match for my brand of crazy is laughable.
 “He’s been single for quite some time, you know,” he tells me as he drops some loose change into the tip jar. “Maybe I should bring him in here and introduce you. See if you hit it off.”
 Then he wiggles his eyebrows up and down and points at the doorway, where we hung some mistletoe last week when we decorated the Steam Room in preparation for the holiday season.
 I slap a hand to my chest and pin Mr. Charleston with an offended look that’s as fake as my outrage.
 “Mistah Chah-lston!” I exclaim, a Southern accent dripping from my words. “Now I know you’re not implyin’ that I’d pass my kisses around to any gentleman caller who comes my way like some chippy.” I pat the underside of a fake hairstyle and affect a haughty expression. “I am a woman of virtue, after all.”
 Mr. Charleston lights up at my theatrics, then lets out another wheezy laugh. “You’re too much, sugar.”
 I give him a wink and another smile as he heads off to add creamer to his coffee—just a splash of half and half—before I turn to greet the next customer in line.
 Coffee after coffee, pastry after pastry, I work the busy Sunday morning shift, cranking through surges of customers, only stopping to grab a glass of water when there’s a lull. But the breaks never last long on the weekends, and only a few minutes go by before a new wave of caffeine addicts line up at the till, ready to give me their orders.
 I’ve been working at the Steam Room for almost a year now, which is kind of a long time for someone like me. The thing about being a struggling actress is how much it impacts dependability. If my agent lets me know about a callback for something important enough and I have a shift that conflicts with that audition, I have to choose which is more important: the working job or the acting job.
 I try as hard as I can to find shift coverage, but sometimes it just doesn’t happen, and that has led to a few instances of me “calling in sick” when I’m not really sick. There were also two times I quit a waitressing job because the audition was for something important enough to warrant the possibility of temporary unemployment.
 It makes me feel a little bit like a dick, but I did get a national commercial earlier this year for, ironically, a coffee company putting together their Christmas ad. It just started airing