Perfectly Imperfect

one >> of assholes with typical asshole names.

        A/N: I'll try not to appologize too much throughout this book, since it is unedited. Maybe it won't be my best work, but I hope you guys like it anyway. Please read and enjoy. Thanks! 

Oh, and a special thanks to both @beyoutiful1D for making this amazing challenge and @BrookeBercik for making my cover. Please check out both of them. <3

Also, I kind of broke the prompt because this is really more of a diner than a coffee shop. Oops. I'm still clasifying it as the prompt though.

                  prompt 1: write a scene that takes place in a coffee shop.

        There is a loud buzz as the door to the coffee shop opens. I nearly jump out of my seat at the counter. A customer? Since when does this shop ever have customers? Especially this late at night? I look at the old clock hanging on the wall. It’s nearly midnight. I think I may actually be dreaming, but when I look up there he is. A customer.

                He looks like the kind of hipster that would come into a place like this just because it’s not cool. His red flannel speaks volumes of his personality, I’m sure. As does the Nirvana shirt strategically placed under it. His jeans are ripped and he’s wearing huge black boots. He has some facial hair, not enough that I’m sure it could be considered a beard, but it looks like he’s just decided to participate in No Shave November. His blonde hair is messy, going in a million different directions and still his fingers run through it as he awkwardly searches the shop, as though he expected more customers. Because nothing speaks popularity like the flickering sign outside and rust on the side of the building, right?

                He looks over at me, as though just noticing me. Then, apparently deciding one waitress is enough, he sits at an empty booth. Why a booth? There are a million empty chairs by the counter. Is he waiting for someone? He does not appear to be. He just looks ahead, as though the seat across from him is the most interesting thing in the room. I see something like nostalgia flicker across his features, then it turns to annoyance. He looks at me. “You gonna take my order or what?” He asks.

                I roll my eyes. The customer is always right, of course. Then again, I have limited customer experience, considering how empty this place always is. I grab one of our dusty menus, along with a pen and pad then walk over to his table.

                His blue eyes flicker up to mine as I hand him the menu. He doesn’t even look at it. If he wasn’t going to look at the menu, why did he want one so damn bad? “What’s good here?” He asks me.

                “Look and see,” I reply. What is wrong with this guy? Who comes in at midnight, doesn’t look at a menu, and gets a booth for just one person.

                He smirks. “Not much customer experience here, huh?”

                “No, this place is always full. Most popular coffee shop in all of Manhattan. Now, you going to order or what?” I say, impatiently chewing my gum.

                “I’ll have some coffee,” He says.

                I raise a brow. “That’s it? Just coffee?”

                He looks vaguely annoyed. “Yeah, why?”

                “You do realize there is a 7/11 with a coffee machine down the street, right?”

                “Are you asking me to take my business elsewhere?”

                “No. I’m asking you to pay more because this place needs the money. I’m asking you to quit wasting my time. And I’m telling you that our cook Tony makes the best French toast you’ve ever had. I’m assuming you’ll take that?”

                He just stares at me for a few seconds, then a grin slowly spreads across his lips. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll take that.” He says, and I take his menu from him. Then, as I’m walking off, he adds, “Make it two.”

                A few minutes later I bring the weird guy his food. I set the two plates in front of him, and he pushes one of them to the seat across from him. I’m oddly curious. “Okay, I have to ask. Who the hell is the other plate for?”

                He smirks at me. “Do you want to take a break?” He asks.

                “What?” Is he seriously hitting on me? Right now? While I’m at work?

                “Well, you said it was your favorite, right? I figured you might need a break.” He glances around the coffee shop. “Unless it’s too busy in here. I know this is the most popular coffee shop in Manhattan.”

                I want to flat out refuse, but that French toast does look amazing. Damn Tony for being such a good cook. I slowly, hesitantly take a seat across from him. He gives a small smile, just barely a twitch of his lip.

                “So, what are you doing working here?” He asks after a few minutes.

                I gaze down at my French toast. “This would be better if we didn’t talk.”

                He ignores me. “I’m just curious. I mean, obviously you’re not getting a lot of commission here. And it looks really rusty in here and I just don’t get why you’d work here instead of Starbucks or something.”

                I make a face. “Starbucks? You mean the big cooperate stooge that sucks places like this dry? A place that uses all of those gross artificial flavors in their coffee and tries to replicate the homliness of real coffee shops? The place with no character but is only after money? No thanks. I’d rather work here and have a soul any day.”

                He smirks. “That was a very eloquent way of not answering my question.”

                I roll my eyes. “Fine. I work here because it’s nice. It’s a place where I can think. I like all of my co workers. I like my boss. How many jobs are like that? I can do my university work at the counter and no one cares. I can listen to music and they don’t say anything. And sometimes, especially late at night like this, it’s so peaceful here. I can just sit and think all night. Other jobs don’t give you a break. This place is my escape.”

                The boy is quiet for a few moments, then he takes a bite of my French toast. What an asshole. He has his own, doesn’t he? “I see what you mean. Sometimes the world is just too damn loud. Like it wants to be heard too badly. I like to just sit and think sometimes.”

                Slightly annoyed at the whole French toast thing, I take a bite of his and smirk. “You think?” I ask mockingly. 

                “Oh, yeah. All the time. For instance, just when I walked in I was thinking how cute my waitress was. I was wondering why she worked here instead of modeling.”

                I roll my eyes. He’s oddly growing on me in that charming way that stupid assholes can. I take another bite of his French toast. He continues, “I always wanted to know her name.”

                I chew my French toast slowly, then give a small smile. I stick out a hand, which he shakes. “Harper.”

                He lets go of my hand with a smile, takes another bite of my French toast.

                “Chad.”

                Typical asshole name.

                I kind of like it.