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She turns to face me, a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I know.” Her words mean the world to me. “And he seems like a good guy. He agreed to fill in for Michael. He’s still employed. He’s…” A scream from the counter causes us both to look.
Devon is furiously wiping up a spill on the counter, Stacy’s friends hopping three feet away from the splash zone.
Stacy giggles, and I prepare. “Where was I? Oh, right, I was about to say a third nice thing about your friend. But for the world of me, I can no longer remember what that could be.”
We share a sisterly laugh.
“I can’t believe you did this.”
“I did it for you. You once told me if you want to see a person’s true character, watch them carefully and see how they handle a stressful situation.” Stacy reminds me of another lesson I’ve passed on to her from our parents. I’m so honored to have her as my little sister. “This is his stress test.”
We stare at Devon attempting to process over a dozen orders by himself. We’re too far away to hear what’s being said, but he gives one of the girls a half smirk, mouths something, and the entire group bursts into a loud laugh.
I recall our meet cute. He had damaged my design; I was furious, and he disarmed me with his humor. He’s quick witted in a pinch.
He scoops up a drink with his left hand, hands it to one of the girls, and points toward the condiment table. Spinning on his heels like Usher, he wipes off the handle of the espresso machinewith the towel. He says something to the group, eliciting another wave of giggles.
His smile is brilliant. His comfort level is higher than I’ve seen all week. I would wither being the center of attention. He’s in front of an audience and looks like he’s loving every minute of it.
Stacy gives me another shoulder bump. “A person’s true character.” She juts her chin toward Devon. “I hope you’re taking notes.”
Chapter Twelve
Devon
Iwipe down the counter and nod to Anita, another barista who’s working with Mrs. Whitehead today doing inventory. She’s my relief today. She approaches, stepping behind the counter.
“It’s quiet; take your fifteen now,” she whispers, and I swipe a mini chocolate cupcake from the display case.
“Thanks. You know where to find me.” I haven’t tried to hide my attraction for Zara from anyone. I spend every available second I’m not working in the café with her. Which is why my world feels a little off today.
Last night was the first night since we met that we didn’t hang out together. She needed to concentrate on her pitch and finish up the repairs to the mascot head. The presentation is in two days.
It took everything in me not to show up at her door with some made-up pathetic excuse to get her to let me in. But I didn’t. Instead, I spent the night re-reading the script. The pre-production walk-throughs starts in another week. I know allmy lines. Even practiced the key scene when Xenia enters the café disturbed by an argument with her love interest and comes across the barista from hell.
It’s a brilliant scene that will require all my comedic skills and timing to pull off. Luckily, I’ve used this week to perfect all the moves. From the spilled cup, the plate that slips from my hand, the tangled feet. The only one I haven’t done is the backwards tumble over the counter. That one requires a stunt person for me to crash into.
I step within two feet of Zara. She has her earbuds in, staring at the screen, and, from this angle, I catch the talking heads of the Zoom call on her screen. She’s experiencing her daily dose of hell, and I hold a treat for her as a reward.
“Well, that’s not what you promised six months ago.” My feet halt as she barks at the screen. “I was next up to lead the spring collection for that line. I’ve waited my turn. You promised.”
I feel the tension in the air and want to wrap her in a protective hug. She goes silent, listening to whatever is being said on the other end. She swipes at the screen, and her microphone on the corner of her screen turns gray with a line slashed through it. She’s gone on mute.
“I hate liars,” she shouts to the screen, causing my blood to race.
She quickly swipes again, the slash on the microphone disappearing and turning black. “I know I was on mute,” she says in response to a comment from someone who can’t read lips. “I said I’ve heard enough. I’ll talk to all of you next week.” She taps the red Leave button and rips the earbuds from her ears. She slams them to the tabletop.
I take a tentative step toward her. “Is everything okay?”
“Peachy,” she says, turning to face me. The tension in her face immediately disappears when she sees what I hold. “Is that for me?”
I push forward the tiny cupcake and wish I had grabbed the full-sized one instead.
She scoops it in her hand. “What a sight and to think this is only the second-best treat I’ve seen today.” Her eyes rise to meet mine, and that unique spark that exists between us returns.
“They’re fools for not seeing you.” The other night, after I modeled the last of the volleyball collection, I lingered at her place. She shared with me her design journey. An interest that started for her when she was nine years old. Nurtured by her parents. She pulled out her design scrapbook from college. Stunningly beautiful gowns, original practical accessories, and women athleisure outfits, which are both stylish and practical.
I was stunned by the intricate touches she puts in every design. An expression of not just her talent but the love and care she brings to each.
