AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Okay, here goes. Here’s my elevator pitch.”
Chapter Eighteen
Zara
Any hope I have for this day evaporates the moment I see Mrs. Whitehead’s face. It’s the last place in the world I want to be, but it’s a necessary stop on my way to the pitch.
“Please tell me you aren’t giving me that look because he’s here?” My pulse races at the thought that Devon is at the café. Not after Mrs. Whitehead promised me he was gone for good. Had clocked out for the last time after his performance, turned in his apron, and quit.
Her headshakes do little to ease my anxiety. This is a stop I shouldn’t have to make. Not today. I’m two hours away from my pitch.
“I promised you he’s not.” Mrs. Whitehead waves for me to follow her back to the office. Mrs. Whitehead called me, insisting I come to the café. It’s the last place I want to be. Just walking through the doors triggers a reminder of what happened when I was here last. Only the mention of my collection gets me moving.
Devon must’ve come to his senses and dropped off my designs at the café. My feet shake as I follow her down the narrow hall,a vision of Devon dressed as Mister Magic prancing toward me. My hands lifted to my mouth, the joy of seeing my design coming to life.
“Is that what you’re wearing for your big day?” Mrs. Whitehead’s question chips away at what little confidence I have left. She’s never asked such a question before, ever. She’s used to seeing me at my best. Fashionable outfits, stylistic shoes, perfect hair, makeup on point. All this time, I was dressing for a part.
No longer.
Today, I’m wearing comfortable weekend flats, my favorite pair of jeans, and a simple white silk top. My makeup is still on point because, well, it’s still me.
“Yeah. They’re evaluating my design. Not me.” That’s all the explanation I give her as she pushes open the door and points to the Magic baseball cap sitting on the top of her desk. Panic floods my chest as I stare at the spotless hardwood floorboards where I expected to find the boxes with my design.
“All he left behind was the hat?” Mrs. Whitehead remains standing, and I’m confused.
“You mentioned my collection. I assumed. Why did you…? I thought…” Today is going to be a disaster. I’m two hours from standing in front of a millionaire dressed like I don’t care, and all I have to show is a backup jersey and a baseball cap.
Other firms will be presenting with teams of professionals, a catalog of designs, and dance routines designed by Emmy-award-winning choreographers. I assume it to be true, therefore it must be.
I want to go home, lock the door, and never come out again.
Mrs. Whitehead drops into her high-backed leather chair and waves for me to sit. I don’t. I snatch the cap and stuff it into my shoulder bag. “I didn’t tell you because I wanted you to come by to talk.”
I give her my bestdo I look like I want to talk right nowface.
“Fine. I just wanted to explain my part in all of this. If you’re going to be mad at Devon, you need to add me to the list.”
I cross my arms against my chest and tap my toe. In all my anger I didn’t considered Mrs. Whitehead’s role. I’ve assumed Devon had deceived her as well.
“My cousin works in one of the studio offices in Century City.” The mention of Century City grabs my full attention. We may be two hours away from Hollywood, but the industry influence is far and wide. Everyone in a fifty-mile radius is less than three degrees of separation to someone in Hollyweird. “He knows how important the café is to me and is always on the lookout for opportunities to raise our profile and attract new customers.”
Mrs. Whitehead is a sharp businesswoman. She’s taken the Coffee Loft template and has added dozens of unique twists to make the café feel both familiar and distinct.
“The studio was looking for a café to host a method actor for a week. They would pick up his salary and provide a stipend but most important, they would list the café in the credits. With Xenia starring, the movie will be in Oscar contention. If they win”—she crosses her finger and raises them to the sky— “you can imagine all the things we can do with that association.”
“And all you had to do was piss off your regulars with an incompetent worker for a week.” I try to burst her Oscar-colored bubble.
She laughs, and I can’t imagine what she finds humorous. Whatever stipend the studio paid couldn’t stack up to the future revenue and referrals her regulars deliver. One sip of god-awful coffee you desperately need to get through the day is more than enough to piss off someone with a caffeine addiction. And she subjected her regulars to this for a week, none of it makes sense.
“The regulars were on board.” She pulls out the top desk drawer, removing a business card. She pushes it across the top of the desk. “Part of my agreement with the studio was I couldn’ttell them Devon was here researching for a part. So, I found a way around it.”
Against my better judgement, I step to the desk and scoop up the card.
Dear Coffee Loft patron — we value your business immensely, which is why I have a big ask. Our new barista is currently struggling to learn the business (I’m not saying he’s a relative and can’t be fired, but it’s something like that). Please bear with us. Please scan the QR code on your receipt, and it will trigger a duplicate order in the system that I’ll personally prepare and deliver to you covertly. Shh—don’t mention it to anyone, least of all the barista. Note: each scan will also create a credit added to your account for a future visit. Thank you so much for sticking with us during this period. I promise you, it will be over quickly.
I reread the card a second and third time. How did I miss all this? “I’ve never seen this card before. Why not? I’m a regular.” Is everyone in the building complicit in the deceit?
“The answer is simple. Outside of the first day, how many drinks of yours did Devon get wrong?”
