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Her words give me hope. “I always will.” I walk the red carpet, something I’ve seen others do a hundred times. I’ve yet to earn this moment, and I embrace it. Zara and Stacy have done all this for me. The reason still escapes me.
One of Stacy’s classmates is waiting for me at the door. She’s dressed like a movie theatre usher, holding the door open for me.
When I step through the doors, Mrs. Whitehead is holding a bucket of popcorn, which the café doesn’t sell.
“Welcome back, Devon.” She pulls me into a side hug and pushes the bucket into my hands. “Compliments of the host. Please select your beverage from a specially prepared collection curated by our newest barista.” My gaze follows Mrs. Whitehead’s raised arms toward the counter.
Standing behind the counter, elbows pressed to the countertop, wearing the brown Coffee Loft apron, is Zara. She stares at me with a mischievous grin that lets me know she’s better than good. She’s great.
My feet eat the distance between us. “You got the contract.” I state it as a foregone conclusion. My voice filled with excitement.
“Hush, you.” She smacks my forearms with an adorable smile on her face. “This night is about you, not me.”
“Me?” The sign, the red carpet, I can see they’ve put so much effort into me, but if she’s landed the contract, tonight should be about her. “We should be celebrating you.”
“Plenty of time for that. I like my celebrations much quieter, one on one if you get my drift.” She flirts with me, and it’s the greatest thing.
“That I can do.” I lean across the counter and give her a quick kiss on the lips. It’s not what I want to do, but it’s the most we’ve shared since she found out about my profession.
“Now, kind gentleman, as you can see, I’m the new barista tonight, and I need you to select your drink for the evening.” Zara strides from behind the counter, her movements graceful and confident. I follow her, my curiosity piqued. She leads me to the windowsill where she normally sits, the Hollywood spotlight outside lighting the window like the morning sunrise. It streams through the glass, casting an angelic glow on her skin.
I notice on the windowsill a series of drinks lined up along the length of the windowsill, nearly a dozen in all. A mix of familiar scents hit me next: vanilla, cinnamon, pumpkin spice. She’s been busy.
“Wow, you’ve been working hard,” I say, my voice filled with genuine awe.
Zara turns to face me, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “I wanted to show you what a real barista can do,” she says with a playful grin. Her enthusiasm is infectious, and I can’t help but smile back.
Standing this close to her, my heart does what it always has—it beats out of control. I’ve missed this. Being close to her. Stealingglances, our hands brushing against one another when I hand her a latte, us sitting together on my break and laughing.
She lifts her chin, and our eyes lock. There’s something in her gaze—an unspoken connection, a shared understanding. It’s as if she can see right through me, down to my core, the real me underneath.
She stops at the first drink on the table, pointing, and I take a step forward to see what she’s pointing at. “Each drink contains a special stencil art that required half of Stacy’s classmates to help me create. But I think you’ll find it was time well spent.”
“No way.” I can’t believe my eyes. The first cup contains a stencil of a guy kicking a giant mascot head.
“Yep, that was our meet cute.”
My heart wants to burst at the creativity, care, and time she must’ve spent forming this special moment.
“Here’s you dropping yet another set of saucers.” She points to the next drink, the emergence of the bumbling barista.
She directs my attention down the line of cups. “This is your Dr. Pepper collection.” I laugh at the reminder of how my awful drinks drove her to a sugar addiction.
“Here’s one of you knocking over the display case of mugs.” Zara continues to narrate the story of us. Each cup contains a memory I’ll cherish forever.
My hand wraps around her waist as she pauses at the next cup. Our first kiss. I press my lips to the back of her neck. Her scent and warm skin take my mind on a trip I never want to return from.
“Careful,” she whisper-warns, “my sister is watching.” She lifts her chin, and my gaze follows. Sure enough, Stacy and her friends are on the opposite side of the glass, phones pointed at us, snapping away.
“I”—I press another kiss to the crook of her neck—“Don’t”—and another—“Care.”
Zara lifts her right hand, framing my face, pressing it against her neck. “Neither do I, but you have to see the rest of these stencils before they melt away.” She paces to her right. “This is you modeling.”
My feet follow her movement, like a student following a teacher at a museum. She rushes through Xenia’s appearance in the café, a reminder of my deceit. Rushing instead to highlight me appearing as Mister Magic. It’s a majestic portrayal of me, hands on hips and head held high.
She steps to the final cup on the ledge. A drawing of a man in a convertible, driving away, the famous Hollywood sign in the distance. It’s me leaving her. Heading off to make my movie.
I’m confused. Did I misread this entire setup? Is she trying to tell me I’ve raced off to get my dream, and now she’s about to do the same?
