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“I know. What do you think Zara and I have been chatting about over there?”
“Stacy!” I scream, stepping out of her hug and smacking her forearm. Thank goodness for my black girl magic skin. Devon will never notice the blush forming on my face.
His chuckle causes Stacy to giggle. “Nice meeting you, Stacy,” he says with a gentle kindness that disarms my concerns “Hey, Zara?”
I nibble on my lower lip; it’s the closest I get to flirting.
He points to Mr. Magic. “I’ll head over shortly.”
Stacy tugs me by my wrist before I can respond, giggling and leaning close. “This café just became so much more interesting.”
And once again, I realize my sister is right. So, so right.
Chapter Four
Devon
“Hmmm,” Mrs. Whitehead’s tone puts me on alert. She’s scanning the register report of the day’s sales. My anxiety shoots up, and I glance across the café at Zara. She has her head down, sketching in a large artist’s notebook. Strong, confident strokes across the page, followed by her glaring at it as if it holds a secret which she alone can decipher.
I could watch her all day. And I have. She’s been here my entire shift. As much as my ego wants to claim it’s because of me, I know the truth. This is her daily routine; she’s told me as such. Her café remote home office.
“Okay, I guess.” Mrs. Whitehead rubs the back of her neck, and I hear the disappointment in her voice. “It’s not like Marvin didn’t warn me.”
I stuff my hands in my front pockets and wonder exactly what my agent said to convince Mrs. Whitehead to take on an inexperienced barista and let him operate with minimal supportfor most of the day. I’m no business owner, but even I wouldn’t allow me to operate untethered.
Your drink game is weak.Zara’s words ricochet in my head, and I try to remember why I’m here. I’m an actor, and this is the role. The drinks are supposed to suck, even if the look of disappointment on people’s faces pushes me to the brink of shouting the truth. I need to embrace the character persona. A clumsy, not too bright, unqualified barista. I’ve even swapped many of the ingredients from their organized labeled shelves to have an explanation locked and loaded if challenged. My practiced look of confusion on my face—I followed the recipe.
This is a role. An assignment. One I desperately must ace as my time is running out. Each year, when I don’t hit it big, I move. When I first arrived in L.A. with Hollywood dreams, I selected a nice one-bedroom apartment near the major studios. It was pricey and immediately burned a hole in my life savings, but I believed in myself. How long could it take to land a leading role?
And every year, when I wasn’t deemed the next star of young Hollywood, I would move. Downscaled my apartment, moved a little further from the studios to save money. The trickle of income I have now is barely enough to afford even a studio apartment in La Brea. I now live according to the real estate listing, an hour away from the studios, which in the LA space time continuum, means it can take up to three hours to reach with traffic. Hollywood executives commute faster on planes from San Francisco. I can’t lose this part, or I’ll be commuting from Nevada next.
Method acting is all about believing. I’ve done my homework. I’m supposed to live and breathe the character. I need to stop thinking like myself and embrace the role. “Better days ahead. Guaranteed.” That’s what the clueless barista would say. He’d maintain his rose-colored glasses and remain steadfast. “If I smashed it the first day, I’d have nowhere to go but down.Fifteen, right?” I note the timing of my break and wait for her acknowledgement.
“Yeah. I know Marvin wants you to work by yourself as much as possible but I’m right in the back in the office. If you need…” Mrs. Whitehead is a kind soul. Late forties, from what I can guess, white with a bottomless reservoir of energy, she owns the building and, by all indications, is a savvy business owner. Which is why she’s already wavering on her commitment to Marvin.
“I got it. Every hour is better than the previous one. Two steps forward, as they say.” I untie the brown apron from around my waist and slide it onto the hook on the wall before she responds.
I ignore the scraping of chairs as half the café spots Mrs. Whitehead at the counter and rush to form a line. Their actions speak louder than their words—Thank goodness someone here knows how to make a drink. I force myself to stay in character and remind myself that my shaky confidence isn’t the only secret I need to hide as I stride toward Zara.
“It’s time you took a break.” I slide in the chair across from her. Her sister is long gone, but the giant dented head remains, a silent witness taunting me.
She lifts a finger in my direction, her gaze locked down at her tablet. The stylus in her other hands swipes across the screen and she whispers “yes” to herself. Her chin lifts, her eyes, warm and inviting, lock onto mine. Her gaze is like a gentle caress, disarming me completely. It’s a much-needed dopamine jolt to my wavering ego. “I’m assuming you’re here because you’re going to take me up on my offer?”
I lean in, a playful smirk on my lips. “Don’t you mean proposition?” I embrace my assignment. I may have to play a bumbling idiot half the time, but it does deliver perks such as this—flirting with a beautiful café regular.
Her smile turns brilliant, a look of happy surprise spreading across her face. She leans back in the chair, her posture relaxed. “I see break Devon is a lot less—”
“Yes, he is,” I interrupt before she can remind me of my failures. “What about you?”
Her eyes sparkle with delight. “I have my moments. I’d relax a lot more if you just said yes.”
I give her a well-timed chuckle, one my acting coach would applaud. “I’m sure that would be enough for most of the guys you come across to sign up. But I’m going to need a little more information.”
She crosses her arms, assessing me with a playful glint in her eye. “Right? Wouldn’t want to interfere with your plans for the upcoming barista conference.”
Is that a thing?Why didn’t Marvin tell me about it? I could have gone there instead of signing up for a week of this. My mouth snaps shut before I reply. She’s teasing. Well played, Zara. “I’ve had it circled on my calendar for months. Maxwell House is giving the keynote about franchising coffee shops in Russia—the keynote is called Tsarbucks.”
Her hands fly to her face, too late to prevent the snort laugh escaping. “There’s my Bruce Leroy. I’ve missed him.” Her eyes widen in shock at her admission, and the air electrifies around us like it did this morning.
