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“I need your help,” she says, steering the conversation away from her admission. “I’m pitching a fashion line to a sports team next week, and the model I’ve designed all the outfits for has abandoned me.”
I see where her breadcrumbs lead. “I’m just a barista.” I’m an actor and play pretend for a living, but this is different.
“And the friend who abandoned me is a carpenter. I’m not looking for a professional model. You just need to stand and profile. I’m only asking because you’re about the same size,and…” Her gaze flashes behind me to the ever-growing line of customers who are desperately filling their orders before I return from break. “Looks like you might have a lot of free time on your hands soon.”
I twist in my chair, my hand resting on the frame of the chair. “I kinda did a P-O-U-R job,” I spell out the word for her knowing when I turn, I’ll be rewarded with another bright smile.
“I can help you too,” she offers an intriguing incentive.
My chuckle is my agreement. I turn to face her, her dark eyes assessing me. I pause and allow her to drink in all of me while I do the same. I finally understand the draw of coffee addiction. Something so strong you can’t refuse. “So, what am I agreeing to?”
“When do you close?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to recall the schedule. Marvin had me vary my shifts, wanting me to get experience with opening, mid-day madness, and the quieter evening shift. “Tonight, if I’m still employed,” I say the joke before she does.
“Perfect,” she declares as if she’s already plotted our future. “I live nearby. I’ll bring a few of the outfits right before close. We can begin then.”
“One down, one to go,” I remind her of the other half of the deal. She’s a coffee shop regular. She knows more about the culture and expectations than anything I can learn in a script. She’s the perfect research subject for my role. “What do I need to do?”
She points a polished nail directly at my chest. “Do more of this.” I don’t follow. She reads my face and snickers. “You have a serious problem with how you prepare the drinks. But that’s an easy fix.” My shoulders unclench, hope on the horizon. “But the true secret is for you to be more like this. This guy sitting with me. Warm, charming, funny. People come to cafés to catch up with neighbors, gossip, and sometimes to work. But mostof all, they come for the environment. Mrs. Whitehead knows everything about every customer who enters. Knows their kid’s names. Which relative is visiting in town and how they like their orders before they tell her. People come to be greeted like old friends. To feel like they were missed since they last visited. You’re handsome. You’re funny. Show more of this—the real you.”
She reaches across the table, her delicate fingers landing on my forearm, and I fight to ignore the spark that shoots up my arm. She’s asking me to do the one thing I’m not supposed to do. Be me. “It’s a lot, I know. But I’ll be with you every step of the way. You’re a good listener, and that’s half the battle.”
I lay my hand on top of hers, a bold move for someone who was a stranger hours ago. I trust my instincts over societal protocol. Her gaze lowers to take in our hands for a few seconds before she lifts her chin, the corner of her lip curving up. My instincts are spot on. Internally, I’m pumping my fist to the sky, but I won’t let her see that. I wish I could sit like this with her for the rest of my shift, but my break is ending soon.
Her eyelids flutter, and, this close, I see a blush forming beneath her caramel skin. She’s feeling it too. “You said half the battle.” I lead us back to the safety of shore. “What’s the other half?”
“Teaching you to always put a heart-shaped latte art on my order.” Her long eyelashes flutter, a twinkle shooting sparks through me. “I’m a sucker for creative latte art. You know, me being a designer and all. Can you do that? Will you give me your heart?”
The moment demands a smart retort. Something cute and clever. We sit in silence for a few heartbeats, our fingers lingering on top of one another, and I realize this moment doesn’t deserve any further words.
Sometime silence is the perfect response.
Zara just taught me my first lesson.
Chapter Five
Zara
The Coffee Loft is deserted. The last customer left over fifteen minutes ago, and my heart is racing. Mrs. Whitehead has asked Devon to join her in the office in the back of the shop to discuss how the day went.
I had expected the conversation to be quick. But with every passing minute, my concern grows. Is she firing Devon? Did he climb out the tiny window to escape facing me with the embarrassing news? Did she give him a timeout and force him to watch the coffee channel on YouTube? Is that a thing? If not, it totally should be.
My foot nudges the shopping bag of volleyball uniform designs I grabbed from my apartment moments ago. I’m the only person in the café after hours, a courtesy Mrs. Whitehead extended because I’ve spent nearly as many hours here as her.
I jump when I hear footsteps. “Do better.” My back stiffens with the harsh words from the nicest coffee shop owner on the planet. I’ve never heard her say a cross word to another human. He’s totally fired.
“Lock up when you’re finished, and I’ll see you mid-day tomorrow.” Mrs. Whitehead shoots the words over her shoulder at Devon, marching directly toward the exit. She looks up, her eyes widening as if she forgot I was here.
“Zara!” Her lips part, and I brace for what comes next. She gives me a frustrated short headshake and steps around me, escaping before she’s forced to scream.
I turn, ready to console a devastated Devon. I locate him behind the counter with an unjustified look of anger on his face. Whatever Mrs. Whitehead has said to him, no matter how harsh, is well-deserved.
“You’ve done the impossible. You’ve gotten Mrs. Whitehead upset.” I tiptoe toward the counter, careful not to disturb the bull in the china shop.
“I was set up to fail,” he barks, and I step closer to see what he’s doing. Knee to the floor, he’s digging into the stock stored in the cabinets beneath the counter. “It says it right there decaffeinated tea.” I make my way behind the counter to see what he’s yelling about. He grabs a gray and white box of tea, which even from where I’m standing, clearly reads in thirty-point fontCaffeinated.
He grabs another package of gold coffee that I recognize. Columbian gold. The strongest bean in the shop. “Everything down here is in the wrong place. I studied and memorized every freaking recipe. But nothing is where it should be.” He plops his rear to the ground, his legs crossing in front of him. A look of defeat on his face. He points to the embossed labels on the edge of each shelf. “Everything is in the wrong place.” He lifts his chin at me, his eyes flashing anger again. “That’s why my drink game is weak.”
