“I’m late to see my patients,” she said with a wink as she threw a twenty into the shop. “Talk to you later.”
No other car came up behind her, so I spun around with a deep, bolstering breath. Time to tackle Mr. Viking, get him something, and send him on his way so I could officially close and take stock of this madness. This utter, chaotic disaster was drowning me in stress and debt, preventing all my professional advancement into the beautiful world of real estate.
Thanks, Dad.
Setting aside that unfortunate thought, I stepped up behind the open register. “What can I get you?”
His gaze dropped from the board, meeting mine. My breath caught, but I fought through it, forcing myself to maintain eye contact. His eyes were liquid gold. I’d never seen such a color before.
“Macchiato.”
“We are fresh out of that.”
“Caffe latte?”
My voice quieted to a squeak. “That too.”
A flicker of amusement passed over his face as he reached into a back pocket. “How about you tell me what you do have?”
“Scones,” I said, “and bottled water. Until I can figure out the mess that my now-former employee left behind, that’s about as much as you’ll get. Eventually, I’ll have coffee again for you, but it may take . . . fifteen minutes at this rate.”
“Breakfast of champions.” He tossed some cash onto the counter. “Scones and water sound great.”
I slid it back. He had to be kidding. The scones could double as hockey pucks, but I’d take whatever mercy he offered.
“On the house.”
He left the money on the counter as he turned to sit down. My fingers itched to take it, but pride forced me to leave it there. The last thing I needed to be doing was turning away money.
But still . . .
My eyes darted to a clock that featured a prominent salmon Dad had bought while fishing in Alaska. Then I sighed. Nope. Already missed the scholarship meeting with Dave.
Slumping, I leaned against the counter.
Dang.
“Do you have internet?” the Viking asked. His voice rumbled low and deep, like a roll of thunder sliding across a mountain meadow. Despite my desire to get rid of him, I wanted to wrap myself in it.
“Yes. The password is on the board. Do you want the scone warmed?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
He settled onto a table with his back to the door, leaving his chiseled face in full view. I fought off a swear word and left the cash sitting there. I really didn’t want him to stay. Could I force a customer out?
No.
Dad would turn over in his grave, then reach out and slap me.
With a sigh, I grabbed a new water bottle from the mini fridge beneath the counter, warmed a chocolate chip scone on a plate, set the cash next to it, and delivered them to him without looking at his golden eyes.
He was already tapping away at his computer when he said, “Thanks.”
When I turned to go, my eyes snagged a flash of something near the floor. Loose pants. Thin, specialty shoe. Odd kink in the material. I knew those signs very well.
Prosthetic leg.
Interesting.
Grateful to return behind the counter, I made sure the OPEN sign was still off, braced myself for whatever I would find, and set to work. At least Anthony walking out meant I wouldn’t have to pay wages, though shutting down in the middle of rush hour meant I’d lose half of my usual sales for the day. Maybe they’d balance out.
Trying not to total up the lost money of all those cars sailing by, I started mopping up spilled milk on the floor so I could clean up glass shards from the broken cup. I lost myself in the task.
I will not cry.
Not again. There had been enough crying in the last eight months to satisfy a lifetime. Still, my mind wandered back to Dave. To the pitch I had planned for the last two months.
A deep throat clearing caught my attention. I gazed up to see the Viking at the counter again. His broad shoulders blocked out the rising sun behind him, casting him in silhouette.
“The internet is turned off.”
“What?”
His lips tightened, but I couldn’t tell if it was amusement or annoyance now.
“Sorry.” I straightened. “Sorry. That wasn’t about you or . . . I mean . . . give me a second.”
Muttering under my breath again, I stood up, hands milky, and slipped into my closet of an office just down a short hall. Sure enough, the blinking lights were dead.
Wait.
Register wouldn’t shut.
Wi-Fi off.
“Ha!” I called. “Got you now, sucker.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry! Not you. Not . . . that was . . . excuse me just a moment. Need to flip a breaker.”
Properly horrified now, I slipped out of my office and down the hall, toward a set of spiral stairs that led to the attic where I lived. My feet were already starting to ache in these shoes. I kicked them off into my attic bedroom and started back up the steps to the very top.
Five minutes later, I crawled out from an access to the electrical panel, dust clinging to my recently dry-cleaned outfit, and returned to the annoying beep of the register.
“Should be up in a moment,” I called and ducked back into my office. With my forehead pressed to the wall, I let out a deep breath, and muttered, “One problem down, 4,153 to go.”
I reached for my lipstick.
Just another day in the life of the owner of an almost-decrepit coffee shop in the middle of the mountains.
One that had just missed her golden opportunity to pursue her ideal life.
2
Maverick
This girl had no idea.
First, those pants—whatever they were— fit her a little too well.
Second, this place needed a reboot. Or death by accidental fire.
Third, no coffee in a coffee shop? She had to be kidding.
The place smelled like thirty pots of the darkest brew had been burned. That only made everything worse, including the musty smell of old guy. So many fish knickknacks littered this place that I expected her to offer me halibut as an option.
In fact, the majority of the decor here seemed to be dusty fish memorabilia and curling pictures of locals holding dead animals. What appeared to be an original hardwood floor hid beneath a layer of age, and it seemed as if every table needed a book to stabilize it.
This place couldn’t be more perfect.
Despite the situation and a grumpy lady at the drive-through, the barista held herself together pretty well. I pegged her for the owner, though I couldn’t imagine why she was dressed so smartly. A missed meeting, perhaps.
Once the Wi-Fi was restored, the crackling energy of desperation calmed. She returned wearing a pair of yoga pants, sandals, and a T-shirt that said Coach Me with a purse beneath it. She avoided eye contact, which was fine.
Carefully, as I sipped water, I tried to assess exactly what was going on. Small-town mom-and-pop shops like this fit the same pattern time after time. Inherited businesses, usually. This girl—Bethany, if that apron was right—was likely the owner-operator. Out to prove herself in the big bad entrepreneurial world with a quaint place she probably wanted to make into a bed-and-breakfast.
Which was way more work than she likely anticipated.
Judging by the aesthetic, her father, uncle, or grandfather had gifted it to her, or owned it first. A picture on the wall of a fiftysomething man in jeans, a ragged shirt, and the exact same baseball cap she was wearing now showed an uncanny resemblance. He held a fish on the porch of this shop. Probably the first day it opened. Maybe he caught that fish in the reservoir behind here.