by Tara Lush
“For the grand prize champion barista team, I’d like a drumroll, please,” the mayor said. “Of course, there are no drums, so let’s have a few seconds of awkward silence.”
The crowd tittered. I let out a low grunt and crushed Erica’s hand in a death grip. A pool of sweat had formed on my tailbone, and I hadn’t taken a full, deep breath in what seemed like hours.
“And the winners of the inaugural Sunshine State Barista Championships are …” the announcer’s voice echoed through the rec center, “The team from Perkatory!”
“No way,” I murmured. Everyone on stage turned to stare at us, and the audience clapped and hooted. My feet felt like they were encased in asphalt.
“Way. We did it!” Erica shouted, pulling me toward the front. The head judge, a woman who was an executive at a famous coffee brand from Miami, beamed while handing each of us trophies. They were golden espresso cups atop a square wood block.
I swept Erica up in an embrace, and we hugged and jumped and made squealing noises while clutching our trophies.
“I can’t believe it,” I cried.
“See? Told you.” Then she cleared her throat. “Uh, I think your nemesis wants a word with you.”
Paige stood about five feet away, staring at us. She looked like her father when she smiled.
“I’ll catch up with you later,” I said to Erica, then spotted my dad waving at us. Holding up my trophy, I winked at him and Erica bounded in his direction.
I took a few steps toward Paige. As I got closer, I noticed her eyes were rimmed with red. “Hey,” I said in a soothing voice, as if talking to a feral raccoon.
“Hey. Congratulations. You two were excellent.”
“Thank you. You and your dad were great, too. Everyone was great. Great contest. Great stuff. Just great.” Oh lord, I was babbling.
A muscle in her jaw ticked. “I wanted to apologize. Obviously, I was wrong about you and Fabrizio. He put me through a lot, and I’m just coming to terms with it. I’m sorry for my outburst that day in the grocery store.”
I had to admit, I was impressed by her self-awareness. “There’s no need to apologize at all. You’ve been through a lot.” The image of Lex rubbing her feet popped in my mind. “Do what you need to grieve. If you ever want to talk, maybe we could—”
She cut me off, tossing her ponytail over her shoulder. “Yeah. Maybe we can have a cup of coffee. Well, you can. I’ll have herbal tea.” She patted her stomach.
“I’d like that.”
She smiled, this time genuine and relaxed. “Anyway. Congrats. You and Erica really do make great coffee.”
She melted away into the crowd. I was almost as shocked at Paige’s grace as winning the competition. This was turning out to be quite the day. My gaze landed on one very handsome man dressed in a police uniform.
Noah.
He stood below the stage, holding his hat in hand. He was smiling up at me, a little shimmer of something that looked like admiration in his deep brown eyes.
“Let me come down there. Don’t move.” I wound my way through a few groups of people, down three stairs and found Noah on the rec center floor.
“That was incredible. Quite suspenseful at the end. Congratulations.”
“How much of the contest did you see?” I asked.
“I saw about the last half hour. Enough to watch you make a perfect latte. Super impressive, cupcake. Were you nervous? I saw you watching the Dotsons as they made their coffees. You looked pretty intense there on the bleachers, winding one of your curls around your finger.”
“Nah, I was cool as a cucumber.” I paused, then glanced at the trophy in my hand, glowing. “Wrong. Yeah, I was super nervous. I didn’t think we’d make it.”
“Well, you did. Add champion barista to your already impressive resume.” When he grinned, his dimples emerged.
“You’re working today? On Saturday? Don’t you ever get a day off?” I teased.
“Not really. We had another tourist-monkey skirmish today. Had to call in the state wildlife officers. I still have some paperwork left, but it shouldn’t take me long. Walk me outside?”
Still clutching the trophy, I followed him out of the community center, down a concrete sidewalk that led to the beach, passing bathing-suit clad families and hipsters on beach cruisers, who pedaled while drinking cocktails. The smell of suntan lotion was thick and sweet compared to the earthy scent of coffee I’d inhaled all afternoon.
We stopped at a bench flanked by two enormous sea grape bushes and a sign that said. DEVIL’S BEACH: LIFE IS DIFFERENT HERE.
In the distance, the Gulf of Mexico shimmered a bright blue, the color of the sky. It was late in the afternoon, probably around five. I turned to Noah. “I’m about to head home and shower, then I should be over at seven-thirty or eight. Sound good to you? We are still on for tonight, aren’t we?”
“We absolutely are still on for tonight. Sounds perfect,” Noah said. I was mesmerized by how the late-day sunshine made his brown eyes glitter.
A warm breeze kicked up and blew a strand of my hair into my face. Without saying a word, Noah swept it away with his index finger, then tucked it behind my ear. My whole body sparkled like the water a few dozen yards away.
“I’ll see you in a while. By the time you get to my house, I’ll have the grill all fired up,” he murmured. “Congratulations on your win.”
I was already fired up, just standing next to him. Between the win and our date, I was almost giddy. “Thanks. I’ve already made dessert for tonight, by the way. Want to know what it is?”
He shook his head. “Surprise me.” Grinning, he took a few steps back, while I sank onto the bench. I’d been standing for hours, and my feet ached.
“You going back inside?” he called out, pointing at the rec center.
“Not right now. I’m going to stay out here to get a breath of air.”
“Okay. Talk soon.” He turned to walk away, and I couldn’t stop grinning.
Suddenly, both my heart and my life felt full, as if it could burst from happiness. Something I hadn’t felt in quite a long time.
I stared at the trophy in my hands, then at the sign near the bench. I started to giggle.
Devil’s Beach: life is different here.
THE END
Author Biography
Tara Lush is a Florida-based novelist and journalist. She’s an RWA Rita finalist, an Amtrak writing fellow and the winner of the George C. Polk award for environmental journalism. For the past decade, she’s been a reporter with The Associated Press, covering crime, alligators, natural disasters and politics. She also writes contemporary romance set in tropical locations. Tara is a fan of vintage pulp fiction book covers, Sinatra-era jazz, 1980s fashion, tropical chill, kombucha, gin, tonic, seashells, true crime podcasts, Art Deco, telenovelas, street art, coconut anything, strong coffee and newspapers. She lives on the Gulf coast with her husband and two dogs.
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Tamara Lush
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.
ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-64385-618-6
ISBN (ebook): 978-1-64385-619-3
Cover design by Brandon Dorman
Printed in the United States.
www.crookedlanebooks.com
Crooked Lane Books
34 West 27th St., 10th Floor
New York, NY 10001
First Edition: December 2020
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