The Solid Grounds Coffee Company

by Carla Laureano

  What did he have to lose? He had nothing to go back to but the disappointed looks of friends and family. At very least, this delay to the inevitable would pad his bank account. And maybe he’d figure out a new direction by the time he boarded the flight home.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “I’m in. When do we start?”

  Chapter One

  EIGHT MONTHS LATER

  In all her years as a publicist, Analyn Sanchez had never met a mess she couldn’t clean up.

  Until now.

  She gripped her cell phone so hard her fingers began to turn white as she struggled to keep her voice level. “I don’t understand how this could have happened. I have a signed contract right in front of me. June nineteenth, Bishop-Kanin wedding.”

  “I’m very sorry, Ms. Sanchez. I understand how upsetting this is, and I take full responsibility for it. But the situation remains, we are double-booked for the nineteenth. I’ve already spoken to the other party to see if they’d be willing to change. They’re not, and because their contract was signed first, I have no choice but to give them the space.”

  Ana pressed the fingertips of her free hand into her eyelids. “What are we supposed to do, then? The invitations have already gone out.”

  “Again, I’m very sorry. Of course we will refund the deposit and any additional monies paid, and I’ll be happy to send you a list of other venues that might have openings—”

  Ana stopped listening after the second “very sorry.” One job. She’d had one job and she’d blown it. Melody was handling all of the decor and working with Rachel on the menu; all Ana had had to do was negotiate and book the venue. And now, with the wedding less than three months away, her best friend had nowhere to marry the love of her life.

  She almost didn’t register the woman’s voice still coming from the speaker; she’d ceased to exist the minute she wasn’t willing to help. Ana clicked off her phone and, in nearly the same motion, dialed the other member of their little trio, Melody Johansson.

  The phone rang several times before Melody picked up. “Hey, Ana. What’s up? Is something wrong?”

  The low hum of voices and clatter of pans in the background made Ana glance at her clock—5:20. Melody and Rachel would be shutting down the kitchen of Bittersweet Café right now, getting ready to close their doors to retail traffic at six o’clock. “Is Rachel there?”

  A couple of sharp bangs, and the noise level dropped sharply. “Not anymore. I stepped outside. But you’re starting to freak me out.”

  “The venue is double-booked and they gave it to the other party.”

  A long silence met the announcement. Then Melody said slowly, “That’s . . . unfortunate.”

  “It’s more than unfortunate, Melody. The wedding is only twelve weeks away and they’ve got nowhere to get married!” Heads turned in Ana’s direction, and she quickly lowered her voice. She wasn’t supposed to be handling personal matters in the office, let alone those of a friend, but it wasn’t like she had a choice. “What are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to look for another venue, of course. This is Denver, not New York. It’s not like we booked the Plaza three years ahead.”

  Melody had been clearly watching rom-coms again; Ana knew for a fact she’d never been to New York, let alone the Plaza Hotel. “Yes, but this is Denver. Meaning there’s less than three months of the year we can count on good weather, so everyone gets married between June and August. Things were starting to book up nine months ago.”

  “That’s what I don’t understand. We’ve been talking to them the whole time. We have menus chosen. How did no one notice this?”

  “I don’t know. Something about a junior sales rep booking the other group and not merging her calendar.”

  “How about a different day?”

  “We can’t. Alex has family coming in from Moscow. There’s no way we can ask them to reschedule.”

  “Well, we’re going to figure this out. Hey, what about Alex’s place? He has that gorgeous roof deck, and it is where their love story began in a way. It could be really meaningful.”

  Ana shook her head automatically. “No can do. They’ve invited a hundred and fifty people, and even if we could manage to stuff that many guests up there, I think the fire marshal and the building department would have something to say about it. I’m sure it’s not rated for that weight or those numbers.”

  Several feet away, Ana’s boss, Lionel, poked his head out and gestured to her from his framed glass doorway. “Ana, when you’re done, can I see you in my office?”

  Ana nodded and held up one finger. “Sorry, Mel, I’ve gotta go. Let’s talk later? And don’t say a word to Rachel until we have some solution to present. I don’t want her worrying about this.”

  “Okay, I’ll—”

  Ana’s finger was already on the End Call button before the words came from the speaker, and by then it was too late. She had hung up on her friend midsentence. She cringed, but there was no time to call back and apologize. Besides, Melody wouldn’t be offended—she knew how crazy Ana’s job was.

  She inhaled deeply, counting to herself as she sucked oxygen into her lungs, then exhaled for twice as long. A meditation exercise meant to calm her nerves and slow her heart rate. It didn’t help.

  She rose from her desk, smoothed down her pencil skirt, and strode across the room to her boss’s office. “You needed to see me, Lionel?”

  “Yes, I did, Ana. Please close the door.”

  She turned around and pulled the glass door shut behind her, only then noticing that they were not alone. Morgan sat in the armchair in the corner, clutching a handful of Kleenex. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m going to need to you take over Christopher Mason from Morgan.”

  Ana blinked at her boss for a long moment, then looked at Morgan. “Why? You fought tooth and nail for that account.”

  Lionel cleared his throat. “It seems that Mason has been harassing Morgan and she is uncomfortable with continuing.”

  Ana narrowed her eyes at the first whiff of dishonesty. Morgan never had a problem with clients. As women dealing with badly behaved men, they were always fending off unwanted advances and unwarranted assumptions. Morgan was the first person to set them straight, often in painful ways if they tried anything funny. The tissue-clutching, teary-eyed victim sitting in the chair across from Ana had to be a complete fabrication.

  “This is a great opportunity for you, Ana.”

  “I’ve already got a full roster of wealthy, wannabe frat boys. Why would I want to add another one?”

  “Because this one’s father is about to be appointed to a cabinet position, and said father happens to be a longtime friend of my family. So I would take it as a personal favor if you would get him in line and keep him out of trouble for the next month until the nomination is announced.”

  Ana took a deep breath and considered. It sounded like Lionel was giving her a choice, but she knew from experience that once you started turning down clients at Massey-Coleman, it was a short slide to finding yourself on the way out the door. They were hired to be can-do types, and that meant accepting even the most annoying and difficult clients. There was a reason why publicists in the crisis management division got paid so much—they earned each and every penny.

  “Fine,” Ana said with a sharp nod. “Morgan, I need all your files on him. I’ll give him a call and figure out where we are. Lionel, are you notifying him of the change, or am I?”

  “Somehow I think he would take the change better coming from you.” The glint in Lionel’s eye was her first indication she might have made a mistake by acquiescing so easily. “Morgan, that will be all. Please get Ana all your files before you leave today.”

  They both nodded curtly at their boss, and Ana preceded Morgan from the office. As soon as they were halfway across the room to her desk, Ana rounded on her. “What was that all about? And don’t tell me for one minute you’ve suddenly lost your ability to shut a client down before he can
even attempt a pass at you.”

  Morgan straightened, no sign of the tearful demeanor in sight. “He’s called me in the middle of the night every night this week. My husband has threatened to either kill him or divorce me if I don’t dump him.”

  “So you thought you’d make him my problem?”

  Morgan grimaced. “Sorry about that. I was actually lobbying for him to go to Ryan. I figured he wouldn’t be as demanding with a male publicist.”

  “But somehow Lionel got the idea that I was the perfect person to handle him.”

  “Well, they don’t call you the Atomic Nun for nothing.”

  “No one calls me that except you.” But the joking nickname loosened the knot in Ana’s stomach and she managed a smile. “Fine. But you owe me big time.”

  “I promise. Anything you need . . . that doesn’t involve Christopher Mason.” Morgan sat down at her computer, clicked a few keys, and attached a file folder to an email message with Ana’s address on it. “On its way.”

  Ana gave her a nod and strode back to her desk, concentrating on her breathing again. Morgan’s email was waiting at the top of her inbox, so she wasted no time in downloading the file and beginning her perusal. From the notes, it was hard to tell that Christopher Mason was a difficult client—it was just the usual guidance for anyone related to a politician. Keep them out of the press, keep their personal activities—whatever they might be—quiet, unless it was a specifically orchestrated photo op. The media was rabid when it came to the families of politicians running on a morality ticket. The minute someone came out in favor of family values or the like, reporters combed through the dirty laundry hoping to find an illegitimate baby or a gay son they could parade around as a sign of the politician’s hypocrisy. But from her reading, she didn’t see much more than the propensity to drink and speak a little too freely at fund-raisers for his father’s campaign. Maybe Morgan was telling the truth and she was just doing this because her husband didn’t like her getting late-night calls.

  Only one way to find out. Ana found his number, picked up her phone, and dialed. Mason answered on the first ring.

  “Mr. Mason, my name is Analyn Sanchez. I’m Morgan Caroll’s colleague at the Massey-Coleman Group.”

  His response was cordial, professional even. “Hi, Analyn. It’s nice to meet you. What can I do for you this afternoon?”

  “We’ve had a bit of internal restructuring here, and I’ll be working on your account now. I was hoping we could get together, just to meet, get to know each other a bit.”

  “How about tonight?”

  Ana paused and glanced at her watch. She had dinner plans with Rachel and Melody. “I’m afraid I’m not available tonight.”

  “That’s too bad. I’ve got reservations at Equity Bar and Grill and my dinner date had to cancel on me. Tell me if I’m mistaken, but I seem to remember Lionel Massey assuring my father that my publicist would be at my disposal whenever necessary.”

  Ana let out her breath carefully. If Lionel had really conveyed that message, it went a long way to explaining why Morgan had demanded that he be assigned to someone else. Some clients seemed to think they needed to get their money’s worth.

  And if Mason ran back to Daddy, who then called Lionel, Ana would have plenty of free time to spend on dinner with her friends.

  “Very well. I can reschedule. What time is your reservation?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  “Great. I’ll see you then.” Ana forced a smile so the feigned warmth would transfer to her voice and then hung up. She quickly sent a group text to her friends.

  Sorry to bail, but I can’t make dinner tonight. Last minute meeting with new (problem) client.

  Moments later, Rachel replied, Come by my house when you’re done. Melody brought home eclairs from the bakery. We’ll save you some.

  Melody’s response instantly followed: Speak for yourself. Ana, if you’re not there by nine, I’m eating them ALL.

  Ana texted back: Fair enough. For the last eight years, she, Melody, and Rachel had been practically inseparable. Her two friends worked in the food service industry, Rachel as a chef and Melody as a baker, but they had opened their own place together less than a year ago. Somehow, even owning a business that required them to report to work at 4 a.m., they seemed to have more free time than she did. In fact, it had been three weeks since she’d seen either of them in more than a drive-by at Bittersweet Café.

  But that was the job. Long hours, late nights, and problem clients. When she’d taken the position in the crisis publicity division, she’d thought she was making the smart move; after all, most of her regular clients were in the middle of mini crises on a regular basis. Turned out it was less a matter of crises and more a matter of highly sensitive situations—she spent more time mitigating the negatives than accentuating the positives. It wasn’t that she lied. Everything she publicized on her clients’ behalf was 100 percent true. It was just that every fact was interpreted through the listener’s bias; it was her job to make sure the bias leaned in her clients’ favor. Like every criminal deserved a competent lawyer, she firmly believed that every public figure could use a brilliant publicist.

  And just like every defense lawyer, she wished for once that she’d get a client who was innocent.

  “That’s why they pay you the big bucks, Ana,” she murmured to herself. As if to punctuate that statement, she rose onto the five-inch heels of her favorite Louboutins, hoisted her Prada handbag over her shoulder, and prepared to make her way down to the parking garage where her leased company car—a shiny Mercedes-Benz SUV—waited for her. All the symbols of her success. All items that, once upon a time, she’d thought she needed in order to prove herself.

  And not for the first time, she wondered if it was a hollow victory.

  * * *

  Ana didn’t have time to go home and change before her dinner meeting at the high-end steak house, so at the last minute, she made a stop in the ladies’ room to freshen up her makeup from the case she kept in her tote. A few bobby pins secured her thick black hair into a sophisticated French twist. Fortunately, the office dress code was business—the unspoken understanding among the women that it also meant both sophisticated and stylish—so her black peplum suit and bow-necked silk blouse would fit right into the ritzy surroundings.

  She made it the handful of blocks from her office building in just a few minutes and handed her vehicle over to the valet at eight on the dot. Then she marched inside to the hostess desk. “Christopher Mason’s party?”

  “Right this way.” The hostess smiled at Ana and led her through the sprawling dining room to where a man sat at a table with two women.

  Two very young women.

  “Mr. Mason?” Ana asked, inwardly hoping he would answer in the negative, even though she’d already seen his photo and knew he was the one she was meeting.

  “You must be Analyn.” He rose with a blinding smile and shook her hand, then gestured to the empty chair on his right. “I would like you to meet my friends Catelyn and Rebecca.”

  Ana looked over the “friends” surreptitiously. They were barely twenty, slathered in cosmetics, and squeezed into cheap polyester cocktail dresses that showed off both leg and cleavage. Everything about them screamed escort.

  A waitress came to their table then to take their drink orders.

  “Double Manhattan on the rocks,” Mason said immediately, flashing that smile for the waitress again.

  “Sparkling water for me,” Ana said. When the waitress looked at the girls, she said, “Them too.”

  Only a quick second glance in the girls’ direction betrayed the waitress’s curiosity, but she smiled and nodded and hustled off to get their drinks. When Ana glanced at Mason, he was studying her beneath lowered lids, a half smile on his lips. So that’s what this was about. A test. Or better yet, a statement. No wonder Morgan had resorted to deception to get rid of him, and why they’d been hired by the senator from Colorado to babysit his son. She was tryin
g to decide on a response when a cell phone rang.

  Mason fished his phone from his jacket’s breast pocket and glanced at the screen. “Excuse me a moment.” He answered the phone and strode toward the front entrance, his voice carrying through the din of conversations.

  Ana fixed a stern glare on the girls. “How old are you two?”

  Rebecca lifted her chin. “I’m a sophomore at CU.”

  “Studying what?”

  “I’m still undeclared.”

  Ana rapid-fired at Catelyn, “And you? What’s your major?”

  Catelyn averted her eyes. “I don’t have one yet.”

  Fabulous. She probably wasn’t out of high school. Ana felt a sudden rush of pity for them. Not even twenty, but working in such an unsavory business. “You two need to go. Now. Before he returns.”

  “But we didn’t get paid—” Catelyn began before Rebecca hastily shushed her.

  “Come on, our night’s over.” Rebecca picked up her handbag and grabbed Catelyn’s arm.

  “Don’t stop, even if he talks to you,” Ana warned, “or my next call is going to be to your parents.”

  The older girl didn’t look fazed, but the terrified look on the younger one’s face as Rebecca hustled her out of the restaurant told Ana all she needed to know. Good. Did Catelyn have any idea what she’d almost gotten herself into? How this could have turned out if it wasn’t all a stunt to get a rise out of his new publicist?

  “Where are they going?” Mason demanded as he approached the table. His voice caused the patrons at surrounding tables to turn in his direction.

  “Home.” Ana gestured placidly to the seat opposite her. “Sit down, Mr. Mason.”

  He scowled at her, but he sat.

  “Let me make one thing clear. While I’m your publicist, there will be no more escorts or Tinder dates or anything that even smacks of sexual misconduct. We just need to get you through the next month without doing anything to disgrace your family name. Once you’re no longer my responsibility, you can do whatever you want.”