by Amelia Wilde
It’s piggish and shallow, but my mind keeps wandering to that body of hers underneath those t-shirts, the little shorts hugging her perky ass. She’s no wide-eyed innocent—at least I don’t get that vibe—but the sight of her is always so fresh. And the dancing? Sure, it was a little bit awkward, skewing more toward nightclub shenanigans than pro backup dancer, but I liked it. I liked the hell out of it. I liked it so much that I can’t stop thinking about it.
I think about it for so long that dawn comes. It’s only then, with sunlight falling across my pillow from the crack in the curtains, that I can fall asleep.
“Da-dee.” Rosie’s sweet little voice splits the air in the cottage. Have I been sleeping? It’s impossible to tell, but either way, I leap out of bed like a superhero and rush to her room. She picks up on the excitement and squeals when she sees me. Damn right—it’s a big day.
When I called my father about coming back to Lakewood, his first question was a resounding “Why?” I don’t know what he’d do without his corporate meeting rooms.
“You don’t know why I’d want to move back to your own hometown?”
“Oh, right, the shop.” Then he’d covered the phone and said something about a quarterly report that hadn’t been quite muffled. “Well, you’ve got to go back for that.”
“I know. That’s why I’m going. I’m calling about daycare for Rosie.”
He sighed heavily. He didn’t have to say what he was thinking about Serena. I didn’t, either. “You’ll want Norma,” he said.
“Anything else I should know?”
“Huxley men—”
“—finish what they start. I’ve got it.”
So Norma is going to be with Rosie during the days, and today is their first chance to get to know each other.
I dress Rosie in her finest short-alls—they’re so damn cute that I can’t resist them—feed her her bottle and breakfast, and get her into the car. The lake is calm this morning. Peaceful. It’s almost a shame to drive away from it, but I have things to do. Namely, get my own coffee. Without that, how am I supposed to look at the renovations with a clear eye?
First stop, Norma’s house. I knew her vaguely from my summers here as a kid, but she opens the door and throws her arms open like we’re long lost friends. “Good morning,” she sings. Rosie buries her head in my shoulder and refuses to say hello until I’ve stood with her inside the house for a solid ten minutes. My anxiety ratchets up. She never had a problem with her daycare in the city, but shit has happened since then. What if she has a bad reaction?
Norma keeps up a constant patter about moving to the city, having a house renovated, all sorts of things, but gradually she shifts her attention to Rosie.
“How are you, sweetheart?”
Rosie grins.
More chatting.
“It’s nice to spend time with friends, isn’t it?”
Rosie chirps a shy yeah.
Chatting.
It’s time to go, but I don’t want to leave her. That’s the thing I’ll never understand about Serena. Impatience is bubbling under my skin, heating to a steady boil...yet I still don’t want to hand Rosie over. I want her to know I’ll always be here for her.
That’s the point of all this. That’s why we moved to Lakewood. That’s why I’m going to open the shop. It was my grandmother’s dream, but it’s going to be Rosie’s anchor. She’ll know that I always follow through.
Unlike her selfish, flighty mother.
“Come see me,” says Norma, holding out her hands. “Daddy has work to do.”
“Wok?”
“Work to do,” she repeats with a nod. “I have toys and treats. Say goodbye to Daddy!”
Just like that, Rosie’s leaning out from my arms, toward Norma. “Daddy!” she says, by way of goodbye, and suddenly I’m the one having to stop myself from making a scene. I kiss her head, rub a hand over her hair, and turn my back before she can see that I have a lump in my throat.
It’s the first day. It’ll only be a few hours. Get a grip, Dash.
Is it terrible that my mood is instantly perked by the thought of seeing Ellery?
I park on one of the back streets downtown so I can enjoy the sun a little bit before I go inside and drown in construction dust and fresh paint. Despite all the bullshit, it’s still relaxing to be heading to the shop. It’ll probably be slightly busy, like yesterday, but it’s not so early that I’ll be battling the first rush.
I’m lulled into complacency by the warmth of the sun on my shoulders and the thought of Ellery’s ass rocking in time to the beat in her head.
I pick my head up at the last moment, just in time to keep from running into a guy standing right in the middle of the sidewalk. What an asshole. I open my mouth to tell him to move out of the way, to stop blocking everybody’s path, when I see it.
There’s a line out the door to Medium Roast.
The place has gone bananas.
Chapter Nine
Ellery
One minute, the streets were empty. The next, they were swarming with people. And all of them were headed straight toward Medium Roast.
I had no way of knowing the tourist season would get off to such an intense start.
I wish I’d gotten off that intensely this morning. Or any time in the past few months. Or ever. The memory of it might shield my brain from the pressure of having fifty people waiting in line all at once, all of them wanting shit that we may not have in short order. I’m also feeling rather blue-balled by the fact that I can’t text my best friend, Honey Carlisle. She’s a supermodel who has disguised herself as a painter. Right now, she’s gallivanting around Europe. For inspiration. I have some inspiration right here.
If he shows up again.
“Hello there,” booms a broad-chested man wearing a visor. I brace myself for his order. I’m doing sixteen other things at once. I’m shoving two blender pitchers into the sanitizer and hitting the “on” switch, saying a silent prayer that it somehow goes twice as fast so that I can keep making the ridiculous smoothies people keep ordering. Nobody orders those things. Or, nobody did order those things until this morning. I haven’t the slightest clue how many boxes of the mix we have. Yes—the mix. It’s not even particularly special or fancy smoothie mix, it’s just mix, but these people are bonkers for it. I hit the switch on the brewer. It’ll be a few minutes until the carafes are full but I have to keep going. Two tiny-ass bags of roasted beans were delivered at some point this morning. I did spend an extra thirty seconds demanding more, but who can count on anything these days?
“Hi!” I say. The shop has been open for three hours, and yes, I am starting to lose it a little. This crowd has been non-stop. The store looks like a latte exploded all over everything, but there’s not much I can do. I can’t make people wait while I clean, and there’s nobody else to help me. “What can I get for you?” I wipe down the counter by the register—all three feet of it—while I wait, trying to keep at least that part of the store presentable.
The man tilts his head up to the menu. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Let’s see? I stare at him, keeping the smile frozen on my face. He has to have been standing in line for half an hour. Fifteen minutes of that was spent inside the Medium Roast. The menu sign is up high. High enough for anyone to see. What has he been doing? Under normal circumstances, I’d chime in with a couple of suggestions, but no words come to mind that aren’t obscenities and that’s not going to get me any tips.
The tips—that’s the silver lining to this situation. The tip jar is stuffed with dollar bills. I can see an errant five and ten in there, too, from some generous souls who recognize the battle I’m fighting. And, of course, making it up to Aunt Lisa and Uncle Fred.
“What’s a latte?” he says, and my soul hisses like an angry cat and crawls away into a dark corner of my heart.
I explain what a latte is, my own voice unrecognizable. Wow. I sound pretty good for a person who’s a hundred customers away from tears.
Maybe not a hundred.
“So you steam the milk, and then…” he mimes pouring it into a to-go cup. There are hidden cameras, right? They’ve been here all along. I bet it’s a skit to see if I’ll ever say anything about the miming.
“Yes.” I nod as definitively as I can. “It’s…pretty good.” Am I convincing? Sure I am.
“Too fancy,” he decides. “I’ll have a large coffee, black.”
I ring him up and hand him the cup. One more down.
“Hi!” I say to the couple sidling up to the counter. The man leans down with his elbow on the surface, which is the universal sign of a person who is about to speak to me as if we’re co-conspirators. It’s not us against the world, buddy. Not today.
“Is it always like this?” he says, glancing back at the line behind him.
“Sometimes we’re closed,” I say with a cute little shrug. “What can I get for you?”
“A black coffee,” he says with a wink. “Do you want anything, babe?”
“No, babe,” his girlfriend says, twisting her ponytail around her finger. “This town is so cute. Where’s a good place to eat lunch?”
“The Short Stack is pretty good,” I say and lunge for the cups.
A wet sucking sound rings out over the crowd. Shit. One carafe empty. What’s A Latte guy stands over it, chuckling. “This one’s out,” he calls to me, raising it in his hand and then putting it back down on the counter in front of him. He moves to the second carafe. I hold my breath. A few more minutes. I only need this to last a few more minutes. If I can get a few people out of here, the pressure will ease a little bit, and—
Another wet sucking sound, like the last of the ocean getting sucked up by a karma vacuum. There’s an audible groan from somewhere near the side door.
“More’s on the way, people,” I call out. It’s true. For the next two carafes, anyway.
Co-conspirator Guy gives me a sage nod. “It’s okay. Waiting is part of life.”
I move on.
But the next woman in line doesn’t look nearly as indulgent. She looks pissed off.
“Hi! What can I get for you?” I glance back at the brewer. It’s not nearly close enough to being done.
“You listen to me,” she says, red-faced. “I don’t know what kind of shop you’re running here—”
Coffee, I want to say. Kind of.
“—but this is absolutely unacceptable, and I demand to—”
“Ellery! You look like you could use some help.”
My heart leaps at that voice. It’s literally the voice of my dreams, only in my dreams, he’s not saying anything nearly as appropriate as this. I would give all the money in my tip jar to fold myself into one of those dreams right now, but this is the next best thing.
All around me heads swivel toward him. Someone toward the middle of the line gasps. Right? I want to shout, but I don’t.
Dash is here.
Chapter Ten
Dash
Ellery is a hot mess, and I don’t think she’s had a moment to breathe, much less check how she looks in the mirror.
It’s the cutest hot mess I’ve ever seen. Don’t get me started on this pair of jean shorts, a black half-apron tied around her waist, the bow practically a neon sign lighting the way to her unbelievable behind. Her ponytail is somehow off center, tendrils falling around her face. Her expression is how I’d picture it if she were rescued from rough seas after surviving a shipwreck. Pure, unadulterated joy.
For a second, and then she pulls it back. “Dash!” she says, her hands going to her hair. She stops herself inches before she touches it. “Oh, no, I’m good.”
Ellery has clearly entered a state of denial. “I don’t think so.”
“Who are you to say?” she says flippantly, and then remembers the customer at the front of the line, who is scarlet with anger.
“I demand to speak to your—”
“I’m the manager,” I say, and Ellery snorts. “I’m so sorry about the wait, ma’am. It’s been an extremely busy day. What can we get for you?”
Her face changes when she looks at me. Thank God I wore my very best t-shirt this morning. I had no idea I’d have to use it to distract irate women from the disaster that is this coffee shop.
“A latte,” she says meekly.
Ellery whirls around, darting over to the handwashing sink while I stab at the cash register. “How do you—”
“Put in the price first,” she calls, scrubbing up. The price is in big numbers on the menu board.
I give the woman the same smile I used to flirt with women in the club back in college. “What size, ma’am?”
“Medium,” she says breathlessly.
“Medium latte,” I repeat back. “Any flavoring?”
“Caramel,” she whispers. I read her lips. These people are making a racket in here.
“Three eighty-five,” I say, putting the numbers in. “Then what?”
“Money,” Ellery says it as she opens the front of the sanitizer and yanks out a frothing pitcher.
I keep smiling at the woman while she opens her purse, takes out her wallet, and hands over a five. “Out of five dollars,” I say.
“The big green button,” Ellery calls. She’s already got milk in the frothing pitcher and stands at the espresso machine, poised to steam it. I hit the big green button. The drawer flies open. Ellery starts the drink.
“One fifty back,” I tell the woman, putting it gently into her hand. Then I lower my voice. “Tips appreciated.”
With a trembling hand, she shoves the bill and coins into the stuffed tip jar. “Thank you,” she says, then slinks away to wait for her drink near the display case. It’s empty, but I imagine on a good day it has baked goods inside.
Ellery steps to my side, the to-go cup in her hand, and reaches for a top that she presses expertly on, making sure it’s solid all the way around. There is practically no room back here, between the front counter with the register and the back counter, and being this close has my heart racing. Among other things.
She beams down the counter at the woman, then presses the to-go cup into my hand. “You’re closer,” she whispers.
“Got it.” I hand over the drink, but when I turn around, Ellery has taken up a position behind the register.
I step back over. “Do you want to run the register or make drinks?”
“Both,” she says, keeping her voice low, like mine. “This is my job.”
“You’re doing awesome,” I say, turning slightly away from the line of people. “Only it looks like a fucking disaster zone in here. Let me help out.”
“I’m not a damsel in distress,” she answers, but she looks back behind her at the jumble of frothing pitchers and blender parts and smoothie spills on the countertop.
“No damsel in distress could dance like you.” Pink comes to her cheeks layered on top of the flush from how hot it is behind the counter. She opens her mouth to say something and then doesn’t. “But here’s the point. You need help. I’ve got time. Plus—” I cock my head toward the register. “I sort of already started. I can’t leave a job unfinished.”
Ellery looks at me for a long moment. “Who are you? Seriously. Is this one of those game shows? A skit show? One of those shows where they trick people?”
“Trick people into having a better time at work? That would be a great prank.”
“No, you’re—” Ellery laughs out loud. “You’re way too attractive to be doing this.”
“So are you.”
“Shut up.”
“Register or drinks?”
She takes a deep breath. “The register is slowing me down, big time. I’ve got to wash my hands every time I handle money, and—” No wonder there’s a little sheen of desperation in her eyes. Whose idea was this? The space might be limited, but there’s room enough for another person or two. At least someone to stand at the register and take orders. For now, that person needs to be me.
“I’ve got it,” I tel
l her as another couple steps up. The woman sighs heavily, crossing her arms.
“You don’t have to do this,” Ellery says.
“I really do.”
“You don’t—”
I put a hand on her shoulder and turn her so that both of us are facing away from the customers. “Ellery. This is a dire situation. I’m stepping in.”
“Fine,” she hisses. “But if you do that, then you have to take me out to dinner.”
Excitement shivers along my spine. “This seems like a great deal for you and—”
“—a great deal for you, too.”
“Right.” I nod along. “These people are getting restless. Let’s get them their drinks and get them out of here. What do you say?”
Ellery nods, but then a frown crosses her face like a cloud coming over the sun. “About that—”
Chapter Eleven
Ellery
Here’s another silver lining: this insane influx of customers has stripped me of most of my inhibitions. Why not tell the hottest man I’ve ever seen to take me on a date? If he’s on one of those shows, the jig will be up when they have to shoot in the new location.
I don’t really believe the theory about the prank show. I’m starting to, slightly, but it’s the heat. And the line that’s still out the door. It has nothing to do with reality.
Dash smiles, a half-smile that nearly does me in right there in terms of propriety. “About what?”
He’s so close to me that it would take practically no effort to reach out and tug his shirt over his head. With our backs turned away from the customers it’s almost like we’re in a private room.
