Mrs. February (The Calendar Girl Duet Book 2)

by Karen Cimms

  Jade Eby, thank you as always for your beautiful formatting and interior design of my books. You have the magic touch.

  Dennis Massone, thank you again for your expertise on modified stock cars and mechanics.

  Stephanie Harris and Stacy Mendoza, thank you also for your help with choosing a fast car for Preston to drive. I asked, and you two delivered.

  Diane Lane Stone, thank you for inspiring Rain’s best friend, and also for supporting me with Miss February and Mrs. February from the very beginning. I love you.

  To one of my BFFs, Toni. Thanks again for chauffeuring me around our old stomping grounds. I can’t wait to see you!

  To my beautiful daughter-in-law, Olka, thank you again for translating Irena’s words into Polish. Maybe I’ll learn to say more than “Happy Birthday” one of these days.

  Thank you Ann Travis and Lydia Fasteland. You are the best beta readers a writer can have. I need to thank Diana and Lisa for the both of you as well, and also for Tyra Hattersley and Rhonda Donaldson, for tough, honest feedback.

  Sandy Barg, thanks for being my number one fan! I’m so glad you found me. You swooped into my life and have done everything from beta read to keep my VIP Room entertained. I hope I get to hug you in Salem this year.

  Speaking of my fan group, the VIP Room, I really love you guys. Thank you for all of your support. I’m so lucky we found each other.

  And of course, a very special thank you to all of the bloggers for sharing my work and reviewing my books. I would be nowhere without your support.

  Lastly, my husband, Jim. Thank you for a lifetime of love, happiness, and music. I’m a lucky girl.

  Turn the page for an exclusive sneak peek of BROADWAY BEANS, a romantic comedy by Karen Cimms, due for release this fall.

  Broadway Beans

  Franky

  I didn’t know it was possible to feel this stupid. I’d made coffee before. Hell, I’d even made espresso. Who’d have guessed attempting to become a barista would make me feel as if I were trying to perform brain surgery with nothing more than a high school diploma and a butter knife.

  So far that morning I’d made only two drinks correctly—both of them coffee, black. It was humiliating. It didn’t help that my manager, Dee-Jon, was a real dick. (“Like the mustard?” I’d asked when he’d told me his name. He’d given me an irritated sigh and pointed to his name tag. “No. Dee-Jon,” he repeated. Seriously. It sounded exactly like the mustard.) If I hadn’t been desperate, I would have handed Dee-Jon my misspelled name tag and my godawful orange apron and then told him where to shove his frothing thermometer. But I didn’t, because I needed this job and I had to prove to my parents and myself, that I could make it on my own in Manhattan. Not including living rent free with Erika of course, but taking care of Clarence was a second job. He had to be walked several times a day—apparently his bladder was the size of a pea—and when he did finally find the right spot to take a shit, I had the pleasure of scooping it up and carrying it around in a bright blue bag until I could find a trash can. His diet consisted of some specialty food that was fifteen subway stops away from Erika’s place. Fortunately, the gourmet water he drank—because he couldn’t drink water from the tap, even though it’s a well-known fact New York City water is some of the best drinking water in the country—was ordered from an online pet store and shipped directly to us. Let the UPS man lug it up the stairs. All I had to do was pull the case inside the front hall.

  For as much as I disliked getting up at six o’clock in the morning and pulling sweats on over my pajamas and heading outside to walk Clarence, at least I was good at it.

  Making coffee? Not so much.

  The morning rush was over and Dee-Jon had me empty the trash, then he tossed me a rag and had me wipe down tables. I hadn’t screwed up either.

  I was straightening up the pastry display case when I heard fingers snapping in my direction. Dee-Jon gave me an exaggerated face and pointed to the man standing at the counter, reading over the menu board. This wasn’t Starbucks, but unless he was a regular customer, it might take a while for him to get through all the different varieties of freaking coffee. I stepped behind the counter and washed my hands, then turned to face him.

  “Welcome to Broadway Beans. How may I help you?”

  His face remained tilted up toward the menu board. “Just a sec, sweetheart.”

  I rolled my eyes, but resisted folding my arms in front of me, which my mother says makes me look angry. Instead, I flattened my palms on the counter and waited for him to make up his mind. He wore dark, wire rimmed sunglasses and a long, dark overcoat. Despite the scruff, I could see that he had a jawline that could cut glass. His espresso-colored hair was brushed off his face, but curled down over his forehead in a way that made me want to brush it back. I curled my fingers into my palms.

  He looked down and flashed me the most perfect smile I’d ever seen. “I’ll have an extra-large vanilla latte with coconut milk. Extra hot.”

  Latte. Dee-Jon had shown me how to make a latte, right? Or was that a cappuccino? Espresso. That much I remembered. Dee-Jon was at the other end of the counter. His back was to me, but I could see him watching in the reflection of the antique brass coffee machine. One more screw up would be my last. I’d been on the job less than four hours, and at the rate I was going, I’d be looking for a new job by lunchtime.

  I nodded like what he asked for was a piece of cake, wishing he’d just ordered a damn piece of cake. Didn’t take a genius to slice off a hunk of cake and slap it on a plate.

  I turned away and watched Dee-Jon’s brow furrow. Shit. I turned back.

  “Is that for here or to go?” Say to go, please! If he took it to go, chances were he wouldn’t complain if his coffee wasn’t perfect. He just wouldn’t come back. At this stage of the game, that would be the best option. Plus, if he took it to go, he wouldn’t be expecting one of those fancy designs on top.

  “Here, please.” He pulled out his phone and started tapping away.

  Swell.

  Not only were there a gazillion types of coffee drinks, they each seemed to have a specially designated cup. I should’ve stayed in Brooklyn. At least there I could slice a piece of prosciutto so thin you could see through it, and no one looked at me like I was a moron.

  I reached for a large cup with a wide bowl and the matching saucer. Dee-Jon’s back was still turned to me again, but I could feel his eyes following me like some creepy velvet Jesus painting. I filled the cup halfway with regular coffee. That was easy enough. Too bad I had no idea what came next. Espresso probably. Steamed milk, right?

  When we were in eighth grade, Erika and I, on a dare, each pocketed a lipstick from the local drugstore. I felt less nervous walking out the door of Walgreens that day than I did right now. An adult. Making coffee. Thanks to my sweaty palms, the cup wobbled in my hands. I gripped it tighter and tried to imagine no one watching me.

  I poured the milk into the steamer, flipped the switch, and stood back. The way it hissed and sputtered, all I could think of was a trip to emergency room with second-degree burns. At least that would give me an excuse to get out of there with some dignity, despite the permanent scarring.

  When the milk was ready, I poured it carefully into the cup, realizing too late, I’d forgotten the flavoring and the espresso. Or did the espresso go last? I couldn’t remember if the customer had said upside down. At least I understood what that meant. Or maybe not. Dee-Jon’s reflected glare was burning right through me.

  I grabbed the flavoring and poured it slowly, trying not to mess up the foamy milk on top of the latte. Then I added the espresso. Hot liquid had already spilled over the sides and onto the saucer. I lifted the cup carefully. Despite moving at a snail’s pace, more sloshed over the sides until the saucer was dangerously full. I set it before the customer and tried to give him my most apologetic smile.

  Even behind his dark glasses I could tell his eyes had widened, given the arch of his eyebrows.

  “I’m s
orry,” I said, the words like sandpaper against my dry throat. “It’s my first day and all this fancy—”

  I felt Dee-Jon’s presence before he spoke. “That’s it.” He reached for the offensive coffee. “Forgive her please. Apparently she hasn’t a clue what she’s doing. I’ll make you another latte.” He turned to me. “Take off your apron. You’re done.”

  My face burning and angry tears stinging behind my eyes, I reached behind me to untie my apron. It was bad enough getting fired. Getting fired in front of a cute guy, not to mention the couple standing behind him and the few remaining customers seated at nearby tables, was beyond humiliating. I’d never been fired before. Probably because I’d only ever worked for my parents. But still.

  “Wait a minute,” the customer said, reaching for the cup. “I didn’t even complain. Why are you firing her?”

  “Because, this drink isn’t what you ordered.”

  “Yes it is.”

  Dee-Jon was a jerk, and even though I’d known him only a few hours, I could tell the customer was ticking him off. His voice turned as syrupy as some of that junk behind the counter people wanted added to their coffee.

  “I’m sorry, sir. But what she made for you, isn’t what you ordered.” He pointed to the cup. “This is an upside down mocha cappuccino with almond milk and an extra shot of espresso. You ordered an extra-large, extra hot vanilla latte with coconut milk. The only thing she got right is the size of the cup.”

  Yes, but I did make an upside down mocha cappuccino with almond milk and an extra shot of espresso. Where’re my props for that, huh, Dee-Jon?

  The eyes of everyone in place were on me. I wanted to drop to my knees, remove my apron, and slink out the back door. But no.

  The customer leaned over the counter. When he addressed Dee-Jon, there was an edge to his voice. “And you would be wrong. I ordered an upside down extra-large mocha cappuccino with almond milk and an extra shot of espresso.” He removed his sunglasses. His eyes were a mix of deep honey and amber. And they were angry. “In my opinion, you owe this young lady an apology. And if you’re so concerned with her making mistakes, maybe you should do a better job of teaching her, rather than waiting for her to screw up.”

  Dee-Jon blinked rapidly, and for a quick second, I thought he might be the one to start crying. “Of course. I’m so sorry.”

  Handsome stranger folded his arms across his chest. “Thank you, but it’s not me you should be apologizing to.”

  Dee-Jon looked at me and mumbled a quick apology. “I’m sorry. It’s just stressful when they stick me with newbies during busy shifts. You can stay. If you want.” There was a look in his eyes that told me he might be hoping I might not want, but I didn’t have a choice. “I’ll work with you this afternoon. And until you’re comfortable, we won’t leave you on your own.”

  He looked at the customer. “Again. I’m sorry. Do you want me to make you another coffee?”

  The man picked up the cup. “No. I told you, this is exactly what I ordered. I’m fine.” He dropped a ten on the counter. “Keep the change,” he told me before heading off in search of a table.

  When he was out of earshot, I told Dee-Jon I was sorry for the mix up.

  With his back to the store, he lowered his voice. “Don’t let this happen again. You can guarantee no one will come to your defense the next time, and then you’ll be out the door. Got it?”

  Jerk. I nodded.

  “Good,” he said, tearing off his apron. He turned to Miranda, one of more senior baristas. “I’ve got some paperwork to do, and then I’m heading to the bank. Keep an eye on her.”

  I was still trying to keep from falling apart when Miranda came over and stood beside me. “Don’t let him get to you. He’s a first-class asshat. He treats everyone like that, especially in the beginning. He thinks he needs to weed out the slackers or something. It’s coffee for fuck’s sake, not rocket science.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh, but what came out sounded like a cross between a chuckle and a sob. I used the edge of my sleeve to wipe under my eyes. It seemed like rocket science to me.

  “C’mon,” she said, resting a hand on my forearm. “Let’s practice a bit. You’ll get the hang of it.”

  Karen Cimms is a writer, editor, and music lover. She was born and raised in New Jersey and still thinks of the Garden State as home. She began her career at an early age rewriting the endings to her favorite books. It was a mostly unsuccessful endeavor, but she likes to think she invented fanfiction.

  Karen is a lifelong Jersey corn enthusiast, and is obsessed with (in no particular order) books, shoes, dishes, and Brad Pitt. In her spare time she likes to quilt, decorate, and entertain. Just kidding–she has no spare time.

  Although she loves pigeons, she is terrified of pet birds, scary movies, and Mr. Peanut.

  Karen is married to her favorite lead guitar player. Her children enjoy tormenting her with countless mean-spirited pranks because they love her. She currently lives in Northeast Pennsylvania, although her heart is usually in Maine.

  If you enjoyed this book, please consider leaving a review. It’s the best way for other readers to learn more about my books and decide if they’d like to try them.

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  Of Love and Madness Series

  At This Moment (Book 1)

  We All Fall Down (Book 2)

  All I Ever Wanted (Book 3)

  You’re All I Want for Christmas (Novella)

  The Calendar Girl Duet

  Miss February (Book 1)

  Mrs. February (Book 2)