Page 3 of (Not So) Famous in Paradise

Her fixes won’t be cheap, but by this time next year, I might have some real money in the bank—thanks to Georgia. But the other side of that coin is that Georgia could lose everything. That thought makes my palms sweat, but when I look back at our table, her smile drives away my self-doubt.

Everything is going to be okay.

“Heeeeey, Zach.” A familiar voice brings my attention back to the line in front of me—and the woman behind the voice. “I didn’t know you still worked here.”

Her tone is friendly. Her words are not. I worked at Britta’s when I was fifteen. I’m almost twice that age now, so there’s a lot of subtext in her question. But Shaylee Sanders has hated me since I broke up with her in high school.

“Hi, Shaylee. What are you doing in town?” I say, as nicely as possible. Which isn’t very nice at all.

“Just here for the weekend. Came to see the folks. I’m headed back to Salt Lake this morning. That’s where I live now. Right downtown.” She nods while she talks, underscoring every word with a smug look that speaks louder than anything she’s actually saying.I’m living in a big city while you’re working the same job you had when you thought you were too cool for me. Guess you’re not so cool now, are you?

Or something like that. Probably. That’s Shaylee for you.

“Right downtown? Wow. That must be…busy.” I look behind her at the line of customers, trying to give her a hint. “What can I get for you today?”

“Ohhh, I don’t know. I can’t decide.” She tosses her black hair over her shoulder and raises her gaze to the menu board above my head. “This place is so bougie now. I kind of miss how kitschy it was when your grandma ran it.”

“Granny actually made most of the changes before she passed. Britta added a few touches when she took over, but not many.” I don’t know why I feel like I have to explain anything to Shaylee, but I can’t stop. “I don’t really work here; I just help out every once in a while. Georgia and I have a real estate project we’re working on.”

“Oh, yeah.” Shaylee’s eyes don’t leave the menu. “I think I heard something about Georgia trying to save all the run-down cottages. How’s that going?”

There’s the nodding again. Like she doesn’t know what a big deal our Little Copenhagen enterprise is. And I didn’t miss the fact that she only said Georgia’s name, not mine. As though Georgia’s doing me a favor by letting me be part ofherproject.

“Really, really well,” I answer, pushing aside the thought that she’s right about me only being involved in the project because I’m Georgia’s friend.

Ignoring Shaylee’s smirk, I look over her shoulder. Jim Reyes is in line behind her, and I catch his eye to let him know I’ve got his order. It’s the same every morning: black coffee, no frills, and the egg sandwich not on the menu that Britta makes just for him.

As Jim reaches around Shaylee to hand me a ten, I say to her. “We start shooting today.”

“Order up!” Britta yells and sends a plate of ebelskiver across the stainless counter between the kitchen and front.

“Shooting? It’s not hunting season,” Shaylee says, playing dumb while ignoring my pointed glance at the order I should be carrying out.

My eyes roll up, and I shake my head. “A cable network is producing a show about Georgia renovating Little Copenhagen. We start filming today.”

We both know she’s heard aboutAt Home with Georgia Rose.Everyone who lives in Paradise—and everyone who ever has—knows about it. Other than the time my brother, Bear, skated through Sugar City’s entire defensive zone to score the state championship-winning goal, this show is the biggest thing that’s ever happened in Paradise.

Shaylee’s mouth opens with fake surprise. “I had no idea. Who would have thought Ham would ever be popular enough for her own TV show?”

“I did. I always knewGeorgiawas too big for this town.” I zero in on Shaylee, holding her gaze until she has to look away with the emphasis I put on Georgia’s name. I know how much Georgia hates being called Ham.

“Well,bigis certainly one way to describe Georgia.” Shaylee’s eyes come back to mine, and her lip twitches, wanting to smile so bad.

I glance to the back of the dining room where Georgia is waiting for me. Her phone is in front of her face, her thumbs going a million miles an hour replying to the nonstop texts and emails she gets. Sometimes her single-minded focus on work bugs me, but today I’m relieved that her texts and all the other customers stopping by her table to talk keep her from hearing Shaylee.

Also, no way am I going to point out to Shaylee that Georgia is only twenty feet away.

“I’ve got other customers, Shaylee. Do you know what you want yet?” I’ve reached the end of my politeness. I don’t care that she’s related to half this town and will tell anyone who’ll listen not to come into Britta’s or even think about buying one of Little Copenhagen’s renovated cottages.

Now Shaylee lets her smile out, obviously pleased that she’s pushed my buttons. “I’ll have a flat white with oat milk. Two shots of espresso and half a pump of caramel.”

“’Nother order up. Let’s go, Zach!” Britta yells.

“I need a flat white up here, Chef.” I call back, staring at Shaylee.

Flat whites aren’t on the menu. Britta can make them. So can I—just not very well. They’re a pain in the ass, especially with non-dairy milks. The espresso-to-milk ratio has to be exactly right, and the microfoam has to be precise to keep the drink from being too bitter.

In short, it’s about the mostbougiedrink anyone can order.

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