Page 2 of Steeped In Problems

“Check.”

“Second rule—if you hear a cop joke, laugh extra loud. Most of the regulars are former or current LEO, so—” Rhonda mimed a cop mustache and did a little goose-step, which Kristy could never in a million years imagine herself doing. “Ready for the baptism of caffeine?”

Kristy’s hands shook, but she nodded. “Hit me.”

The morning training was a blur of tamping, frothing, register buttons, and drink recipes with names like “The Sarge” and “Flaming Hot Detective.” Rhonda kept rattling off instructions, but Kristy found herself keeping up with them. She liked the click and hiss of the steamer, the precise choreography of syrup pumps and milk pours. It was almost like triaging patients, but the worst thing that could happen around the coffee shop was burned coffee.

“Speed round,” Rhonda told her. “I’ll be the cranky regular, and you take my order.”

Kristy straightened. “Good morning, welcome to Brave Badge. How are you doing? Any special plans?”

“That’s great,” Rhonda cheered, beaming. “Except most of the time, they don’t want to chat. So keep it short, keep it moving.”

“Copy that.” Kristy could do efficient. She could do brisk. She’d spent years dodging death-by-small talk at the hospital. “What can I get started for you?” she corrected.

“Better,” Rhonda stated with an approving nod.

The front door opened, and a woman in uniform—dispatcher shirt, name tag read “JENNY”—marched to the counter, phone already pinned to her ear. She held up one finger and mouthed “medium black.”

Kristy moved on autopilot, pouring the coffee and sliding the cup across the counter just as Jenny finished her call. “You’re new,” Jenny stated, eyes sharp but not unkind.

“First day,” Kristy confessed. “I’m Kristy.”

“Jenny,” she returned, grabbing her cup. “This stuff is the only thing keeping half this town alive. You’ll do fine.” She nodded, half-smiled, and was gone before Kristy could say thanks.

Rhonda snorted. “She’s a kitten. Wait till you meet the SWAT team.”

Two hours later, Kristy had met three cops, two firefighters, a Parks Department crew, and the mayor, who ordered a triple-shot espresso and tipped nearly five dollars because he was obviously late for something. Every interaction was a small victory, like a game she could maybe win if she kept breathing and didn’t drop anything.

Then came the real test.

It started with the door jingle—two quick rings, then a crash as the door hit the wall. A woman her own age burst in, juggling a baby on one hip and a toddler dragging a plastic dinosaur by the tail.

“Don’t. Touch. Anything,” the mother hissed at the dinosaur-wielder, then plastered a smile onto her face as she approached the counter. “Large iced vanilla latte, please. With oat milk. And a blueberry muffin, if you have it. And—” she glanced at her offspring “—two chocolate milks.”

Kristy punched in the order, her smile locked in place. “Coming right up.”

The mother sagged with relief. “You are a literal angel. I swear, if I don’t get caffeine in the next sixty seconds, I’ll end up on the news.”

Kristy laughed, then realized she’d made the drink without a single mistake. She handed it over, then grabbed two mini cups with sippy lids, filled them with chocolate milk, and gave them to the kids with a flourish, finishing the order with the requested blueberry muffin.

“Thank you so much,” the mom told her before moving to the back of the coffee shop.

Kristy watched them settle in, surprised by the zing of satisfaction that came from making one small part of a stranger’s day easier.

“You’re a natural,” Rhonda whispered. “Great job.”

“Thanks.” Kristy was mid-victory dance when the coffee carafe slipped from her grip, sloshing a perfect arc of dark roast across the counter, all over her new apron, and onto the floor.

Rhonda howled. “Initiation! You have to spill coffee on your first shift, or Daisy will haunt you forever.”

Kristy grabbed the towels and wiped it up, heat creeping up her cheeks. “I swear I’m usually more coordinated.”

A man at the far table—in a black T-shirt, sleeves rolled up over arms like steel beams—looked up from his laptop and locked eyes with her. His expression was pure, undiluted cop: intense, judging, impossible to read.

He didn’t look away, even when Kristy tried to outstare him. He just tipped his chin and went back to typing.

“Don’t mind him,” Rhonda warned. “That’s Blaze. He lives here, basically.”

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