Page 19 of Steeped In Problems

She made her way to the seating area and watched as the morning regulars trickled in. Her gaze was clinical, noting the way customers shuffled the chairs, how long they lingered,whether anyone actually read the “Hero Story” cards at each table.

She caught a kid with sticky hands trying to wipe them on the hero wall. “Hey, bud,” she called. “Can you find your favorite picture on that wall for me?” She crouched down, her voice getting soft, and the kid was instantly on board, showing her the photo of a K9 team Tanner remembered from his own SAR days.

She was ruthless but not unkind. Even so, every note she made felt like a personal attack.

By 7:05, the shop was full. Kristy and Rhonda tag-teamed the rush. Tanner ran backup, pulling drip and busing tables, all while feeling Emily’s eyes on him every time he exhaled.

She never missed anything. When a customer waited too long for a pastry, she clocked it to the second. When Kristy fumbled a to-go lid, Emily was there, timing the recovery.

Finally, at 8:10, she returned to the counter. “Can we have a sit-down at ten?” she asked. “I want to review some process questions and go over your goals for the next quarter.”

“Sure,” Tanner said, though his voice came out a full octave lower than normal.

When she walked away, Kristy gave him a look. “She’s intense,” she whispered.

“She’s a shark,” Tanner corrected. “And she smells blood.”

Kristy smirked. “Good thing you’re the biggest fish in here.”

He almost laughed. Almost.

The rest of the morning was a blur of orders and side-eye glances at Emily, who spent her time scanning reports and making quiet calls to someone higher up the chain. At exactly 9:59, she reappeared at the counter, her latte cup empty and the sleeve lined with neat, careful notes.

“Ready?” she asked.

Tanner nodded, but his stomach was twisting.

He followed her to the window booth, where she’d arranged her tablet and a legal pad like it was a miniature war room. She gestured for him to sit, then dove right in.

“Let’s start with product mix,” Emily said, tapping the screen. “You’re selling more drip than specialty. Is that by design, or just a lack of training on the espresso side?”

Tanner’s mind raced. “It’s what the regulars want. Mostly cops, firefighters, SAR guys—they don’t want froth, just caffeine.”

Emily nodded, writing this down. “But specialty drinks have a bigger margin. Could you nudge sales with a promo?”

“Maybe,” he muttered, but he felt defensive.

She flipped to the next page on her screen. “Customer retention is good. But you have too many comped drinks and ‘on the house’ transactions. I’m guessing that’s a community thing?”

Tanner hesitated. “We comp for first responders if they’re in uniform or coming off a bad shift.”

She nodded again, not unsympathetic. “It’s admirable. But if you want to keep this place running, you need to tighten up. Even heroes pay for coffee eventually.”

He didn’t answer right away. It went against everything he stood for to make those who put their lives on the line pay for coffee. “Giving my fellow first responders a free drink is the least I can do for what they give up on a regular basis.”

“I know this is hard, but you’re going to have to make some adjustments. What if you offered a punch card for loyalty? We have a template if you’re interested. And instead of a full comp, you could consider a discount amount, say 10-20%,” she suggested.

“I’ll consider it,” he told her through gritted teeth.

Emily’s questions kept coming, rapid-fire: Why weren’t they doing more on social media? Why had they discontinued the Tuesday breakfast burrito special? Why was inventory so highbut sales flat? For every answer he gave, she countered with a suggestion, a metric, or a gentle challenge to his logic.

She leaned back, tapping her pen. “Look, Tanner. You’re doing good work. But you’re running this like a clubhouse, not a business. I need you to find three areas to improve by the end of the quarter.”

He bristled but nodded. “I can do that.”

He sat in the booth for a long minute after she went back to work on her laptop, staring at the hero wall at the photo of himself, half-smiling and alive. Then he got up, rolled his shoulders, and went back to work.

By eleven-forty, Brave Badge was a war zone. Tanner manned the register with one hand and slammed the espresso portafilter with the other. Every time he glanced up, there were four more people in line, each with their own dietary restrictions, each more urgent than the last.

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