Page 1 of Britta & the Beach Boy
Chapter one
Britta
Goodbyes suck.
I hate them almost as much as I hate bad coffee (looking at you, Starbucks). At their best, they’re watered down and marginally satisfying. At their worst, they’re full of sugar, yet somehow still bitter.
What I’m saying is that filling a complicated coffee order is much easier than saying goodbye. That’s what people in Paradise, Idaho, don’t understand. For the past month, my regulars have been tiptoeing around me, ordering their coffee black, then taking their mugs to the condiment bar where they pour in way too much cream and even more sugar. And I have to watch it all. I don’t know who winces more with the first sip,them or me. We all know that I can make them the perfect cup of coffee if they would just ask.
The locals giving me space would be bad enough, but the vacationers do the same thing. I’ve looked forward to the first day of the summer season being so busy that I wouldn’t have to think about anything else besides coffee, but their orders are basic, not the usual bougie brew out-of-towners want.
Maybe someone posted a notification about Mom somewhere or they’re picking up on a vibe. I don’t know. It’s not like I hung black crepe in the doorway—or whatever they used to do back in the day when a family member passed—so I can’t figure out why they’re being so careful with me too. It’s irritating.
So, when a disheveled guy in board shorts steps up to the counter, I expect nothing other than a basic coffee. Then he opens his mouth, and in a—sweet mercy—Australianaccent says, “I’m guessing you use ristretto in your flat white. Being that you’re American.”
For the first time all morning, I actuallylookat the person across the counter from me. I don’t see disheveled anymore. Nope. This guy is all shiny and gold, like the first day of the summer season usually is. Eyes the color of a dark Ethiopian blend flecked with amber; honey brown curls swirled with shocks of blond; bronze skin dipped in sunshine.
He literally glows.
And Ifeela spark of something for the first time since Mom died. Not just because of how he looks, but because I’ve heard Aussies are snobs when it comes to coffee—deservedly so, according to everything I’ve read.
I smell a challenge, and I’m here for it.
“If you’ve got time…” I drop my gaze, taking in his beach attire, and leave unsaid mywhich, obviously, you do. “I’m happy to make it the way you like. Espresso instead of ristretto?”
He answers with a nod, then points to the sign on the wall above my head. “That’s quite a claim to live up to.”
I crane my neck to read the words I’ve known by heart since I was five years old, when my mom took over this shop from her grandma, Britta Neilsen. They were the first words I learned to read.Breakfast at Britta’s: Coffee so good, it’s only found in Paradise.
I shrug. “I’ve had no problem living up to it so far.”
The corner of his mouth pulls up. “You’re Britta then?”
I nod and bite back my own grin. It’s too soon. Not because of him, but because of Mom. It’s barely been a month since she lost her fight against early-onset Alzheimer’s. Everyone—including her—knew she’d lose, but we still weren’t ready to say goodbye.
“I’m Dex.” The Australian juts out his chin. “I’m here visiting Cassie and Georgia. They were my neighbors in LA, before your brothers got hold of them. They’re your sister-in-laws, yeah?”
“Yeah.” I think I’ve heard them mention a guy named Dex, but I stop myself from correcting him.
Not just his grammar—it’ssisters-in-law—but also his understanding of our relationships. Technically, Cassie is only engaged to my brother, Bear. But Georgia is very much married to my brother Zach, so I’ll give him that.
“What’s e-bell-skiveh?” Dex points to the menu posted on the back wall; therat the end of ebelskiver gets lost in his smile.
This time I do correct him. “Ay-bluh-skee-ver.” Some things have to be said right. “Danish pancakes. First order is on the house.” For him, at least. Not for other short-timers. “So is the flat white, if it doesn’t live up to the claim.” I tip back my head toward myBritta’ssign.
Dex’s smile dimples. “Sounds like a fair deal.”
“I think you mean a fairdinkumdeal, mate.” I cringe as soon as the words escape.
“Were you trying to speak Australian there?” Dex sends me a much-deserved smirk—my Australian is terrible. “Only pensioners say fair dinkum anymore.”
“And a pensioner is—”
“—an older person, yeah.” Dex’s eyes dance with the smirk still plastered on his face.
Almost everything I know about Australia, I learned when I was ten from an old movie about an Australian going to New York. I only remember two things: he had a big knife, and he saidfair dinkuma lot. Then, for about two weeks,Isaid fair dinkum a lot.
And while I’m enjoying ‘fair dinkuming’ with Dex, there’s a line forming behind him, and I’ve got to get to work on the best flat white of my life. I’m not about to give away my coffee.
