Page 4 of Coffee Shop Girl
Not again. There had been enough crying in the last eight months to satisfy a lifetime. Still, my mind wandered back to Dave. To the pitch I had planned for the last two months.
A deep throat clearing caught my attention. I gazed up to see the Viking at the counter again. His broad shoulders blocked out the rising sun behind him, casting him in silhouette.
“The internet is turned off.”
“What?”
His lips tightened, but I couldn’t tell if it was amusement or annoyance now.
“Sorry.” I straightened. “Sorry. That wasn’t about you or ... I mean ... give me a second.”
Muttering under my breath again, I stood up, hands milky, and slipped into my closet of an office just down a short hall. Sure enough, the blinking lights were dead.
Wait.
Register wouldn’t shut.
Wi-Fi off.
“Ha!” I called. “Got you now, sucker.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry! Not you. Not ... that was ... excuse me just a moment. Need to flip a breaker.”
Properly horrified now, I slipped out of my office and down the hall, toward a set of spiral stairs that led to the attic where I lived. My feet were already starting to ache in these shoes. I kicked them off into my attic bedroom and started back up the steps to the very top.
Five minutes later, I crawled out from an access to the electrical panel, dust clinging to my recently dry-cleaned outfit, and returned to the annoyingbeepof the register.
“Should be up in a moment,” I called and ducked back into my office. With my forehead pressed to the wall, I let out a deep breath, and muttered, “One problem down, 4,153 to go.”
I reached for my lipstick.
Just another day in the life of the owner of an almost-decrepit coffee shop in the middle of the mountains.
One that had just missed her golden opportunity to pursue her ideal life.
2
Maverick
This girl had no idea.
First, those pants—whatever they were— fit her a little too well.
Second, this place needed a reboot. Or death by accidental fire.
Third, no coffee in a coffee shop? She had to be kidding.
The place smelled like thirty pots of the darkest brew had been burned. That only made everything worse, including the musty smell of old guy. So many fish knickknacks littered this place that I expected her to offer me halibut as an option.
In fact, the majority of the decor here seemed to be dusty fish memorabilia and curling pictures of locals holding dead animals. What appeared to be an original hardwood floor hid beneath a layer of age, and it seemed as if every table needed a book to stabilize it.
This place couldn’t be more perfect.
Despite the situation and a grumpy lady at the drive-through, the barista held herself together pretty well. I pegged her for the owner, though I couldn’t imagine why she was dressed so smartly. A missed meeting, perhaps.
Once the Wi-Fi was restored, the crackling energy of desperation calmed. She returned wearing a pair of yoga pants, sandals, and a T-shirt that saidCoach Mewith a purse beneath it. She avoided eye contact, which was fine.
