Page 78 of Coffee Shop Girl
Credit card day loomed, and even though I spent time in my numbers every day at his insistence, I still felt sick to my stomach. My body had learned to be stressed the moment I thought about money.
“It certainly isn’t fish,” he said.
“Hey!”
Maverick held up two hands. “Listen, there comes a point where you have to look at your current assets and optimize those. That’s the next stage in my process, and that’s where we’re at now. All the markers are present to indicate you’re here.”
He scribbled something on a notepad next to his laptop. He kept more notes than me.
“English, please?” I asked.
A hint of a smile ghosted his lip. “We’re going to make your shop . . . better.”
“And how will we do that?”
“Your decorations and ... ambiance. I think we can improve the way things look around here and get more customers. Moreloyalcustomers, anyway. This ties into your marketing efforts and asks the same question: what do peoplewant?”
Yikes. He’d gone right to my weak spot.
My few half-hearted attempts to move around what Dad had originally created in his manly, fishing-themed coffee shop had been minimal. Most of my time went into trying to keep this place floating. I literally hadn’t once thought of revamping the inside.
“How do youoptimizedecorations?” I asked. Already, I felt my hackles rise.
“Improve them. But first, we need to step back. I’m getting ahead of myself again.” Scribble, scribble on his little pad. “Let’s figure out who your ideal client is, and what kind of ambiance they want. That’s the goal today. Figuring out the answer to the questionwho do you serve?”
“That’s easy! Everyone.”
“Wrong.”
I blinked. “What?”
He motioned to me with a wave. “If you didn’t own this place, would you ever come here? You don’t like sweet flavors, and you hate the smell of coffee.”
“No,” I said slowly.
“See? You don’t serve everyone. In fact, your business doesn’t even serveyou. Which, let’s not get into that right now.”
“Okay,” I drawled. “So, we don’t serve everyone. What does that mean?”
Lizbeth peered out over the top of her book. “Please,” she said to Maverick, “tell me you’re going to encourage her to get rid of the fish.” Her eyes darted to two plastic fish above the door. “I beg of you.”
He winked at her.
My mouth dropped open. “The fish?” I cried. “Those are Dad’s favorite!”
“They’re hideous,” Lizbeth said.
“They’re...”
While I searched for adequate words to encompass the plastic replicas of leaping rainbow trout, Maverick nudged a nearby coat rack that Dad had bought at a secondhand antiques shop.
“This, for example?” he said. “Terrifying. Gaping fish mouths are holding the coats. They all need to go.”
“No, please,” I said, folding my arms. “Soften it for me, why don’t you?”
“They’re hideous.”
“I was being sarcastic,” I snapped.
