Page 11 of Coffee Shop Girl
Bethany was distracted today.
I sat at the same table, same spot, this time with a cup of coffee in my half-curled hand and a view of her puttering around the counter. An old pair of jeans and a tank top today. That old hat kept her hair in a ponytail away from her face, but it fell down her back like ebony ribbons.
While trying not to obviously watch her, I kept a running tally of the number of times she moved the milk gallon from one spot to another. Why didn’t she just put it in the fridge? And what was with the wrinkle between her eyebrows?
Distracteddidn’t quite say it.
Something had happened between yesterday and now. The challenging spark that had ignited her pride, preventing her from taking my money yesterday, had dampened. She stopped, looked at the ceiling, and frowned.
Shifting uneasily, I realized I might have to wait on my proposal. If I posed my offer today, would she take it? So much of success in business contracts was about reading the person. Discerning what they needed and what they wanted. Business deals turned on saying the right thing at the right time. For all I knew, she hated this shop and didn’t want to save it.
At which point, I would be screwed.
The shop was quieter today, as if it sensed her mood. Few sounds outside. An occasional car driving past. I couldn’t help but wonder if she had high-traffic hours after the morning commute. With a reservoir like that, surely they had a peak in the summer.
Business,I reminded myself.This is just business. It doesn’t matter if she’s having a bad day.
The dry heat of the morning filled the shop, buffered only by the whisper of wind sliding in the drive-through window. Ignoring another sly glance sent my way, I reviewed what I knew from public records and soft inquiries around town.
So many people willing to talk in a small world like this.
Bethany Beecham.
Twenty-three.
Owner for the last eight months.
Shop previously owned by her father, an avid fisherman, who died of a heart attack eight months ago.
Banks locally (assumed).
Mother is deceased.
Lives above the shop.
Dropped out of college.
Wants to pursue real estate (this was a rumor from the bartender—not sure of its origin).
Hates coffee.
I staredat the screen for several minutes, letting my thoughts run.
Normally I had a good sense for deals like this. This time, I couldn’t feel it out. Her careful avoidance of eye contact and her total absorption in whatever was distracting her today, kept the ground tentative. Besides, some of this couldn’t be true. Who owned and ran a coffee shop if they hated coffee?
Thankfully, I liked the challenge.
Drawing in a breath, I decided to get the first step over with today. Putting it off would only create more uncertainty. A bad day was often a good time to pounce. With struggle came vulnerability, and with vulnerability often came an openness to change.
As I approached, she paused. Her gaze met mine. Her sparkling, aquamarine eyes startled me. For a second, she hesitated as I approached. Then she straightened, her chin tilted up, her shoulders back. Her eyes flickered to my sleeve of tattoos, then back to my face.
I smiled, but not too much. She didn’t seem like the type to trust charm. I remained quiet. Breaking the air first gave her control. It helped, especially on bad days.
“Was your coffee okay?” she asked.
Watery,I thought. “It was perfect, thank you.”
Her shoulders relaxed a bit. “Good. Can I help you with something?”
