Page 12 of One More Heartbeat
“Yes. Hypothetically.”
“The café certainly is busy enough for you to expand.”
“I agree. But like I said, it’s all hypothetical. First, the store next door needs to be vacant. If someone buys Sabrina’s business, the dream of expanding will remain just that. A dream.”
“If no one buys it, would you then go ahead with your goal?”
“If the hypothetical became reality? Possibly. It depends on what expenses the building’s landlord would cover. He might not want to dealwith the hassle of converting the two business spaces into one—unless the business owner pays out of pocket for the renovations.”
I would need to review my contract for starters. There might also be a clause that prevents me from knocking down walls. “But if I could make my dream a reality, I would do some of the renovations myself.” To save money.
The ever-present pain in my neck and shoulder hollers,The hell with that.I ignore it, like I do most of the time. Thanks to the ibuprofen I took two hours ago, the pain isn’t screaming as loudly as it might have been. It’s currently a dull roar.
I pick up my knife and resume dicing tomatoes to keep from rubbing my aching joints. That would only draw Keshia’s and Jess’s attention to the pain, which I’d rather avoid.
If I could grow Picnic & Treats, however, I could earn more money and maybe even take on more staff. Then I’d have more time to focus on my health since I’d have more people to cover me when I wasn’t at the café. Plus, I could do more for this community—especially the women-owned businesses in the area.
Excitement buzzes beneath my skin the more I think about the idea of expanding P&T. “Of course, this is all hypothetical,” I remind Keshia and Jess. I need to talk to Sabrina first, before I get too ahead of myself.
Anastasia rushesinto the kitchen a short time later. “Zara!”
A man’s loud voice follows my head server through the open door, the heat in it enough to scorch anyone in his path. “I work my ass off all day while you sit around doing nothin’.”
Shit.I race into the main part of the café, Anastasia right behind me, and stop at the counter.
The usually noisy café is unnaturally quiet, everyone’s attention turned to a man standing next to a table by the windows. He’s towering over a seventeen-year-old girl, her eyes wide, face pale. Her two friends appear equally terrified, ready to bolt, yet unwilling to abandon her.
“Get your ass out of here.” Spittle flies from his mouth and hits her face.
She recoils as if the droplets sizzled through her skin but doesn’t say anything or make an attempt to stand. The friend next to her moves her hand under the table—possibly in a gesture of support. I can’t see it from where I’m standing.
No one else moves or speaks. Worried gazes dart to the exit.
It’s not unusual to see men in the café at this time of day, grabbing food here with their friends instead of at Barside Brewery. But right now, the only males present are a group of teenage boys who don’t look any older than fifteen. Too young to stand up to the man. Too young to protect the girl.
“Get up.” The man sways on his feet, alcohol no doubt pumping through his veins.
“Call nine-one-one.” My words are spoken softly so only Anastasia can hear them. “Tell them we have a potentially violent customer.”
Hopefully, there’s a cop nearby who can get here before things escalate. Before the girl or someone else gets hurt.
In the meantime…
I rush past stunned customers sitting at the other tables. All seem frozen, unsure how to proceed.
“Hi, is there something I can do to help?” My voice is surprisingly calm, the direct opposite of the fast-thumping pulse in my ears. My gaze rests briefly on the girl, hopefully making it clear to her that I’m on her side.
“This is none of your business.” The man’s voice is a sharp whip, and he straightens to his full height. He’s a good four inches taller than me. Slightly intimidating? Yes. But his height doesn’t completely faze me.
Garrett insisted a few years ago that I learn self-defense. I haven’t practiced the moves in a while, but I’m sure they’ll come to me if I’m pushed too far.
“Actually, itismy business. The café’s my business. Ensuring my customers’ safety is my business.” I’m standing a few feet from him, but the reek of booze on his breath rolls over me in nauseating waves. “I could get you a coffee. And maybe we can sit down and talk.” A largethermos of coffee wouldn’t be enough to sober him, but it would buy me time until the cops arrive.
Please be on the way.
“I don’t need coffee. And she doesn’t need to be here.” He points to the girl with a mean jab of his finger. “She needs to be home, cookin’ dinner and cleanin’ the house.”
The girl picks up her backpack from the floor, her hands shaking. The leather is well-worn, the bag once expensive and stylish. The fabric of her top and jeans are also well-worn, but not in the intentional way designers charge a lot for. Nor are her clothes, from the looks of it, a cheap brand.
