“I think it’s got to be the seventy percent with orange zest and cinnamon for me,” said Fred.
“Too dark for me,” said Warren, shaking his head. “I’m looking at the white chocolate praline and honeycomb.”
“That is going to be so sweet!”
“It will be, once I add whipped cream and marshmallows.” He winked at her. “Isn’t that your friend at the front of the queue?”
Fred peered around him and stood on her tiptoes in time to see Ryan hand a box over the counter to one of the hot chocolate makers. “Hey, Ryan!” she called out as he turned to go.
He turned toward the sound of his name, a smile spreading over his face when he saw her. He was wearing a red-and-black checked lumberjack coat over a hoody and olive-green cargo pants that bunched where they met the tops of his beaten-up work boots. He was grunge to Warren’s preppy, but it suited him, it matched his relaxed easy manner.
“Hey, you,” he said when he reached them. “Nice to meet you again, Warren. Are you enjoying the Christmas market?”
“It’s even better than I remember,” said Fred, at the same time as Warren said, “It’s not bad at all.”
“Are Cocoa Me selling your coffee?” she asked.
“Kind of. They do a hot chocolate with a shot of espresso—like a mocha, but heavier on the chocolate.”
“That’s nice—independent businesses supporting each other,” she said.
“That’s what it’s all about.”
“More grist to the mill,” said Warren thoughtfully, and then clarified, “for my write-up about the market. People love a bit of the old community spirit. Have you ever thought about franchising? You’ve clearly built a successful business; I reckon you could make a killing if you expanded, got yourself an investor, strike while the coffee pot’s hot.” Warren gave Ryan a friendly nudge.
“Well,” he answered carefully, clearing his throat. “It’s an option. But I like being my own boss, and making ethical decisions about my products is important to me. I think it gets harder to monitor, once you start farming out control.”
Warren’s face was a picture of interest. “I hear you. The indie-pride badge of honor. Good for you. If enough business owners share your ideology, there could be hope for the high streets of small towns yet.”
“Thank you? I think?” said Ryan, chuckling. “But I don’t think mine is an uncommon philosophy.”
“Maybe not.” Warren smiled in a way that momentarily reminded Fred of a shark. “But I’ll bet a lot of small businesses would hand over their pride and joy, no questions asked, for a fat check from a big fish, eh, eh?” He seemed to be trying to goad Ryan, and Fred had no idea why.
Ryan’s expression was all amiability as he replied. “Peoplehave all sorts of different reasons for making the decisions they do. It’s not my place to judge anyone else’s choices, I can only be accountable for myself. If I can sleep at night, knowing that I didn’t screw anyone over to make a buck, that’s good enough for me.”
Warren nodded. “Fair play. I looked you up—occupational compulsion.” He winked. “You’re the real deal. Coast Roast is a five-star success. Long may it continue.”
Ryan gave a polite smile. “Thank you. I’ve got to get going. I’ll leave you to your hot chocolates.”
They had almost reached the top of the queue, and were next in line to be served.
“It was good seeing you again,” said Warren.
“You too,” Ryan replied. “See you around, Fred.”
Ryan moved quickly away and by the time they’d given their orders to a woman wearing antlers, he was out of sight.
“You have a touch of the antagonist about you,” Fred observed as they waited for their drinks.
Warren shrugged. “Sorry. Incurable nosiness comes with the territory. I’m always looking for the angle to a story.”
Another woman, this one wearing a Santa hat, handed over their drinks.
“Well, you’re wasting your time with Ryan. What you see is what you get.”
Warren licked his lips and rolled his shoulders like he was building himself up for something. “Listen, I…What I said about looking for an angle, that’s only partially true. I know I can come on a bit strong.” There was a beat beforehe continued. “An unfortunate by-product of being a journalist with social anxiety is that when I feel under pressure, my pushy volume cranks up.”
Fred took this in. “You shout louder to drown out the nerves,” she hazarded.
