Thanks for the shish kebab. It was the best I’ve ever had.
Okay, so she hadn’t professed her undying love, but she’d complimented his cooking. That was a start.
When he’d asked Cassie to take a plate of leftovers to Penny on her way home, he wasn’t expecting to get credit for the gesture. He simply didn’t want Penny to miss out on the meal because of the article. But clearly, Cassie had told her it was his idea. And he couldn’t be more grateful to his sister-in-law.
The text from Penny had made his night.
Even more than the saltwater taffy.
Lost in his thoughts, Colt stumbled over a lumpy patch of grass.
“Pick up your feet, Sunshine,” Frank grunted. Although, it was a more chipper-sounding grunt than usual. If a grunt could be considered chipper.
“Sorry, but I haven’t had my coffee yet. And since we’re on that topic…whyaren’t we having coffee first?”
“It’s incentive. First, you put in the work. Then, you can have the reward. You’ll appreciate it more.”
“Yes, Master Yoda,” Colt said with a good-natured chuckle.
“Actually, I prefer Obi-Wan.” Frank paired his rebuttal with a cryptic smile, as though sharing an inside joke with himself.
Colt blinked at the unprecedented display of humor. The day was already proving to be full of surprises. And the main event hadn’t even started yet.
As he slid open the barn door, Colt froze, his jaw dropping halfway to his chest. He’d expected a rinky-dink operation, not the sleek setup before him.
While the roasting machine itself appeared held together with duct tape and wishful thinking, the rest of the barn resembled a top-notch roastery—far more advanced than what he’d stumbled upon in high school.
A neat row of storage barrels flanked the back wall, each filled with green coffee beans and labeled with the country of origin—Colombia, Guatemala, Costa Rica, and Kenya, to name a few.
“I gotta say, this is pretty cool.” He took in the long farm table lined with glistening, five-gallon mason jars, recalling the chapter in the book where Frank explained their role in the roasting process—mainly to sweat out the unwanted moisture from the freshly roasted beans, which both enhanced the flavor and prevented mold from forming.
As he took in the breadth of everything laid out before him, Colt’s heart raced in anticipation.
“We’ll see how ‘cool’ you think it is when the temperature in here hits the nineties.” Frank shoved a bucket and large metal scoop into his hands. “Fill this with four scoops of Sumatra, four Kenya, and two Costa Rica.”
“What blend are we roasting?” Colt asked, making his way to the barrel labeled Sumatra.
“Cassie’s.” Frank’s tone carried a twinge of pride. “She came up with it one of the first times we roasted together.”
“Does that mean I’ll get to pick my own blend, too?” Flashing an optimistic grin over his shoulder, Colt moved to the barrel of Kenyan beans.
Frank snorted. “We’ll see. You need to learn the basics first.”
“Do you have all your blends written down somewhere?” As soon as the question left his lips, Colt straightened, drawing a blank on the last bean in the combination.
At his vacant expression, Frank huffed, “Two scoops of Costa Rica.”
“That’s right.” Colt snapped his fingers before carrying the heavy bucket to the last barrel. The green beans had to weigh at least thirty pounds.
As he filled the remainder of the bucket, Frank settled himself in a wicker chair by the roasting machine. “To answer your question, Cassie is helping me write down all the blends.”
“Is that what your new book is about?”
“Partly. But the main goal is to teach other roasters how to create their own blends. How to recognize the different flavor profiles of each bean and what pairs well together.”
“Huh.” Colt cocked his head. “Kind of like knowing which ingredients to combine when cooking.”
“Yes.” A brief flicker of approval darted across Frank’s face before he replaced it with a stoic frown. “Now, we siphon the beans into the machine.”
