She couldn’t see it, because she wasn’t looking, on purpose at a guess, but my eyes sent her daggers. Apparently, I had some left.
But ouch! And also because it was so damn obvious—duh!
I already knew I was going to end up alone. I’d accepted the cards I'd been dealt. My shoulders drooped as thoughts of Olivia crept in. The squeeze in my stomach I’d been ignoring since the moment I saw her body at St Peter’s Church made itself known again. I felt like an emotional school bus had hit me over the last thirty-six hours.
“Actually, I was trying to cheer myself up after the funeral yesterday. Needed a bit of pep in my step to figure out what to do with Olivia’s letter.” I pulled the envelope out of my back pocket and waved it at her. It was actually there because I couldn’t bear to be separated from it. Which was a feeling I couldn’t understand either. But she didn’t need to know that.
Breeze’s eyebrows fell, and the bravado dropped from her stance. She pulled her hands down to her sides and looked at me.
“Oh my God, sorry. I didn’t even think about that.” Her hazel eyes filled with remorse.
I waved a hand. “Don’t stress, it’s all good.” If we weren’t careful, we’d end up in an apologising match. And her wide eyes were making me feel guilty now. She was completely right–this mood was absolutely more about Dax leaving than anything else.
I was surprised the cloud following me everywhere wasn’t raining its pity tears into everyone’s cups.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I opened the cash drawer, checking the change. I don’t know when my work extended beyond cleaning; Breeze had never asked it of me. More often than not when it was busy like this morning I found myself clearing tables and checking everything was topped up out here too. I shook my head, which no doubt Breeze expected.
The bell above the door jingled, and two women in their seventies shuffled out, helped by a weedy man in black work pants and a crinkled shirt who was holding it open. The man ran his finger down the glass as he entered, inspecting the tip as he closed the door behind him. Creep.
He'd better be planning on cleaning off that finger mark because I’d given that door and the entire front window a clean with a white vinegar and rubbing alcohol mix two days ago.
The man stood in the doorway surveying the room like a miner panning for specks of gold.
I elbowed Breeze, who was pouring beans into the grinder, and tilted my head in his direction. She peered around the coffee bag and sighed.
“Mr Sweep. I didn’t think we’d made an appointment,” she called.
Mr Sweep sank both hands into the pockets of his black trousers. Not in the hot way movie heroes do. He looked about five foot nothing, and his nose barely lined up with mine. I supposed I was taller than usual in wedges, but still.
“We don’t always work by appointments, Miss Meadow,” he said, flashing his red wine-stained teeth. “You should know that by now.”
Breeze’s last name was Meadow?
“Breeze Meadow. Breezy Meadow?” I repeated, eyes wide.
She cut me a narrow-eyed glare. “Melinda Lovecastle lost several glue-in extensions in high school for that. I dare you to say it one more time.”
I did not dare. I’d spent far too long on this blowout this morning. But suddenly, my vision of her middle-class, apron-wearing, Sunday-roast parents morphed into a pair of tie-dyed, stoner hippies at Woodstock.
“What can I do for you?” she asked Mr Sweep, who had made himself comfortable on one of the vinyl stools. I could hear the ice under her tone even if her face screamed, puppy!
“Allow me a turn around your space. Thirty minutes should be sufficient for the inspection.”
Who even says “a turn” anymore? We weren’t on Mr Bingley’s estate.
“And if I say no? It’s our busiest morning,” Breeze replied, hands on her hips.
He glanced around as if noticing the filled tables for the first time and shrugged.
“If you say no, I'll put you on probation. You’re overdue for an inspection. We take these things seriously.” He ran his fingers underneath the lip of the counter that stuck out in front of him. He was looking for gum, I was sure of it. This man had an agenda, but he didn’t look clever enough to have formed it himself. I was pretty sure I knew who’d encouraged him to find a fault at Steamy Sips, and her name rhymed with Pissy.
Breeze whipped her head toward me, and I could see desperation in the hazel eyes of her otherwise calm face. Oh, right, this was my time to shine.
“If you come with me, Mr Sweep, I’d be happy to show you around,” I said, swooping an arm toward the kitchen doorway. Breeze’s eyes looked like dinner plates as she glanced at my open-toe wedges, which were definitely not health and safety approved. Someone really should invent cute, non-slip heeled booties for occasions like this. Damn you, cloud of darkness.
She kicked her Crocs at me, and my face twisted in disgust. I didn’t care what fashion trends said otherwise; I refused to acknowledge stupidity. Breeze’s eyebrows arched impossibly high, and I groaned, kicking my wedges at her a little too forcefully. I slipped on the white shoes – surprisingly comfortable – just in time for Mr Sweep to look up from the apphe’d been trying to log into on his slimy phone. Okay, it wasn’t actually slimy, but he gave off that energy. The sort that makes you want to shower immediately.
