It’s so good that I don’t realize we’re falling out of our chairs until we land on the sand, our laughter floating into the summer night amid the crackling flamesuntil our mouths find each other again and there’s no more laughing at all.
NOW
“Lara? Hey.” A gentle, masculine hand lands on my shoulder. “Did you want butter?”
Chapter Nine
NOW
“I think I got it this time!”
“You said that about the last one,” Beth calls from where she’s taking inventory of the mystery/thriller/suspense section. “It looked like a toddler’s handprint at best.”
“Hey, I’m new at this!” I scrutinize the leaf pattern I’ve drawn in the foam of my fourth cappuccino of the morning, and it definitely looks better than the other three. “A little support would be nice.”
“A few more hours spent watching those YouTube videos would be nice,” she mutters, but the store’s empty except for us, and I hear every word. I’ve been trying to up my barista game by watching videos on drawing foam art, hoping to impress Beth with hearts and leaves and butterflies. Unfortunately, I’m about as good at doing art with foam as I am at doing it with paint,charcoal, decoupage, pencils, or anything else—which is to say, not at all.
The only thing I have to show for my training is a pair of slightly jittery hands from quickly downing my first two mistakes. (Beth graciously took the third, despite it being many shades lighter than her soul.) Latte art looks easy on YouTube, but so do makeup tutorials, and I suck at those too.
For as good a time as I had this summer, I can’t help being resentful that I was forced to give up my bookseller position for something I suck at. I know books. I love books. I could’ve helped a bunch of dads find graphic novels for their daughters, could’ve pointed out the best romance novels for other sappy readers in search of humor and kissing, could’ve learned so much more about all the other books on the shelves—the awesomely titled “cozy mysteries,” as Beth taught me they’re called, or the zillions of young adult fantasies with crowns or swords on the covers. Working here isn’t just about money—I want to learn how to do this, to be Beth, to one day surround myself with books and coffee and people who love both while working on my own romance novels in my downtime. I don’t know exactly what I want to do with my life, but I do know I feel the closest to figuring it out when I’m here.
The best I can do now is prove that I can go above and beyond in whatever job I’m given, or at least I’ll try to.
So in the eight minutes I have left until the store opens, I take Beth’s muttered advice and get another instructional video going while I finish morning prep. I’mso wrapped up watching a pair of hands draw a swan that the first customer has to cough to get my attention. I offer my apologies and ask for her order, hoping it’ll be a latte or a cappuccino or even a hot chocolate to give me another chance to practice, but like most of the customers clinging to the end of summer, she orders an iced coffee, and the only thing I can show off is that I can make one without screwing up. She also orders a mixed-berry scone, the café’s most popular baked good (and the secret recipe of none other than Beth’s nephew, Winston, whom I’ve never met but lives in Beth’s basement and apparently has a golden touch with flour, sugar, eggs, and butter). I wrap it in the store’s trademark lavender tissue paper, hand it over along with the iced coffee, and make change… only to say goodbye and see Jasmine Killary standing at the front of the line.
“Good morning and welcome to the Book and Bean,” I greet her as if I’m not at all rattled by her presence, by her bedhead and lip gloss and the Bathory Belles concert T-shirt she wore the day we went to the Pea Island Wildlife Refuge and came back covered in bug bites. We spent the night soothing ourselves in the hot tub. “What can I get you?”
She glances at the chalk menu over my head. “What do you recommend?”
“Something with foam. I’ve been working on my art.”
“Ooh, interesting.” She taps her chin, showing off a plum-colored fingernail speckled with gold glitter. “Can you draw a puppy?”
“Probably as well as I can draw a leaf or a heart.”
Her lips curve into a smile. “I’ll have a puppy cappuccino, please, with a shot of vanilla.”
I’m grateful for the opportunity to turn away from her and focus on the machinery. I need to concentrate on not burning myself on the steam wand and on swirling the milk just right, not on sniffing her honeysuckle shampoo.
Espresso fills the small café with a bitter scent that obliterates the honey teasing my nose, and I inhale deeply. I’m two steps from giving Jasmine her coffee and watching her leave when she says, “Hey, is that a flyer for a Clementine Walker event? How much did you have to beg to make that happen?”
Ah, so we’re back to acknowledging we know each other, then. Okay. “A happy coincidence,” I say, carefully pouring in the milk.
“Well, I’m curious to meet the legend herself. Shame it’s not for another month. I’ll have to put it into my calendar.”
Is she screwing with me? She’s gonna come to the Clementine Walker event? I can’t tell if she’s trying to ruin it for me or if this is a genuine attempt to be friends. But I don’t have time to gauge it because the dad who loved my graphic novel recommendations appears right behind her.
Judging from the bounce in his step, I’m guessing the last round went well.
And Jasmine is going to hear all about it unless I can get her out of here.
“That’ll be $5.26,” I tell Jasmine, pushing her drink forward.
She squints at the top. “That’s supposed to be a puppy? Really?”
Dammit, I forgot to be fancy with the top. Then again, it doesn’t look much different than if I’d actually tried, judging by my earlier attempts. “What, you don’t see it? There’s the nose right there.”
She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. She hands over her credit card—of courseshe has her own—which reads Jasmine H Killary in crisp letters. The H stands for Helene. I hate that I know that.
