“I thought she said poor filter,” Polly whispered back. “Like it’s missing something.”
Irene folded her arms. “Why can’t we just pour hot water through the grounds like normal people?”
“Because that’s not espresso,” Lila said patiently. “This machine uses pressure to extract the flavor.”
“Pressure,” Wilfred repeated, frowning. “That sounds dangerous.”
“It’s not,” Lila said too quickly. “It’s perfectly safe. Watch…”
She demonstrated the steps again, slower this time. All while explaining the difference between steam, hot water, lattes, cappuccinos, milk foam and milk froth.
By the end of it, she felt like a kindergarten teacher describing rocket science to a room of bewildered squirrels. When she looked up, every one of them was staring at the machine with the same mystified awe one might reserve for a UFO.
Doc was the first to speak. “So, if I understand right, the hot water goesinthe beans?”
Lila inhaled slowly. “No, through the beans. The ground beans.”
Polly frowned. “Like a ghost?”
“No, Polly. Not like a ghost.”
Irene sniffed. “Well, I still say my percolator never hissed at me.”
Lila took a deep breath and forced a smile. “We’ll… practice. Step by step. Now who wants to try?”
Paddy’s hand shot up. “I’ll give it a go.”
“Wonderful,” Lila said in relief. At least one of them was willing.
Lila stepped out back, shaking her head. The delivery truck was going to be here soon, but she needed some air. What had she gotten herself into? This group of octogenarians was near impossible to work with. How was she going to survive the next few weeks?
She sighed, leaned against the doorframe, and rubbed her temples. If she survived this, she’d deserve a medal, or at least a nap.
Naturally her brain picked that moment to conjure uphim.
Tristan John Jones. TJ. She could still hear the British lilt in his voice when he’d asked if they served tea. And those eyes… steel-blue, sharp, with that old-world steadiness that made her forget what she was saying halfway through a sentence.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with a quiet kind of strength that didn’t need announcing. He had the look of a man who could fixa fence, rescue a kitten, and quote a sonnet before dinner. And those rolled-up sleeves revealing strong forearms hadn’t helped her concentration either.
She huffed a little laugh.Get a grip, Lila. You don’t have time for forearms. You have Irene, hot plates, and three gallons of scalded milk waiting for you.
Still, she couldn’t quite shake the memory of his grin the first time she saw him. But what did it matter? He’d probably already left town anyway. A man like that didn’t linger long in Clear Creek.
Lila pushed off the doorframe and drew a deep breath of cool air.Focus.Delivery truck, teach Grandma and the others, festival prep. There was no time for daydreams about a hot guy with a light British accent.
A scream interrupted her thoughts.
“Oh, good grief,” she muttered, racing back inside. “Now what?”
“Saints preserve us!” Paddy shouted, snatching up a towel. He waved it in front of him like a sword, managing only to knock the milk pitcher to the floor. It rolled away, clanking in lazy defiance.
The steam sputtered, died, and silence followed, broken only by the slow drip of foam sliding down the side of the machine.
Paddy straightened, covered in froth. He held up a mug half full of something beige. “Well,” he said proudly. “That’s what ye call a lat-tay, aye?”
Lila pressed two fingers to her temple. “Close enough.” She glanced at the corner where the couple had been sitting. Thank goodness they were gone.
Grandma poked her head into the hall from the storeroom. “I take it we’re not open for business yet?”
