Maybe El is right about needing to switch to sugar-free lattes? Clearly, this is medical and has nothing to do with Portia.
twenty-one
Portia
It’s nice to have cash in my pocket again, and a work schedule to secure even more. I love the idea of being self-employed with my own match-making business. After this last test run, I’m positive I’m not ready to pull the trigger all the way yet. The website needs more organic growth to sustain steady traffic, and not require full-time recruiting. Until I get to that point, I will proudly wear my Coffee Loft apron.
It's my second opening shift after returning to work. Today is as crazy as yesterday, bringing a steady, enjoyable, fleet of customers. I had also switched the Coffee Shop satellite station back to Christmas music, and that was putting me in the best mood. I’m one of those people who can listen to Christmas music all year round. Since it is still December, with New Year’s Eve being tomorrow, I’m going to enjoy all my favorites while I can get away with it.
Humming away, I shine the counters as Christian walks through the front door, an urgency in his stride. His gaze paces the room with a few scattered customers sitting in their booths. A pleased grin grows on his face as he continues to saunter to the back. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.” I exude a cheery tone after yesterday went off without a hitch, and I consider friendshippossible. “I thought Arielle was coming in this morning.”
“She was supposed to, but she woke up in the middle of the night with some stomach bug. I told her to rest.” He scans over my workspace, everything a whole lot tidier than it was yesterday. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, it’s been great. Steady but not too much that I can’t keep up.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder to the back freezer. “I pulled milks already, and everything up here is ready for your shift. Oh!” I hold my hand up, interrupting myself. “Before I forget, you need to add Oreos to your grocery list. I searched all over the last two days, and the pantry is bare.”
“Duly noted.” His expression is neutral but his gaze slides to my overflowing tip jar on the counter. “Boy, Portia, I’d say you win the tip contest. I’ve never seen a more crammed jar after a morning rush. How do you do it? Money sure loves you.”
I lift my shoulders into a modest shrug. “My dad always says you get what you give. I consider the tips a gauge in how much care I give others.”
“You are amazing with people.” He walks to the handwashing station and starts pumping soap out of the wall dispenser onto his hand. “So anyway, I have a small issue with El being sick. There’s this business after-hours thing on the last Friday of every month. El signed us up and bought two tickets. I guess it’s a lot of walking around, and sipping wine while handing out business cards. Since it’s between the holidays this month, the chamber organized a charity fundraiser dinner thing instead ofthe usual business promotion. Honestly, I hate these kinds of things. They are too peoply. But since I’m new to the area, I think she might be right that I need to meet people in town, especially other business owners. Uh, so I’m, uh, thinking.”
He stops talking but is still pumping soap. A whole pile of foam engulfs his hand as he evidently isn’t paying attention to what he’s doing. I giggle as the tower wavers. It’s the leaning tower of Palmolive. Likely it’s Soft Soap but I was going for the P word. Leaning tower of Soft Soap doesn’t have the same ring. Or worse yet, knowing Christian's cheap self, it’s a store brand and that would sound even worse.
“So, I hate those people things. I guess, I already said that, but, uh, would you want to go to it, too? You seem like you’d enjoy that sort of thing.” Instead of looking at me, he startles as he finally notices the mountain of soap on his hand and quickly turns on the water to rinse it down. It’s extra foamy soap, bubbling into a swollen mass that looks as if it’s coming alive. He pretends not to notice the bubble plume rise as he shakes the water off his hands. “Of course, you’ll get paid. It’s a work thing.”
“A people event, huh?” Pinching my lips together to stifle my giggles, I force my gaze from the still rising soapsuds, and take my tip jar to sort through my money into a neat pile. Out of the corner of my eye, I see he’s splashing water on the bubbles, hopelessly trying to wash them down the drain, but they continue to swell. “Do I get overtime pay?”
“Ah, sure.” He clicks his heels together, standing up straight next to the soap pile, his eyes not acknowledging anything amiss.
I can’t hold it back anymore and I burst out laughing. “What are you doing?”
Nervous laughter trickles from his lips, and he squawks, “These bubbles have a mind of their own!”
“Only because you pumped the whole bottle! You were completely zoned out.” I chuckle again, enjoying how easy it is tojoke with him today. “You almost need a mop bucket.” I reset my tip jar, stuffing my money into my purse, keeping my gaze low. “What time is the dinner?”
“Ah, the social is at five. I’ll shut the doors a little early here.”
I strap my purse on my shoulder and take a few strides toward the door. As I push the door open, I flash back a smile. “You know where to pick me up.” I catch his expression right as he absorbs my words and his lips bend into a winning smile.
I proceed to stroll through the door, and enter the rare winter sunshine, analyzing what happened. I get that Christian is wanting help for his event, but he wouldn’t ask me to go if he still hated me, right? And if he didn’t want to hang out with me, he’d probably pay me to gowithouthim. Maybe I’m reading into this a little too much, but when I think about how awkward he was when he asked, he was nervous. A quibble bubbles in my gut. Why would he be nervous unless he cared how I’d reply?
My phone vibrates in my coat pocket, and I pull it out. “Hey, Dad.”
“Sweetheart, how are you?”
“Good, actually.” I walk briskly at a New Yorker's pace down the sidewalk toward my apartment. “I got my job back at the Coffee Loft, and finished a shift.”
“See?” He chuckles his good-natured laugh. “I knew that loser would come to his senses.”
“Tell me you guys are finally home safe?”
“We are home and ready to report for duty. Do you want to go to the Home Hardware tonight?”
“I would, but I can’t. Christian asked me to do this charity fundraiser dinner for work.”
“Interesting. Boy, it seems that Christian fellow changed his tune, giving you your job back, and having you do this. What do you think changed?”
