Chandler’s parents might have bought out the rest of the family to take full ownership of Bean & Nugget while I was in high school, and they might’ve retired and signed the café over to Chandler when Grandma passed away a few years ago, but ever since I came home after college and demanded a job in the family business, I’ve been in charge here.
Not because I’m bossy and have to be in charge.
More because I just know how to get things done, and it was always easier for the rest of them to let me do the hard work that I loved and took on as a tribute to the café that built me.
I’m about to find out how much longer that will last.
“You ready for this?” I ask Jitter.
He leans against me again and pants up at me, and since he’s not a small dog, and Iama woman of shorter stature, his nose lifts almost to my boob.
Jitter’s ready.
I need to be too.
Can’t find out what’s behind door number one of my future if I don’tface it, so I balance everything to shove my key in the lock, twist the knob, let Jitter in first, and follow him with a forced-cheery, “Hello? Anyone here?”
My pulse is racing. Dread makes my shoulders feel like they weigh ten thousand pounds each. The lights are on when they shouldn’t be, which means I am definitely not alone here. The kitchen smells like coffee beans and croissants and bacon though, just like it should. The stainless steel sink is gleaming, the prep table is clear, the racks are ready, and the floor is mopped, exactly the way I find the kitchen every morning.
Nothing new on the old metal desk where Grandpa used to do the schedule by hand. Nothing new on the bulletin board over the desk where my and all of my cousins’ artwork used to be hung beside the employment policies posters and weekly schedule and slips of paper where former crews would request time off.
The powdered cheese from Chandler’s ridiculouswe should sell flavored popcorn in the afternoonsera still sitting on top of the large white fridge that should be replaced with a built-in, but hasn’t been because Chandler was a cheap-ass.
The only thing different is the black leather jacket hanging from the coat rack above Jitter’s doggy house in a little stone nook in the kitchen.
And that’s enough to turn the coffee in my stomach into a rock.
A tall person with short-cropped, straight blond hair, coffee-brown eyes, a slender face, overly freckled white skin, an eyebrow ring, and a black blazer over a black turtleneck over black jeans immediately swings into the doorway from the counter area as I head toward the front of the café. “Sabrina Sullivan. I’d recognize your hair anywhere.”
I smile a smile that I have to work past nerves to reach as I cross the kitchen to offer a handshake. “You must be Zen.”
“Excellent guess. The boss—oh, puppy.”
Zen’s email signature line lists they/them pronouns, a marketing degree from UC Berkeley with a graduation date of almost two years ago, andalsothe last name Cartwright.
Just like the new boss, whom they referred to asMr. Cartwrightin every email.
Father? Brother? Lover?
I don’t know.
And I’m torn between wanting to knoweverythingand knowing that the less I know, the better.
I amoff gossip.
But I am all in with doing everything in my power to be Zen’s new favorite person.
Fighting won’t get me what I want.
Especially fighting before I have a chance to get off on the right foot with the new boss.
“This is Jitter,” I say. “He’ll go to doggy daycare soon, but it’s not open yet.”
Zen shoves their hands in their pockets like they have to or else they’ll drop to their knees and fling themself at my dog, who’s straining on his leash and wagging his tail like he’s spotted his next best friend.
And I draw a full, relieved breath.
Zen loves my dog, even if they don’t want me to know they love my dog.
