I like them.
They have good taste. We’ll get along fabulously once they warm up to me as much as they’ve already warmed up to Jitter.
“I’m sure the health department will appreciate that,” Zen says with a stiffness that’s in direct contrast to the moon-eyes they’re making at my puppers. “The boss is waiting for you by the fireplace.”
That’s an ominous statement. Almost as bad as Emma’syou knew my brother went to jail for Chandler and you didn’t tell me?right before she fled her wedding and became the world’s most famous runaway bride.
Happy feelings all gone.
Dammit.
“Did I do something?” I ask in a hushed tone. “You said to carry on as normal. This is normal. Jitter’s with me here often, and the customers love him, and—”
“Aww, you are dacutessssst,” is the only response I get as Jitter nuzzles his body against Zen’s tall, lanky form and tries to push them over. “Who’s gonna need a lint brush? Yes, who’s gonna need a lint brush today?”
Definitely not the dog.
At least Zen doesn’t seem upset about it.
“I sincerely hope you don’t talk to customers that way,” a chill-inducing deep voice says from the front.
“Of course I will,” Zen tosses back over their shoulder. “Peopleloveto be talked at like they’re dogs. Oh, excuse me.No, sir, I would never. Ms. Sullivan, this way, please. And as for you, you adorable abominable monster of fluff, you can stay right here and help me find the schedule.”
“Jitter’s more likely to eat the schedule than read it if you don’t keep a firm hand on him,” I say quickly while I tug my dog toward his normal spot in the doggy house that Laney bought him for Christmas when he outgrew his old kennel. “But he’s excellent at sniffing out when it’s time to clean the mophead. And he knows to stay in his spot over here.”
“Do you eat mopheads?” Zen says to Jitter. “I’ll bet you eat them, you beautiful thing.”
I secure Jitter with his doggy door shut. He wags his tail so it audibly thumps against the walls inside and gives Zen puppy dog eyes over the half door like heknowsthey’ll be his friend if he could just get to them. And then I slip out of my coat and hang it on the rack in the alcove by the fridge next to the black jacket that I’m assuming is Zen’s, since it matches the rest of their outfit.
My grandpa bought this building almost seventy years ago, but it’s been around since the late eighteen-hundreds, and it truly was built into the rock wall at the edge of Main Street. So this alcove is framed on one side with actual boulders.
We have a lot of character in our building here.
We.
The anxiety gnawing at my insides has grown jaws bigger than Jitter’s.
I need to makesucha good first impression.
“Are you gonna help me make Mr. Grumpy Pants his morning tea?” Zen says to Jitter. “Yes? Yes, you are? Ohh, who’s such a good puppy-wuppy?”
I am officially jealous of my dog. Bet he gets a delicious breakfast while I’m sweating in front of the new boss.
Logically, I know there’s no reason for me to be nervous.
I’m a good manager. My crew loves me. My customers love the crew. My customers love me. I keep us involved in the community, and in return, the community supports us. We turn a profit every month, which I know can’t be said for the two other locations Chandler expanded into over the past few years and that I expect the new owner will have to deal with sooner or later.
But I’m quaking as I step into the dining room. I’m quaking so hard, I actually leave my coffee on the checkout counter for fear it won’t settle well, which is a fear I’ve had maybe three other times total in my entire life.
When I say I lived in this dining room while I was growing up, I mean it.
Until I was old enough to walk to my grandparents’ house after school, this was where I was if I wasn’t in school or at home with Mom. I colored on the walls under the booth closest to the register. I’ve sat at the tables in the picture window or at the stools along the bar and listened in on countless conversations while I pretended I was daydreaming or stared at the lake down below town. I helped Grandma convince Grandpa to replace all of the taxidermy animal heads with local artwork—no disrespect to Emma’s dad, who stuffed them all—and when Grandma passed away, I took over her job of picking the artists that we’d feature on the wood plank walls, which are currently lit up while the rest of the lights in the dining room are off.
I’ve changed dozens of lightbulbs and cleaned thousands of spiderwebs off the low-hanging metal dome light fixtures around the dining room. I’ve rewritten the chalk menu boards on the wall behind the bar quarterly like clockwork since I was fourteen. I convinced Grandpa to add the picnic-style tables that now take up half the dining room, and until the Great Chimney Incident That We Don’t Talk About right before I graduated high school, I’d refill the wood in the massive stone fireplace in the center of the room all winter long.
Now, it’s a gas fireplace, the flickering glow casting a dancing light across the easy chairs on this side of the stone structure.
They’re Grandpa’s preferred seats now whenever he comes into the café, but this morning, there’s someone else occupying one.
