And at the moment, it was crowded with business. Her errand had taken longer than she had planned. Poor Thalia must be swamped.
Grabbing the dirty plates from the picnic table, Jane hurried inside.
And stopped.
There was a customer operating the espresso machine. Behind the counter, which was totally off-limits. Lauren Something, with the piercings and puckish smile.
She’d been in every day this week, Jane recalled, occupying the same corner table with her laptop and her phone. Always alone. Unlike some patrons who thought a single cup of coffee entitled them to sit all day, this one actually ordered food—a scone or muffin in the morning, a croissant and fruit at lunch, sometimes a cupcake in the afternoon.
Jane appreciated every one of her customers. She liked feeding people. She was proud of her pastries. And she had overhead to pay.
None of which excused a customer’s presence behind the Cimbali machine.
Jane normally cringed from conflict. But the Sweet Tea House was hers. “What are you doing?”
And where on earth was Thalia?
“Oh, hi.” Lauren looked up, smiling, before setting a tall glass on the takeaway counter. “Iced mocha cappuccino.”
“And an Americano,” added the woman waiting for her order.
“Coming right up,” Lauren said cheerfully. She glanced at Jane. “If that’s okay with you.”
“Um.” Jane blinked, fascinated and frankly envious of the other woman’s ease. “All right. Where’s Thalia?”
“Kitchen,” Lauren said. “The timer went off.”
“Right.” Jane slid behind the register to take the next order, watching out of the corner of her eye as Lauren tamped and pulled two shots.
She seemed to know what she was doing. Was she looking for a job? Was that why she sat day after day in the shop, manning her computer and phone? But no, she’d said she was a writer.
Unless that was the sort of thing people said when they couldn’t get other work. Real work.
Jane rang up and plated two croissants—ham and Swiss, spinach and feta, a side of fruit, a chocolate chip cookie—as Lauren poured the espresso over hot water, put a lid on the cup, and set it on the counter.
“You look like you’ve done this before,” Jane said.
“I used to work as a barista.” Lauren stroked the gleaming Cimbali, the way Jane would pat a loaf of bread. “Your grinder needs adjusting, but you’ve got yourself a great machine here.”
Jane flushed, torn between pleasure at the compliment and defensiveness at the implied criticism. She ran a bakery, not a coffee shop. She’d researched her equipment, buying the best she could afford. But there was no one on the island to teach her how to use it.
“The grinder was adjusted when I bought it,” she said.
“Mm,” Lauren said noncommittally. “You know, changes in humidity and temperature affect how coarse the grind should be.”
“Seriously?”
Lauren nodded. “You should probably adjust it every day.”
Jane puffed out her breath. “Right. Okay. Thanks.”
She studied the woman in front of her. She couldn’t afford to make mistakes. But...
“How long are you here for?” she asked abruptly.
Lauren shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
“Where are you staying?”
