Ned groaned, rubbing his temples. “Dammit, girl. Privacy is important. Brooks ain’t some tourist attraction. He’s like family.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her lower lip trembling. Three seconds later, she was full-on crying.
Ned’s face contorted into sheer panic. I bit back a laugh. The man could run a café with an iron fist, but throw a crying girl in front of him, and he had no clue what to do.
“Ashley,” I said gently, “Why don’t you take a quick break?”
She sniffled. “Are— are you sure?”
“Yeah. I’ll cover the counter.”
Her eyes widened in horror. “Oh my God, I made Brooks Madsen work my shift.” Then, before either of us could respond, she bolted toward the bathroom.
Ned let out a heavy sigh. “I swear, this generation?—”
“She’s fine.” I clapped him on the shoulder. “Now, where’s my apron?”
He eyed me. “You serious?”
I was already moving toward the hook by the storage door, where an old, stained apron still hung, probably untouched for years. I grabbed it, looped it over my neck, and washed my hands at the sink. The muscle memory came back instantly.
“I don’t need you hovering, old man,” I teased, stepping up to the counter. “I still remember how to do this.”
Ned exhaled, shaking his head—but damn if he didn’t look pleased.
“If the world could see you now…”
I smirked, rolling up my sleeves. “Let’s not get carried away.”
The bell over the door chimed, and I turned toward my first customer in years, feeling more at home than I had in a long, long time.
“You only get one free pastry when you work. I’ll know if you sneak more.”
“Try and stop me.” I made a smug face at him, but he didn’t get to respond because the bell chimed.
Showtime.
A middle-aged couple ordered two black coffees and breakfast sandwiches. Easy enough.
Next, a latte and a scone.
Two-for-two.
Then came a mocha frappe. I hesitated. It had been years, and while I could still pull a perfect shot of espresso in my sleep, the fancy drinks weren’t as fresh in my memory.
From the doorway, Ned smirked. He smelled my struggle. “Need help, Madsen?”
“In your dreams.”
I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction.Mocha. Ice. Milk. Chocolate chips. Coffee. Blend. I poured a test sip, tasted it, nodded. Still got it.
Handing it off to the customer, I smiled. “Here you go.”
She paid but lingered, eyes narrowing. “Hey… are you Brooks?”
“Depends who’s asking.” I winced—probably not the best response, considering she could be anywhere from eighteen to twenty-five, and I never crossed that line. “Sorry. Yeah, that’s me.”
Her gaze flicked around the café like she’d caught me committing a crime. “Why are you… working here?”
