"Finn, I need three more lattes and that chai," I call over my shoulder, not breaking rhythm as I steam milk for the current round.
"On it, boss," he replies, already reaching for fresh cups.
Mateo works the register with quiet efficiency, taking orders and payments while I focus on drink production. Saul moves between the kitchen and front counter, bringing fresh pastries and helping where needed. It's controlled chaos, our normal Saturday rush.
"Excuse me." A sharp voice cuts through the café noise. "This isn't what I ordered."
I look up to see a man in an expensive-looking coat holding his cup like it personally offended him. He pushes past the pickup line, straight to where I'm working.
"I ordered an oat milk latte with an extra shot and light foam. This is clearly whole milk—and there's too much foam." He setsthe cup down with more force than necessary, coffee sloshing over the rim. "I need you to remake it. Now."
I take a measured breath. "I'd be happy to remake that for you, sir. If you could just?—"
"I'm already late for a meeting because your line is ridiculous," he interrupts. "I don't have time to wait again. Just fix it."
The café quiets slightly, other customers watching the exchange. I can feel Mateo tensing beside me, ready to intervene.
"I understand you're in a hurry," I say, keeping my voice even. "I'll remake your drink right away. If you'd like to step to the pickup area, it'll be ready in just a moment."
"That's not good enough." He leans over the counter, invading my space. "I'm a paying customer—and this place clearly doesn't understand customer service. I should speak to the manager."
"You're speaking to her," I reply, meeting his gaze directly. "I'm the owner. And while I'm happy to remake your drink, I need to ask you to step back from my counter and wait your turn like everyone else."
He blinks, clearly not expecting resistance. "Do you know how much money I spend here?"
"Not enough to justify speaking to my staff or me that way," I say calmly. "I'm offering to remake your drink. That's the solution I can provide."
Saul steps up beside me, arms crossed. "You heard her. Step back from the counter, man."
The customer's face reddens. "This is ridiculous. I'll take my business elsewhere."
"That's your choice," I say with a polite nod. "Have a good day."
He glares at me for a beat longer before storming toward the door. As he yanks it open, Finn calls out cheerfully, "Don't forget to leave us a one-star review! We're collecting them for our scrapbook!"
A ripple of laughter breaks the tension. I turn back to the espresso machine, already moving on to the next order as if nothing happened.
"Three-shot Americano for Doug," I call out, sliding the cup across the counter.
The rush continues, orders keep coming, and I keep moving. Only when there's finally a brief lull do I realize my hands are trembling slightly as I wipe down the counter. I press my palms flat against the cool surface, willing them to steady.
I haven't even realized I'm glancing at the door until I catch myself doing it for the third time in as many minutes. I'm not looking for the angry customer. I'm looking for…
My eyes drift to the front windows, scanning the parking lot without meaning to. Checking for a familiar truck that isn't there.
"He usually comes in around nine," Rowan says, materializing beside me with fresh cups.
I snap my attention back to the counter. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't." She raises an eyebrow, nodding toward the windows I was just staring at. "You handled that jerk beautifully, by the way. Very professional."
"Just doing my job," I mutter, busying myself with restocking the milk pitchers.
"Mm-hmm." She watches me for a moment longer. "You know, it's okay to admit you're looking forward to seeing someone."
"I'm not." The denial comes too quickly. "I'm just… keeping an eye on the door. Security. You know how it is."
Rowan doesn't push, but her knowing look says everything she's not saying.
