Chapter 1
Wyatt
The bell above the front door chimes, loud and sharp over the rhythmic clatter of coffee beans falling into the hopper of my roaster, cutting through my peaceful silence. My hand jerks, moving the mouth of the fifty-pound bag I’m holding, and beans scatter across the floor like little green marbles.
I glare toward the entrance, wondering who on earth is waiting in the lobby. Today is roasting day, so nobody should be here. I really need to start locking that door.
"Helllllllloooooooo! Is anyone here?" The woman’s voice has a nasal quality that sets my teeth on edge.
"Gladys, are you sure we have the right place? This doesn't look like a coffee shop. It's way too quiet."
"Of course we do, Joan. She said it was next door, remember? And he's supposed to give us a tasting." A gasp. "Oh, wow! Look over there at all the different coffees. I hope we're trying these today."
I grimace, my mind racing. Tastings? What the hell?
I’ve never held a tasting, and I don’t intend to start today.
Grumbling, I set the bag down and shove through the swinging door to the storefront, already composing my "we’re closed, dammit" speech.
I spot them hovering by my product shelves on the far wall and make my initial assessment: four women, platinum gray-haired, probably in their early eighties, wearing enough spandex and neon to be visible from space. And they've descended on my carefully arranged coffee display like seagulls on an unattended sandwich.
"Oh, I love this one." The tallest, dressed in head-to-toe bright blue, has my Caribbean blend pressed against her nose. She inhales as if she's trying to absorb it through her sinuses. "It reminds me of a Jamaican sunset. I hope we try this one, too."
Jamaican sunset? I bite back a scoff. Although, I have to admit it’s not a bad marketing slogan.
I fold my arms and brace my legs, taking a moment to wipe the scowl off my face and replace it with my “shopkeeper” neutral mask. The door, after all,wasunlocked, and they are elderly women. "Can I help you ladies?"
All four turn in unison, their wide-eyed expressions shifting from browsing mode to something far more unsettling: pure delight. So much for my naturally intimidating presence.
"Oh, my." Neon Pink leans toward Highlighter Orange, a hand raised in the universal gesture of a stage whisper. "She didn't tell us he was so handsome. Why in the world is she fighting with him? I'd be trying to get in his pants."
The other three murmur in agreement like a Greek chorus.
My shoulders tense. I have no fucking clue what they're talking about. I also have no idea why they're eyeballing me like I'm the last cinnamon roll at a buffet.
"Flo, hush!" Lime Green jabs her elbow into Flo's ribs. "We're not supposed to mentionher, remember? Don’t forget the mission."
What the fuck? This is getting more suspicious by the second, and my patience is wearing thin.
"Shhhh!" The taller one, aka Blue Raspberry, steps forward waving a piece of paper at me as if it’s a court summons. "We're here for your tasting, young man." She surveys the empty room with obvious satisfaction. "Looks like we hit the jackpot. We’re the first to arrive."
I blink. "I hate to disappoint you, ladies, but you have the wrong place. I don't do tastings." I pause for emphasis, taking a step forward. "Ever."
She purses her pink-stained lips and glances at the flyer. Her eagle-eyed gaze shoots to the sign above my head then zeroes back on me.
"No, we have the right spot." She holds the flyer up so I can read it. "This is the address."
"Let me see that." I snatch it from her hand, my eyes scanning quickly. Sure enough—a coffee tasting and dessert pairing for the first ten customers. Today at three PM. Fuck!
The amateurish design and bad clipart looks like something from 2003, and there are at least three misspellings, including my own damn business name. "Rectal Roasters" isn't even phonetically close, and if this had been anyone else but me, I’d be laughing my ass off. The only thing correct is my logo at the top.
"Where did you get this?" I don’t bother smoothing the edges from my voice.
"A little bird told us about it." Blue Raspberry beams. "So we scooted our boots up from Hibiscus Harbor just for this." She glances around expectantly. "Which coffee are we tasting first? Oooh… I hope at least one pairing is with lemon biscuits!"
A little bird, huh? I throw a glare to my left, hoping it reaches the spawn of Satan currently brewing her witches potion on theother side of the brick wall. She probably has a shit-eating grin on her face right now.
This has Merri Gallagher written all over it and clearly her latest volley in the prank war raging since we were kids. But this one is below the belt, and she knows it. The woman is aware how much I value my peace and routine, and she will pay dearly for this interruption. I don't know how yet, but it will be devastating and swift.
