ONE
EMMA
JANUARY
Professional thorn-in-my-side Harlan Roycestood at the counter ofmycoffee shop, tellingmybeloved baristas how to do their jobs.
“You have to add the water first, then the espresso shot,thenthe ice. Otherwise, it shocks the espresso and makes it taste metallic.”
Typical.
But it was some comfort that I wasn’t the only person he told what to do.
I shouldn’t have even been in there. I was over an hour late to my job as the Ohio Rusties’ team chef. My seventeen-year-old son, Liam, woke up with a surprise double ear infection, and though he was old enough to take himself to the doctor, the mom in me saw my little baby boy suffering and decided I had to take him myself.
My sous chef, Miguel, would never make a peep about it, and I was confident he wouldn’t hold a grudge, but I still feltbad leaving him hanging for a breakfast service. I’d get him his favorite latte to make up for my absence.
Royce was two customers ahead of me, and though it was just a matter of time before I had to put up with his nonsense, I needed to delay the inevitable. I picked up a discarded section of the newspaper from a nearby table and pretended to be engrossed in it. Oldest trick in the book, but an effective one. I glanced down to make sure my parka was zipped, thus covering my chef’s coat.
“Hey, Em!” Willa, my favorite barista, chirped. “Cappuccino?”
I made a shushing motion and held the newspaper next to my face. I tilted my head toward Royce. “Trying to lay low,” I said through tight lips.
A knowing look came over her face. “Ah. Coworker?”
“And pain in my ass,” I said. “Does he always do that with the Americano instructions?”
She chuckled. “Every time.”
I shook my head. “He’s such a pill.” We shared a quiet laugh. “But yes, cappuccino. And a vanilla latte with an extra shot for Miguel.”
“You got it.”
I tapped my card and tried to figure out where I could stand and not have to talk to Royce. It was always something with him.This could have used paprikaoreverybody uses Panko but you can get a more satisfying crust with cornmealorjust let me make it for myself.
The worst combination of things: a know-it-all, a food snob, and an entitled prick.
To everyone else, he was the hometown boy. Born and raised in upper-crust Columbus, he was the Rusties’ pride and joy. That was even more true now that he was playing so well.
But to me, he was the guy at work who loved to get a rise out of me.
It would all be easier if he was ugly, but he wasn’t. To add insult to injury, Harlan Royce had the gall to be attractive.
Jet black hair. Dark eyes. A stupid, smug little mustache. A slutty-ass gold chain. My molars ached from the fury it brought me.
But in my coffee shop, I wasn’t on the clock. I didn’t owe him shit. Before he caught sight of me, he answered his phone.
Saved by the bell.
The barista on the machine plopped three cups on the counter and shot me a wink before calling out, “Harlan.”
Royce scooped his cup off the counter and gave the crew a nod, tucking his phone into his ear while he put a straw into his iced Americano—because apparently he was too highly evolved for cold brew. He straightened, tossed his falls-perfectly-every-time hockey hair, and slipped on a beanie from his pocket before heading to the exit.
Once he hit the door, I was summoned. “Here you go, Em. Tell Miguel hi for us.”
“I will. Thanks for the coverup,” I said. “Hope you guys have a good one.”
“You too!”
