He straightened a little. “Put me in, coach.”
“Grab that clipboard,” she said, nodding toward the end of the counter. “We need a quick count of what we actually have before I place another order. Cups, syrups, milk, you name it. If you can read my handwriting, you get bonus points.”
He picked up the clipboard, eyes skimming the list. “This is your handwriting?”
“Yes,” she said, already dialing the distributor. “Why?”
“Ever think about going to med school?” he quipped.
She stuck her tongue out at him and stepped toward the back hallway for a shred of quiet while the call connected.
While she talked to the supplier, she could hear Joe moving through the shop, opening coolers, counting sleeves of cups, reading syrup labels out loud to Ian.
“Three bottles of caramel, two of hazelnut, one of…What is this, toasted marshmallow?” he said.
“That one’s seasonal,” Ian replied. “Cassidy keeps ordering it.”
Krista peeked her head out, covering her phone with her hand. “What do we have for ice cream?”
“You have, like, four tubs of Rocky Road left,” Joe called toward the back. “And you’re down two strawberry cheesecake, one vanilla, an orange sherbert, and mint chocolate chip.”
Krista tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder and scribbled notes on the clipboard he’d set on the prep counter. The rhythm of it all settled over her—the numbers, flavors, costs. The constant mental math of what she could afford to stock versus what she could not afford to run out of.
“Okay,” she said finally, hanging up. “Replacement cups and milk shipment tomorrow, emergency case of oat milk this afternoon, and we’ll just have to wing it until then.”
“Good. I like winging it with you.”
She glanced up, surprised by the warmth in his voice. He stood at the other end of the counter, sleeves pushed up, a smear of ice cream on his wrist from counting the tubs. He looked completely at home here.
“You really do all this on your own?” he asked. “Ordering, staff, scheduling, boats, everything?”
“Not everything,” she said lightly. “Sometimes Ian remembers to flip theOpensign.”
Ian held up both hands. “Hey, uncalled for.”
Krista smiled, then turned back to the clipboard. The numbers swam for a moment, her brain catching on the margin notes she’d written about rising costs and shrinking wiggle room.
A shadow fell across the page. Joe had stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the heat of him at her side.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah.” Her throat felt tight. “Just…thinking.”
“Seems like you have a lot on your plate,” he said.
“It is a lot.” The truth slipped out before she could stuff it back in. “But it’s mine. At least for now.”
He didn’t say anything, just rested his hand briefly at the small of her back. The touch was light, barely there, but it steadied her in a way she really didn’t want to think too hard about.
“Tell me what else you need,” he said. “I’m good at following instructions. Terrible at latte art, but decent at counting and lifting things.”
“Okay.” She drew in a breath. “You can help me prep for tonight. The Crafting Club is meeting here, and I promised Kit I’d work on a new cocktail for our collab next week. And I should probably teach you how the boat rentals work.”
“Ah,” he said. “Research for my first shift.”
“Something like that.”
As they moved around each other—washing fruit, restocking napkins, refilling the cone stand—Krista felt the familiar rush of busy settle over her. But this time, it wasn’t quite as sharp. Joe’s presence, his quiet competence, and––bonus––ridiculous good looks, smoothed the edges in a way she hadn’t expected.
