Mrs. Bishop leaned forward. “Krista taps it twice on the side. Says it wakes it up.”
“Alright then.” Joe distinctly did not remember any tapping in her demo yesterday morning.
He tapped it.
It hissed violently, spraying a stream of steam that nearly took his eyebrows off.
“See?” Mrs. Bishop said brightly. “Just needed a little encouragement.”
Joe forced a smile through the fog cloud now enveloping him. “Right. Of course.”
He pulled the shot (almost evenly) and reached for the honey. “I’m not going to attempt the bumblebee art today, but how about this?” He added an artistic swirl on top.
Mrs. C. watched his wrist motion with an unnerving intensity.
“Mm-hmm,” she said. “I give that a C plus.”
“Seriously, you’re grading me?” Joe muttered under his breath.
“Excuse me?” Mrs. C. asked sweetly.
“Nothing.”
Before he could finish pouring the milk, someone yelled from behind him, “Hey, dude—your blender is cursed!”
Joe whipped around. The teenagers had managed to get the blender lid on halfway, resulting in a pink milkshake tornado spraying across the back counter.
He lunged for it, slapping the lid down, but it was too late as most of the contents were now on the ceiling.
“Can you make it chocolate?” one of them asked, unfazed.
“Not now.” He tried not to growl.
A woman at the rental booth outside called through the open window, “Sir! Do you work here? Someone’s kayak is floating away!”
“Yeah, hang on, one second?—”
Mrs. C. tapped her watch. “Her latte is cooling, dear.”
The espresso machine hissed again, mocking him. Milk dripped from the ceiling. The teenagers laughed.
And Joe… admitted defeat.
“Krista?” he muttered to himself. “Where are you?”
As if summoned by sheer desperation, the back door to the bar area opened and Krista appeared, sunlight streaming behind her, turning her into something mythic and wildly out of place in the middle of his disaster. Joe wished she wasn’t walking into a big old mess, but here they were.
“Oh. My. God,” she said softly.
Joe pointed at literally everything. “It’s…a learning curve.”
“Okay,” she said, rolling up her sleeves and stepping behindthe counter. “I’ll handle the machine. Let’s salvage the living and bury the dead.”
“Copy that,” Joe said. “I’ll mop the crime scene.”
Mrs. Bishop perked up. “Good. We were worried you’d let him drown.”
Krista slid in behind the bar, close enough that Joe caught a hint of her perfume. It was the same vanilla and citrus scent that clung to her room—and now to his thoughts.
