Ding!
In walks the devil we’re talking of. Speaking of. Whatever. He looks as Evil-Lord-Ish as ever, freshly shaven, pressed suit, dark eyes scanning the room.
The room that is now silent.
“Please, don’t stop on my account,” he says, eyeing us like he knows we were talking about him. Well, they were. I was mostly shaking my head because he. Is. The. Worst!
I remember his sneering tone in my head.
“Your ideas thus far have been a smashing success, well done, you, very well done.”
What a snobby, rude, condescending, well…asshole! I try to see the good in people but he’s wearing me down. I really want to deny him coffee right now but it’ll just add fuel to the flames of gossip already lighting up my little shop.
I try to tell everyonego ahead and get on out of herewith my eyes, which they all see, understand, and promptly ignore.
The big jerk looks around at all of us knowing we were talking about him and not caring at all. He is almost smirking when he steps to the counter and says, “Large, black coffee, please. And an order of your cinnamon rolls, as requested by the crew.” He leans over the counter like he’s some benefactor, gracing my little store with his presence and his big order and all his money.
I flinch, and he knows. He knows as I turn and get to work, wordlessly gathering cinnamon buns into a box, that I want to give him his order for free, on principalities. But principalities—its principles, Harper. On principle! Ugh!— they don’t keep the lights on, unfortunately. Which he also knows.
I feel like he knows the schedule too, since he came during the one small window where I’m by myself. Forced to face him. But not forced to talk.
And, what he didn’t know is that the whole freaking town would be in here to bother him. I don’t have to say a word with all of them here. Heck, I don’t have to talk if just Steven is here.
Today, everyone’s involved, not just Steven. They’re hazing the crap out of our resident billionaire. I love it.
“Then the second you took your helmet off, you got sprayed straight in the mouth!” Shelly teases.
“Then he stalks over, all like, I demand my coffee, Madison,” Steven mocks in a pretty spot-on, almost-British impression.
“Mhm,” Aiden says. I don’t turn to look at him but he sounds annoyed. He doesn’t protest the teasing, though. No snarky comebacks. Almost like he’s being a good sport. Weird.
Also like he’s staring at me. Which, duh, I’m making his drink. What else is he going to watch, Maxine’s crazy cat earrings jingling while she talks?
I turn and place the coffee in front of him, shift down to the iPad, twist it toward him, and run back to the box of buns. I add a fresh dollop of icing on the cinnamon rolls and pop them inthe microwave for 14 seconds. I brace myself when they’re done.You can look up and say thank you and run back to the kitchen. Two words, Harper. You can—
“DJ!” I melt with relief at the sight of my employee coming in through the back. He’s still wearing his backpack and not in an apron and not yet clocked in and I do not care. “Can you please take these to Mr. Vanderwell right now, before you clock in?” He frowns, as this is out of the appropriate order, but he does as I ask.
And I, total boss babe that I am, dash down the hall and hide in the deep freezer.
_____
“Ow,” I moan when my butt hits the bike seat. I knew my dad’s car wasn’t going to make it much longer, and I love my bike, I do. It was another post-trauma-impulse-purchase and I’d buy it again and again. It’s exactly like the gal’s in the ad, who was biking down the Santa Monica pier. It’s the retro design style, in a very bright, happy orange color, with cute basket.
A cute, tiny basket. My oversized purse won’t fit, plus I need to keep the quiches—tonight’s dinner—from getting squished. Guess I’ll have to start wearing a backpack? I have one from school in the attic maybe? That’ll work.
At least it’s warm out! And bonus cardio! Think of the heart health points you’ll get on your watch!
It’s all true. But I roll my eyes at myself anyway.
I’m just flat-up too tired for this. Yesterday I barely sat down from literal sun up to sun set. And that was after not quite recovering from the MapleTap right before.
I take a deep breath before I transition from the back parking lot to the road. I look at the spring green coming in all around me. I get out my headphones and put on the best boy band that ever lived. Immediately, I feel better.
Until I get to the house.
“Dad?” I say as I walk in. I go in to hug him, but spot the scowl right away. I deflate. And I wasn’t totally inflated to begin with on account of the exhaustion.
Lovable, Dreamer Dad, who opened the Roasted Chestnut, has been gone a long time. These days I sometimes get Tired Dad or Grateful Dad. Tonight though, and often, I live with Bitter Dad. I can’t blame him.
