I hang my bag and jacket on the rail, grabbing my apron and tying it tight around my waist. The sound of a tongue clicking makes my head snap to the side. I see Harper leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, eyes trained on me.
“You look like shit,” she says drily, her eyes roaming over me from head to toe, like she’s assessing the damage of a rental vehicle.
Nope. No visible injuries here. They’re all in my head.
“Thanks,” I say with a quiet laugh, skirting past her. I walk over to the front door, flipping the sign to open. “I just had too much to drink last night.”
“I called you twice before you answered this morning. I was putting on my shoes and getting ready to come over and take a battering ram to your front door,” she says, mimicking the motion for emphasis.
“I told you, I was in the shower,” I reply, not a lie. I just leave out the part where I was trying to peel the first layer of my skin off with a loofah. “I answered as soon as I got out.”
Harper says nothing, just looks at me suspiciously. She doesn’t believe me, and I don’t blame her. I don’t make a habit of lying to my best friend, but I just can’t vocalize everything that’s going on in my head right now. It’s too jumbled. Too raw.
“How did your night go? Did the frat boy take you home?” Her brows raise at the question, half in inquisition and half in concern. She’s definitely judging me for my perceived choice in bed-buddy, and that makes my insides tighten.
I reach past her, grab a broom, and begin sweeping the floor. Anything to distract myself from the way my hands are shaking and my chest constricts.
“Yeah,” I say, my eyes focused on the brush in front of me, my grip tight on the wooden handle. “He made sure I got through the front door and then went home.”
Not before trying to rape me.
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue as the truth fights its way forward, but I clamp it down.
“How didyournight go?” I ask with a wiggle of my eyebrows before she has a chance to pry further.
“Fine,” she says, grabbing a rag and wiping the nearest table, making herself look busy.
“Come on, Harp. I know you want to spill it.”
She pauses for a moment, thinking it over before caving. “It was…” she pauses, putting the rag down and looking towards me with a concealed smile. “Mind-blowing.” She lets out a little giggle and blushes. Actually blushes. “I thought multiple orgasms were only something in romance books. I almost blacked out. In fact I’m pretty sure I lost consciousness for a split second!” She uses her hands to emphasize the point.
“Good for you, Harp,” I say with a smile. A genuine smile. Because, despite how shitty my night went, at least Harper has found someone who makes her happy. I haven’t seen her this fucking radiant in… well, the entire time I’ve known her.
“Did you know there’s a reverse missionary? Because I fucking didn’t. But I do now.”
“I wish my husband would do things like that,” Kaycee muses from behind the counter, their hand paused over the bean hopper. Identical looks of shock pass over our faces as Harper and I realize Kaycee has been there this whole time.
“Kaycee, you should take the bull by the horns… literally,” Harper says, turning back to clear her table.
“You know what, girl? I will. He’s in for a treat tonight,” they muse to themselves as they continue pouring the beans. But not without a devious grin on their face.
The bell above the door rings, marking our first customer of the day. I breathe a sigh of relief. At least now I can throw myself into work. I’ve never considered myself a workaholic, but I guess there’s no time like now to become one. I’ll deal with the implications of distracting myself and not dealing with my problems later. I set aside my broom and start on my first latte of the day.
One terrible pumpkin latte turns into twenty. I’ve poured the milk before the espresso, forgotten what season we’re in, and I’m pretty sure I put regular milk in an oat milk order. This is exactly why I’m not a workaholic.
Harper appears beside me and takes the milk jug from my hands. “Kat, youreallydon’t look okay,” she says with her brows knitted in concern as her hands close around mine.
“I’m fine, Harp. I’m just a little hungover.” Also, not a lie. I just don’t know if it’s drug or alcohol induced.
She considers my words for a moment before shoving me towards the counter. “Go. You’re front of house today, I’ve got the coffee.”
I give her a thankful smile, wiping my hands on my apron and walking over to the counter. Harper pulls and organizes the ticket mess I left behind me. Normally I hate being front of house, but the espresso machine wasn’t doing enough to distract me. The repetitive actions left far too much room in my head to think. At least now I can talk to people, even if it is from a script.
My eyes lock on the register, blurring at the edges as a customer approaches the counter.
“Hey, welcome to The Ground. What can I get you?” the script flows freely from my mouth.
“Hi,” comes a deep, familiar voice.
