He was behind the counter, wearing a flour-dusted apron and a pinched expression, trying to juggle the espresso machine and a tray of something caramelized that was beginning to burn.
A streak of powdered sugar cut across his jaw like war paint, and his hair was sticking up at odd angles.
“Don’t panic,” he muttered under his breath. “We’ve only run out of milk, butter, and napkins. Again. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”
“Sure it is,” I said, stepping into the chaos.
His head snapped up, eyes lighting up when he saw me. “You came.”
“You say that like I don’t show up every time I say I will.”
He grinned, cheeks pink. “It’s just nice to see your face when the world is on fire.”
“I brought lunch,” I said, holding up the bag.
“Did you bring extra sanity? No? Damn.”
I set the bag down on the counter and leaned in to kiss his cheek. I didn’t care that Cyrus caught it and made kissy noises from somewhere near the ovens.
“Hey, James?” Rowan called. “We’re out of lemon glaze. And someone just ordered three lemon tarts.”
James groaned. “Can you stall them? I need five minutes.”
“I can try,” Rowan said. “But I can’t lie under pressure, I get sweaty and my ears twitch.”
“You’re a disaster,” James called back, but it sounded fond.
He glanced at me, then at the chaos, then back again. “Raf… I know this is probably the worst time to ask, but would you mind?—?”
I was already unzipping my hoodie.
“Just tell me what not to touch.”
“Anything hot,” James said immediately. “Or sharp. Or that requires delicate plating.”
“...So, the counter?”
“Exactly,” he grinned. “You’re hired.”
Ten minutes later, I regretted all of my life choices.
Rowan had thrown an apron at me. Cyrus was giving me the kind of instructions that felt more like riddles. James had vanished into the kitchen for an emergency batch of scones.
And I? I was manning the register and trying to smile at customers like I hadn’t just hit the cash drawer button three times in a row and opened it by accident.
“Hey, uh,” I said, staring at the screen. “How do I ring up one… cinnamon twist and a coffee with… oat milk?”
Rowan looked over from the drink station. “Click ‘Pastry,’ then ‘Swirly Guy,’ then ‘Custom Coffee,’ then type in ‘OAT’ all caps or it prints in Comic Sans.”
I blinked. “That’s a threat, right?”
“Try me,” Rowan said.
“Hey, Rafael?” Cyrus yelled from the back. “Did you take out the muffins yet?”
“What muffins?” I asked.
“The ones in the oven!”
