Page 48 of Christmas Coffee

“But it did.”

“Right, because of Shannon and you.”

“No,” I tip my head sideways and get in his face, partly because I’m pissed and I can’t stand hearing him crushed. If this place was a stupid bet, why does he look so devastated? It doesn’t add up. His sapphire eyes meet mine. “Talk to me, Celyn.”

“There’s nothing to say, Nova. It’s over. I failed. What do you want me to tell you?”

“You didn’t fail. This place did well because of you. It was you. It was never Shannon. You cultivated the relationships with the people. You were the one here at all hours of the day and night. It was you, Celyn. So tell me why you’re suddenly taking down your shingle because of something the weatherman said? Since when are they right?”

“The shortfall is too big. There’s no point, Nova.” He leans his narrow hips against the counter and then reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a folder. He hands it to me.

I flick it open and paw through reports, profit and loss statements, and see one glaring money pit that he hasn’t addressed. I glance up at him. “What were the terms of the bet?”

The corners of his mouth twitch. He didn’t expect me to say that. From the look on his face, he expects me to beat him with the folder, but I don’t.

“I made your job a joke. I’m an asshole. How could you possibly want to help me?” Those cobalt eyes blink at me, shocked.

I gesture toward my costume. “I knew this job was a joke from day one, Celyn. I’m not that obtuse. Come on, what were the terms? What’s the goal?” I thumb through a few more pages.

Celyn lifts himself onto the counter and tells me the numbers and finishes by saying, “I’m going to be nearly two grand short if it snows the way they’re predicting.”

“And if it misses us?”

“I’m still short and if people freak out the way they always do before a storm, foot traffic will be minimal for a few days.”

“But it’s possible to make it up, right? You could still hit goal in the week after Christmas.”

“It’s possible, but not probable. You’re more likely to see baby Jesus riding Rudolph on Christmas Eve, Nova.”

I snort and don’t dignify that with an answer. I pull out a few purchase orders and then payroll. There’s a spot to cut spending and that’s one way to push up profits. Since Celyn’s bet is all about profit margins, then this could work. I put the papers on the counter next to him. “What if we cut the decaf?”

He flinches and lifts a brow at me. “We’d lose over a quarter of our income.”

“Right, but add in the additional carafe and beans, and the math is too tight. It’s nearly a wash on decaf. Cut it. Return the carafe and get that money back.” The frozen wheels in my mind are just warming up. I can see this working, buying us time. Keeping me from hobodom. I still want to know what he loses if the hut doesn’t meet goal. I realize he’s not said it yet. Maybe his car? It has to be something worth a great deal to him.

Celyn retorts, “I can’t. We’re in a contract for three machines.”

“Let me try to get us out of it.” I lift my eyes and meet his gaze. “If I can get them to take the third machine back and we cut decaf, then you have to do one thing and you’ll have a shot again—snow or not.”

Celyn folds his arms over his chest, his eyes locked on mine. “What’s that?”

“Fire Shannon. He doesn’t pull his weight and his paycheck will give you enough wiggle room to actually have a shot at this.” I push the papers back toward him. “Numbers don’t lie, Celyn. It gives you enough of a buffer that you don’t have to give up, unless you’ve just had it and want to quit.” The last few words leave a sour taste in my mouth. Celyn’s not the kind of guy who works this kind of job. He’s the kind of guy who drives a pricy car and wears designer jeans. When he first started at the hut, his hands were smooth. No scars or calluses. No evidence of this type of work. Now he’s marred and his hands are dried and cracking.

Celyn’s dark brows crinkle together as he runs his forefinger and thumb down the side of his face, asking, “You want a coffee shop to not sell coffee and to fire the only male barista right before Christmas?”

He’s stuck. I can hear it in his voice. He thinks he’s already failed and he won’t hear it unless I beat him over the head with numbers, with facts. I don’t know if I do it for me, or him. I should be pissed at him, but I’m not. Maybe it’s because he’s showing me the ledgers or maybe it’s because he actually values my opinion, I don’t know. But I come at him with cold facts that are going to feel like a brick to the head.

I snap, “It’s a start-up, Celyn. Adjustments are made with the most frequency during the early months. It’s a necessity. It’s adapt or die. You know this. You also know that profit increases when overhead is cut. So let’s hack away anything we can. You don’t have to walk away. There’s still a fighting chance here, Celyn. More so than when you walked in on day one. People know you now, and they’ll be looking for you after the snowstorms pass. You don’t need employees right now. You have one and a friend helping you. Were there terms that said you had to hire an entire staff?”

“No, I had to have management, staff was assumed but not stated.”

I raise a brow at him. “Well, you have me. Cut the chaff, Celyn. Sometimes you have to do it to get ahead. If Shannon doesn’t see it coming, he’s an idiot. He spends more time in the mall than in the hut.”

“It’s not about Shannon, although I don’t like letting someone go right before Christmas.” He’s been scanning the sheets. “And a coffee shop with no decaf is weird.”

“Decaf is for pussies.”

Celyn chokes on a laugh and looks over the top of the papers at me. “I can’t believe you just said that.”