Brew Me Wrong (Sleighbell Springs #5)

Chapter One

IF TROUBLE DIDN’T TASTE SO GOOD

Wes

I’m not saying I hate people, but if another oversized flower crown knocks into my shoulder while I’m trying to pour a damn latte, I’m going to lose it.

The Brew House booth is already teetering on the edge of collapse, one gust of wind away from a full meltdown, and I’m three customers behind, out of oat milk, and dangerously low on patience.

“Do you have matcha?” a girl in a neon-pink crop top asks, balancing a toddler on one hip while scrolling her phone with the other.

“Nope,” I say flatly. “We have coffee. Revolutionary, I know.”

She blinks, not sure if I’m kidding. I’m not, not even a little.

Someone behind her mutters, “Well that’s rude,” like I kicked a kitten, and another person asks if we have anything gluten-free.

“Coffee is gluten-free,” I mutter. I hear myself as I say this and I hate that I’m becoming ‘that guy’.

“Okay, but like, do you have gluten-free syrup?”

What does that even mean? What is gluten-free syrup? Are we just putting buzzwords on things now like it’s a game of food label bingo?

“Sure,” I say. “It’s infused with fairy dust and the tears of baristas past.”

She smiles. Smiles. Like I just handed her a coupon.

I want to die.

She orders a cold brew instead, which would be easier to make if the ice hadn’t all melted forty minutes ago in the blazing sun.

May Day, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. Sure if you’re idea of fun is heatstroke.

Lies. All of it.

The town square looks like a craft store exploded. There’s glitter in the grass and flower petals in the puddles. I’m itchy just looking at it.

I check the backup cooler, but it’s basically flavored water at this point.

Doesn’t matter. I pour it anyway and slap a lid on.

I’m down to four clean cups, two working pumps of caramel, and whatever sticky syrup is congealing on the side of the container labeled “seasonal cheer.”

“Can I get that with almond milk?” someone calls.

“If you brought your own almonds and a blender, sure.”

A man chuckles. At least someone appreciates the humor.

Streamers hang from every lamp post, bunting waves in the breeze, and someone, some sadist, decided a floral theme was appropriate, so everything smells like pollen and regret.

“Excuse me? This says decaf but it’s very clearly not.”

A woman in a straw sunhat waves her half-drunk cup at me like it’s evidence in a court case.

“That’s because we don’t do decaf,” I say. “We do wake up or get out of line.”

She gasps, scandalized, like I just insulted her entire family line. Which I might have. I don’t know. I’ve lost the plot at this point.

A group of kids runs past, one of them trailing a sticky popsicle hand along the edge of the counter. Great. Now we’re ants waiting to happen.

I wipe a line of sweat off my brow with the back of my arm and turn back to the espresso machine, which hisses like it’s personally offended by my existence. I don’t blame it. I didn’t sign up for this either.

Technically, this was supposed to be Aaron’s shift.

I should’ve said no. Should’ve let the booth sit here sad and empty with a little chalkboard sign that says “Closed due to plague” or whatever.

But no. Not me.

I’m the guy who says yes.

Yes when I shouldn’t. Yes when it’s inconvenient. Yes when it means I’m the one stuck here in the heat instead of literally anyone else.

Pretty sure that’s code for “guy who can’t say no when cornered by a mom in tears.”

But her kid came down with a stomach bug last night, and I said I’d cover. Because I’m nice like that. And also because I’m a sucker.

A breeze kicks up, snapping one of the tent flaps loose. It whips around and smacks me right in the ass, startling a yelp out of me and nearly knocking the drink out of my hand.

“Son of a—”

The tent jerks again, and something shifts.

I hear it before I see it, the ominous creak of the back support bar giving way.

Then the espresso machine lets out a high-pitched screeeeeee like it’s about to blow, and I spin just in time to see steam shoot from the nozzle like a geyser, straight into the canopy.

It takes less than two seconds for chaos to erupt.

A puff of smoke bursts up from the edge of the booth. Perfect! It’s probably from that busted power strip I’ve been meaning to replace since last winter, and for one terrifying second, I think the tent’s actually on fire.

People scream. Okay—more like startled yelps, but it still counts.

The toddler starts crying. Someone drops their phone. A woman with a floral sunhat ducks behind her husband like I’m armed and dangerous instead of just caffeine-deprived and dead inside.

“Shit, shit, shit—” I drop the drink, lunge for the machine, and yank the plug from the outlet.

The hiss dies.

The crowd gasps.

And I just stand there, holding the cord, smoke still curling in the air, silently praying this isn’t the day I burn down Sleighbell Springs.

The silence that follows is weirdly reverent. Like maybe everyone’s wondering if they just watched a man break on a spiritual level. Maybe they did.

The espresso machine gurgles one last breath. The canopy sags. A single streamer falls dramatically from the pole and drifts across the table like a sad, crepe-paper eulogy.

And that’s when I realize I forgot to put a lid on the iced Americano, which is now dripping all over my khakis in slow, sticky shame.

Awesome.

Just awesome.

A teenager films the smoldering booth on their phone like it’s a blockbuster disaster movie.

“Dude,” he says, eyes wide. “That was sick.”

I want to tell him to go away. I want to tell all of them to go away.

Instead, I force a smile. One of those tight-lipped, teeth-gritted, I’m-about-to-lose-my-mind smiles.

“We’re… temporarily closed for technical difficulties,” I announce. Translation: I’m about to lose my shit!

The only technical difficulty is me.

“Need a hand?”

The voice is smooth, a little too smooth. And definitely not from anyone in line.

I look up, half-expecting a reporter from the Sleighbell Gazette here to document my public meltdown, but nope. It’s a stranger. A very tall, very unfairly attractive stranger, crouched near the back of the booth like he just strolled in from a damn firefighter calendar.

Which, now that I’m looking, firehouse logo on his black tee, soot-scuffed boots, that whole casually competent air, he probably did.

He grins. “Because that cord you’re holding? Not exactly a long-term solution.”

I blink at him, still gripping the unplugged espresso machine like it might come back to life and try to kill me again. “You think?”

He doesn’t even flinch at the sarcasm. Just brushes past me like he owns the booth and starts flipping switches on the backup generator we haven’t used since last year’s Fall Fest.

“You can’t just—” I gesture. “Who even are you?”

“Jules Morgan.” He says it easily, like it’s a name everyone should already know. “New in town. Firehouse two blocks over. And you look like you’re about thirty seconds from lighting a match and walking away, so…” He shrugs, like that explains everything.

It kind of does.

“You’re Wes Calder, right? Brew House guy?”

His mouth quirks like he’s just connected a face to a name.

Great. Small-town fame, the curse of running the only coffee shop with functioning Wi-Fi.

Still, I’m not prepared when the generator kicks on, the backup coffee grinder sputters to life, and the crowd, yes, there’s now an actual crowd now, erupts in half-hearted applause.

“Oh, don’t encourage him,” I mutter under my breath, pushing the iced Americano crime scene off the counter.

“Just doing my civic duty,” Jules says, flashing a smile that probably gets him out of parking tickets and into people’s pants without breaking a sweat.

Someone snaps a picture. Great. That’ll hit the town Facebook group before I can blink.

“Is he single?” a teenager stage-whispers to her friend.

I’m not sure if she means Jules or me. I don’t ask. Scratch that, I doubt she meant me.

A middle-aged woman with a crocheted flower bag leans over the table. “Well now, aren’t you a sight,” she says to Jules with a wink that makes me want to bleach my brain.

He takes it in stride. “You need a refill, ma’am? On the house for anyone traumatized by the espresso explosion.”

“Oh, he’s good,” I grumble under my breath.

Jules leans toward me. “You’re bleeding customers, man. Let me help.”

“I didn’t ask for help.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t say you did.”

I hate him, just a little.

But also, the line is moving again, and no one’s running for the fire extinguisher, so I guess I’ll take the win.

“Your machine’s still fried,” he says after another minute, stepping back beside me as I try to make something that resembles a latte with one hand and a fraying grip on my last damn nerve.

“Thanks for the thrilling analysis, Captain Obvious.” I put on my best sarcastic smile.

“You always this friendly, or is it just me?”

I turn to glare at him and instantly regret it. His eyes are annoyingly warm. Like whiskey and confidence and Sunday morning trouble. I hate that I notice.

“Look,” I mutter, grabbing a rag to wipe the counter. “Thanks for the unsolicited rescue mission, but I’ve got it from here.”

“Sure you do,” he says, not even trying to hide the laugh in his voice.

And because the universe hates me, a kid chooses that exact moment to trip over the extension cord and faceplant into a pile of discarded coffee sleeves. I lunge to catch him, but Jules is already there, one hand steadying the kid, the other tossing a sleeve into the trash without missing a beat.

The kid beams. “Whoa. You’re fast.”

Jules winks. “Gotta be, in my line of work.”

I clench my jaw so hard I might chip a molar.

“Seriously,” I say, grabbing a roll of paper towels. “Go back to your firehouse, Calendar Boy. I don’t need backup.”

He grins wider. “You sure? I make a mean cold brew.”

“I’m sure.”

He steps back, mock-salutes me with two fingers, and starts to walk away, finally, until I realize he’s not walking away.

He’s following me.