2. Caden
Caden
“Halle, where is Fia?” I snap, glancing at the time on my phone again.
She’s fifteen minutes late, and every minute is another we have to keep the cafe closed.
Halle freezes behind the counter, her mouth agape as she stares at me. “I’m not sure, boss . . .” She scrambles for her phone. “I’ll call her.”
“Great idea,” I grumble, turning my back to the other eight employees sitting at the long wooden table in the center of the cafe.
These meetings, and people in general, are not my forte.
Three years ago, I was desperate to get out from under my father’s construction business.
The moment people started comparing us, I knew I had to leave and build my own legacy.
He’s the last person I want to be like, or be compared to for that matter.
So I bought the first business I found: a failing coffee shop I could buy in cash.
It had an unbeatable location on the corner of two busy downtown streets, and that’s all I needed to know.
I knew nothing about coffee, hated interacting with people, but figured I knew business. I knew money.
Turns out, by hiring the right people, I actually made this work.
However, I’m not cocky enough to think I could have done this without Fia.
There’s been a line out the door since I handed her the reins. She’s integral to the shop’s success, so when she’s not here, it’s a pretty big fucking problem.
Especially today.
We’re rolling out a brand-new summer menu, which was her idea to begin with. Not to mention she’s training two new hires today.
Halle approaches me as I lean against the wall, careful not to disturb the plants hanging off it.
“She said she’ll be here in a minute, she—” Halle’s cut off by Fia pulling on the front door.
It catches on its metal lock, a solid clunk reverberating through the silent cafe.
It’s locked for the meeting.
“Go let her in,” I instruct, running a hand through my long dirty-blond hair.
Halle rushes to unlock it.
“I’m here! I’m sorry, Cad—”
I lift my hand to silence her.
Fia’s wearing those jean shorts with daisies embroidered on them, hair impossibly long and the color of a fiery sunset. Staring at me with those emerald-green doe eyes.
She’s also glistening with sweat, catching her breath.
I drop my eyes, blinking, clearing my throat.
“Let’s not waste any more time,” I say, even toned, despite my clenched jaw. I stand to get the attention of the college-aged employees, who stare at me blankly, sprawled out in the cafe chairs.
Fia’s face glows bright red as she drops her bag on the floor and plops into the chair at the head of the table across from me.
“Right. Like I was saying,” I say, holding back a sigh. “We have a new summer menu, Fia will teach you the recipes. Payroll will also be switching to a new app, she’ll show you that too.” I wave a paper packet in the air and looked to Fia. “I need to go make some calls, can you take it from here?”
She nods a bit maniacally.
“Yes, of course.” Fia stands, huffing out a breath.
For a moment I hesitate. Maybe I should ask her if she is okay, but she claps loudly and smiles at everyone.
I puff out a sigh of relief.
This is what I hired her for—she can handle this.
I tread out the back door into the brick courtyard I spent a fortune to renovate and even more to furnish so teenagers can drink their iced matchas and take photos for social media.
There’s no one I actually needed to call, but I did need a moment alone.
I drop down into a chair under an umbrella, spread my legs and lean back, running my hands over my stubble.
I tap the soles of my shoes on the ground, removing the last clinging sand from this morning's surf—which I had to cut short for this meeting.
Just as I’m decompressing, the back door opens with a bang.
“Hey, I’m sorry to bother you, but—” Fia’s voice cuts through the chirping birds.
I look up and don’t bother forcing a smile. “What’s up?”
She’s standing in the doorway, pointing over her shoulder. “There’s a huge delivery up front, and they won’t let me sign for it.” She pauses, catching her breath. “Usually it’s not an issue but—”
“I’ll handle it,” I cut her off gruffly, and without meeting my eyes, Fia turns to go back inside.
I follow. And grimace when I see the delivery man standing at the front door. The sidewalk is already filling with people meandering downtown, the air more humid than normal from the recent storms.
“Need a hand?” he asks, easing an enormous box towards me, but I shake my head.
“No, I got it, thanks,” I mutter, scrawling my name across the screen before gripping the plastic straps on the box.
This is what happens when you spend your Friday nights alone with expensive bourbon, falling down rabbit holes on surf forums. You end up with a $2,000 custom surfboard from Bali when you already have four perfectly good boards home. And I definitely didn’t mean to have it delivered here.
As I walk past, Fia pauses her presentation and glances up, eyes lingering on my arm flexed around the box. “Is that a new door for the bathroom?”
“Nope,” I reply dryly, then mumble to myself, “It’s another poor decision.”
I offload the board in my office and walk back out into the cafe. I’ll deal with my pointless purchase later.
Everyone is standing, chairs scraping as they reset the cafe floor. No one is looking at me.
“There’s a shit-ton of foot traffic, so let’s wrap this up and open the doors in ten minutes. You ready, Fia?”
Crickets.
I look around, only to see her wiping the same two inches of counter over and over, lips pressed into a tight line, forehead scrunched.
I wave slowly. “You good there, Hanson?”
She jerks her head up, green eyes finding my gray ones.
“Yes! All good!” She smiles but it’s not convincing.
“Great,” I respond curtly, returning to my office to check my emails.
Congratulations, you’re a Wilmington Top 10!
“What the hell is this?” I grumble, clicking on the email.
My chest flutters as I read it.
Good Grinds was named Wilmington’s number one coffee shop in the most prestigious magazine in the city—Wilmington Life.
I typically shy away from publicity and don’t give two shits about titles, but I’d be an idiot to deny the fact that this is a big deal.
Businesses in the area compete to make this annual list.
I read the fine print . . . We'll get a plaque outside the building and a trophy to display, and they will send a journalist and photographer to interview me and get photos for the two-page spread.
There is an honorary awards dinner at a fancy venue, all business owners are invited with a plus-one . . .
Yeah, no thanks.
A knock sounds at my door, and I shut my laptop. I’ll respond to the email later.
“Come in.” I push back, legs too long to fit comfortably under this desk.
It’s Fia again—she’s everywhere today.
Her lips are extra pink, like she's been biting them nervously or something.
“I’m going to head to the bank. Apparently today is the day that people decided to start carrying cash, and we already ran out of change.” She sighs, hands on hips.
“Not necessary, I’m on my way out.” I stand, shoving my keys and phone into my pockets. “They need you here.”
“No, I can do it. It’s my job.” She crosses her arms and I concede. I have done enough socializing as it is today. Before Fia turns to leave, I hold up my hand.
“One more thing, if parking is an issue and causing you to be late, please park in the alleyway in my spot.”
“Oh.” Fia’s brows knit together. “No, I walk every day. I don’t live that far.”
“You walk here, in the summer? That’s completely unreasonable.”
She scowls in response. “It’s really not a big deal.”
“Don’t you have a car?” I ask, peering down at her.
“Yes, but it’s—” Fia stops herself. “Never mind. It’s fine. I promise I will not be late again. Today was a fluke.”
Before I can get clarity on whatever the hell is going on with my manager, another interruption creeps into my morning in the form of a phone call. I glance down; it’s my coffee supplier out of Raleigh.
“Shit, I should take this.”
“Like I said, I’ll be back in a few.” She turns to leave in a hurry, and a paper falls from her back pocket. She doesn’t notice.
On the third ring, I finally answer the phone. As I make my least favorite form of communication—small talk about how I’m doing—I round my desk and pick up the paper Fia dropped.
The conversation drones on, but once I’m off the phone, I place the crinkled paper on my desk and smooth it out.I shouldn’t read it. But I do.
An estimate from a roofing company, dated from today.
Nineteen thousand dollars.
I shouldn’t care—it’s none of my business. Is this the reason she was late?
Fia’s a smart girl. I hope she did her research and realizes they are ripping her off simply because she’s a young single woman.
She’s got to know that, right?
I stare at that paper way too long.