21. Caden
Caden
“It’s so nice to meet you. I love this place—and I’m not just saying that.” Smiling widely, she holds out a hand.
“Thank you.” I shake her hand as she nods vigorously. “We closed the cafe for an hour. Hope that’s sufficient time.”
She turns to mumble something to the photographer behind her, setting up the tripod.
Fia is straightening up behind the barista counter. She’s ditched her signature french braids in lieu of loose curls. They cascade around her sun-kissed face and hang over a cropped white shirt with the Good Grinds logo.
When Fia brought the idea of merch up to me, I literally laughed. But ultimately I humored her idea, sure it would be a waste of money. That was five months ago. We can barely keep our shirts and baseball caps in stock now.
The shirt looks good on her.
“This is my manager, Fia.” I gesture to Fia, who smiles brightly at the journalist. “I’ll let her show you around.” I turn towards my office but pause, remembering my manners. “I’ll be in the back, out of the way.”
I look at Fia, whose hands are in the back pockets of her embroidered jean shorts. She looks comfortable as ever with these strangers. “Come get me if you need me,” I tell her, and she nods, her glossed lips in an easy smirk.
For once, I don’t retreat to the privacy of my office. I settle into a bentwood chair at the small marble table in the back of the cafe, laptop open in front of me.
It’s not long though before my gaze is pulled towards the pretty red-head who’s just as enthusiastic as the people the magazine sent.
“One of my favorite things about Good Grinds is the energy!” Fia beams as the journalist types notes, nodding along.
“When it’s busy, there’s just a buzz in here.
People wait in line for so long sometimes, but everyone always leaves happy.
” She shrugs, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.
“I can honestly say I love coming to work every day.”
Her green eyes sweep to the side, and she catches me watching. I swallow hard, offering her a slight nod.
Though, she doesn’t need my encouragement. She’s doing perfect.
Her cheeks blush before she turns back to the journalist.
“Would you like to give us a tour?” she asks, and Fia begins to show them around. The photographer snaps photos as Fia points to things.
She’s animated as she points out the hanging plants—the ones I’ve never watered but are somehow thriving. Because of her.
The trio come towards me, Fia leading the way. She turns to talk to them over her shoulder. “I’ll show you the outside—it was beautifully renovated. Caden spearheaded that last summer.”
She faces forward, trotting along confidently, and winks at me.
I bite my cheek so hard I think I taste iron, and abruptly stand. The chair scrapes loudly against the tile, causing everyone’s heads to jolt up.
“I’ll be in my office—come get me when you need me,” I say, pulling my brows together and grabbing my laptop, pretending I have something important to do. I dip my head, slinking around the group to shut myself into my office.
Inside, it’s dark, and I don’t bother turning on any lights but the small lamp on my desk.
Let’s be honest, I’m not getting any work done this afternoon. Not while they are here, and not while Fia is parading around with a smile like that, in shorts that hug her curves so tightly my heart races just thinking about it.
I browse online, mindlessly adding clothes I have no intention of buying to a shopping cart, just to give myself something to focus on.
I’m not sure how much time passes, but there’s a knock on my door. I clear my throat and stand to open it, plastering on a professional smile.
“All wrapped up?” I ask, hopeful, but the journalist shakes her head.
“Mr. Brooks, I actually have a few questions for you, if you wouldn’t mind coming out to answer them?”
“It’s just Caden,” I reply. “Mr. Brooks is my father. And yes, of course.”
I leave the safety of my office to join them in front of the barista counter.
The journalist plops into a chair and immediately starts firing off questions.
“So what prompted you to open this shop? Why here? Correct me if I’m wrong, but you used to compete in surfing when you were younger, no? Why didn’t you open a surf-related business? And then you were in residential repair with Brooks & Sons, is that correct?”
Holy shit. How did Fia deal with this?
I shift my weight and run a hand through my hair, my breathing restricted.
Fia leans against the counter behind her, watching me quietly. Her presence offers a bit of calm as I try to remember everything the journalist asked.
“I love Wilmington, and I wanted to open a business that brought the community together. Coffee seemed like a pretty obvious choice for that,” I reply, hoping that’s good enough, even though my tone is less than enthused.
But the journalist looks up from her laptop, waiting for more.
I shrug, racking my brain. “As far as surfing goes, yes, I used to compete, but those days are behind me. Surfing is my outlet now.”
The journalist’s smile falters for a split second, but I look away, signaling I’d like to wrap this up. I’m sure as hell not diving into why I left Brooks & Sons.
“Okay,” she replies hesitantly, closing her laptop slowly. “I think we are covered as far as the Q and A goes.”
She stands, clapping her hands together, her eyes darting between Fia and me. “We just need a few photos of you.”
I nod, but Fia’s eyes widen at me.
“Oh, me?” I ask, and the photographer and journalist both chuckle, like I’m endearing.
“Uhm . . .” I scratch my head but see no way out of this. They aren’t going to print a spread about Good Grinds without a photo of the owner.
Gesturing towards the espresso machine behind me, the photographer hangs her camera around her neck. “It would be great if you could stand over there and pretend to make a drink. An action shot if you will.” She chuckles to herself.
I haven’t actually made a drink since the first year we were open.
Sensing my hesitancy, Fia steps towards me, offering a soft smile. “Come on, it will be good for the brand.”
I don’t want to appear like a total dick, so I step behind the counter as suggested. But instantly, I feel out of place, and I know it shows.
“Just act natural. Why don’t you make your typical drink, and I’ll snap some lifestyle shots,” the photographer offers, and I blink rapidly.
I grab a cup, like a fucking monkey in a circus, and tamp down ground espresso beans, locking the portafilter into place before hitting the brew button.
Nothing happens. I hit it again.
“Okay, Caden, just remember to smile.” The journalist points to her lips like I’m a child getting Christmas photos done. She waves her hands in the air. “You’re loving this, this is your dream!”
I grumble, suddenly feeling like the Edison bulbs above the counter are glaring into my eyes.
I hit the button again, but nothing happens, and the photographer lowers her camera.
Fia rounds the counter with her head tucked, saddling up next to me, just out of shot.
“Here,” she whispers, quickly hitting different switches, taking control. “You’ve got to enter the quantity first.”
The espresso machine whirls to life in moments, and my chest untightens a smidge.
Hot espresso begins to spew into the shot glass, but my eyes stay locked on Fia, who remains by my side. Her lip gloss is the color of strawberries, and she smells sweet, and for a second I forget what the fuck I’m supposed to be doing.
“This is great actually!” The journalist snaps her fingers, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Let’s feature both of you, together. Fia, why don’t you smile or laugh, like he just said something funny.”
What the fuck?
I cock my head back. I don’t like them telling Fia what to do.
But Fia’s emerald eyes find mine, and she flashes me the tiniest grin.
“Let’s get this over with so you can leave,” she whispers, loud enough so only I can hear here.
Gratitude floods me and I roll my shoulders out.
Fia leads me through making another drink, and the photographer shouts ridiculous instructions as we move around each other in a staged charade.
Fia smiles and laughs, even though I’m not saying a word. By the last photo, I can’t help but crack a smile at her. She saved my ass.
“Perfect! We got it. A powerhouse duo—we love it.” The journalist pushes a fist triumphantly in the air, and I widen my eyes, unsure how to even react.
“See, Mr. Brooks,” Fia teases, playfully nudging my arm as she scoots around me, “wasn’t so bad, huh?”
I breathe out, fighting to keep my resolve.
“Yeah, thank you.”
The magazine duo packs up their equipment. “Alright, we will be in touch with the final spread.”
I shake their hands, saying the proper goodbyes, and Fia walks the journalist to the door, getting ready to reopen the shop.
The journalist pauses at the door, turning to Fia. “Will I be seeing you at the awards dinner?”
Fia crinkles her brows in response, casting me a long look.
I force a smirk. “Oh—no. Not really our thing.”
The journalist frowns. “Aw, that’s a shame. It’s such a fun night!”
Fia merely smiles in response and holds open the door for the team to leave.
I cross my arms, waiting for the door to shut. A hush falls over the cafe.
“What dinner was she talking about?” Fia asks, eyeing me as she turns the music back on.
“Just one of those pointless PR events. You have to get all dressed up, and they present you with the top-ten plaque. It’s pompous. They’ll just mail the plaque to us anyway.”
“Oh.” Her voice is small. “Yeah, that’s not your thing.”
Why do I feel like I fucked this up, like my answer upset her.
“You’re good to head out. Halle and Leah should be here any minute to take over—” Fia starts, but she is interrupted by the front door chiming.
We both turn to look.
A tall guy with black hair and tattoos spanning every visible inch of skin steps inside. I notice the way Fia’s breath catches when her eyes land on him.
“Jesse.” She chuckles nervously. “What are you doing here?”
I don’t move as he walks right up to Fia.
“We need to talk, Fi,” he says, towering over her. His tone makes my hackles rise.
Fia exhales. “I’ll be off work in ten minutes. Just wait out back for me, okay?”
He’s reluctant but agrees, leaving out the back door. He doesn’t acknowledge me standing there, and every flag in my mind is waving red.
Fia puts her head down, but red creeps up her neck.
My first instinct is to walk right outside and ask him what the hell he wants from her.
But that’s crossing the line, right?
That’s getting involved in her personal business.
Though she’s insane if she thinks I’m going to ignore it too.
I walk up to the counter. “Want to enlighten me on that?” I ask, maybe too sharp.
She shakes her head, smiling weakly. Something is off.
“Uhm . . .” Fia bites her lip, stalling. I don’t budge. “That’s Jesse. I’ve known him since we were kids. He’s harmless. Promise.”
Right.
Halle and the other barista arrive, and Fia takes the chance to walk away from me.
Yeah, fuck that. I’m not leaving until he does.