8. Lovable Quirks
LOVABLE QUIRKS
“I’ve got this,” I announce, for what might be the tenth time. Owen is gracious enough not to call me out on it.
It’s just after seven. An ungodly hour I hadn’t fully considered when I’d offered to watch the cafe so he could walk Annabelle to school. Still, the excitement on her face as she dances in front of the door makes it worth it.
Well. Almost. The scalding hazelnut latte Owen hands me gets me the rest of the way there.
“The first hour is usually slow,” he reminds, because I need to hear it, not because he doesn’t trust me.
He’s made that very clear. “Closer to eight can get a little hectic. Remember to breathe. Nothing life or death happens here. If people want their coffee badly enough, they’ll wait a few extra minutes for it. ”
I nod, trying to shove the mental image of angry, uncaffeinated patrons storming the counter out of my brain.
He’s right. I know he is. I just don’t want to let him down.
People don’t usually trust me with things this big.
And if I’m going to earn my keep—and hopefully a more permanent place to stay—I need to take things off Owen’s plate, not add to it.
Huh. When did I start thinking of Windy Pines as somewhere I might want to stay?
“Uncle Owie,” Annabelle moans, clearly ready to hit the road.
She’s wearing denim overalls dotted with tiny yellow daisies, her hair corralled into two space buns with matching bows.
Her KPop Demon Hunters backpack—a movie I’m now equally obsessed with, thanks to her—sits at her feet while she bounces on her toes.
You’d think Owen had told her Santa Claus was coming, the way she reacted to the news she’d be starting school.
I remember that age. School was all arts and crafts and the kindest teachers who gave the biggest, warmest hugs.
Back then, I wasn’t shushed for being too loud or scolded for my constant need to move.
I was just a kid. Unfortunately, that patience wore off somewhere around fourth grade, and school became more of a chore.
“Alright, Princess, let’s get going.”
She responds with an excited whoop.
“They have some forms I need to fill out, but I’ll do my best to hurry back.” Owen knocks twice on the counter before pushing through the cafe door, flipping the sign from closed to open as he goes. Two customer’s immediately make their way inside.
Show time.
The first thirty minutes are exactly as Owen promised.
He usually runs seven to eight alone while Annabelle and I wake up at a humane pace.
There’s a steady drip of customers, but not enough to form a line.
Miss Abbott compliments me on the self-serve baskets, and Dr. Abraham tells me the coffee I make him is better than Owen’s.
It’s a lie, obviously. It still puts a spring in my step that carries me through.
Things pick up around quarter to eight, but I remember Owen’s advice and take in a few deep lungfuls of air. Nothing life or death happens here—just coffee.
It helps that everyone’s a regular. Their visit to the cafe is a part of their morning routine as much as brushing their teeth. They’re predictable. And even though I’ve only been here a few weeks, I know most of their orders before they even step through the door.
Which is why, when Elodie approaches the counter, I greet her with a practiced smile and immediately turn to make her iced coffee.
I’ve prepared it a dozen times—cup lined with caramel drizzle first, then ice, coffee, milk.
I take my time getting it right while she watches me with that slightly narrowed glare she’s perfected.
I don’t know what I did to Elodie; her reaction to me has been like this since day one.
Maybe she hates strangers. Maybe she has some delusional idea I’m here to steal her man.
If we suspend reality and pretend that’s even a possibility—considering Owen is straight and has about as much romantic interest in me as I do in her—you’d think she might try harder to win him over.
Instead of lurking in the corner every morning, shooting him longing looks like it’s a telenovela. But what do I know?
I set her iced caramel latte on the counter and ring it in. “Three seventy-five,” I say, though she should already know.
She scoffs, staring at the drink like it personally offended her. “I didn’t order that.”
I blink at her. “You get the same thing every morning.”
“Well, this morning I wanted something different.” Her lips curl. “It’s fifty degrees outside. Who drinks iced coffee in this weather?”
You don’t drink it in any weather. You let the ice melt, leaving puddles of condensation all over the table that I have to wipe up.
“It was incredibly rude of you not to ask.” Her tone is as bitter as Owen likes his coffee, and it pokes at the part of me I keep buried—the fiery Leo inside me that longs to bite back.
I swallow it. Shove it down. Grind it to dust. Then smile my best customer-service smile.
“My apologies. What would you like instead?”
She’s the customer after all. If I’m being brutally honest, most of my irritation probably comes from the fact that she has a shot with a man like Owen, while I very much do not. It’s not her fault she was born with a vagina and tits.
“A—” Elodie rattles off a complicated coffee order I definitely don’t know how to make.
I nod anyway, like this is completely fine and not sending a spike of anxiety straight through my chest. I turn back to the espresso machine, hoping that in the minutes since I last used it, it’s become a sentient being and will be able to make whatever the heck she ordered without any input from me.
I’m disappointed to discover, it has not.
The right thing to do would be to admit I don’t know how to make it and tell her she needs to pick something else.
I absolutely refuse to give her the satisfaction.
It can’t be that hard. Every drink we serve here is some variation of coffee, syrup, and milk.
At least I know whatever it is, it isn’t iced.
“If you don’t mind,” she adds when I apparently don’t move fast enough, “I’m in a rush.”
“On it!” I chirp.
Figuring it’s probably espresso-based, I load in fresh grounds and jab at a button. The machine clicks to life, emitting a low hum of…percolation? I’m honestly not sure what it’s doing that makes that sound. Come to think of it, I’m not sure it’s usually that loud.
Or that grind-y.
Or that… Oh fuck.
The whole thing lets out an ominous hissss. Less steam, more building pressure. Buttons start flashing. Something begins beeping incessantly. The hissing grows louder and louder and—
I clap my hands over my ears, convinced it’s about to explode. No idea why my ears are the body part I choose to protect, but if I can mute the noise, maybe I can slow my heart rate long enough to get my brain back online and figure out what the hell I broke.
“Um,” Elodie says helpfully from behind me, adding the click-click-click of her nails on the stainless-steel counter to the sensory assault. “Is it supposed to make that noise?”
“No,” I grit out. “It’s not fucking supposed to make that noise.”
“Excuse me?” She scoffs. “Where is Owen? That was completely unprofessional. I want to speak to him now.”
Yes. Obviously, that’s the priority, not the blinking, shrieking machine that sounds like it’s about to take us all out. I still can’t move, however. I wouldn’t know what to do if I did. Yank the cord from the wall, maybe?
“Hello? Are you even listening to me?”
No.
“Honestly,” she continues, voice rising.
I’d hate to know what the rest of the customers are thinking about this little performance.
Yet another fear strikes me that I can’t deal with right now: what if someone is recording this to show Owen?
I’m a thousand percent going to be fired and probably sued for whatever a piece of machinery like this costs. I already know I can’t afford it.
“This is who Owen hires? Some reject, sissy boy, freak? Lord knows where he found you. Can’t even make a damn cup of coffee. Like it’s hard.”
“Oh, shut the fuck up, Elodie. Jesus Christ, with all your yappin’.”
I slam my hands over my mouth before I realize I’m not the one who said that.
I turn in time to see a girl about my age standing at the end of the counter.
She has pin-straight fire-engine-red hair and a constellation of freckles scattered across her nose.
She’s glaring at Elodie with an impressive amount of menace.
Elodie squares her shoulders like she might fight the woman, and I brace for an E!
level showdown—one I’ll be expected to break up, no doubt.
Luckily, the fight leaves Elodie in a dramatic sigh, and she steps back. “I don’t know why you feel the need to get involved,” she snaps.
“And I don’t know why you feel the need to be such a ragin’ bitch.”
I remain frozen as the mystery girl slips behind the counter and presses two buttons I didn’t even know existed. The machine immediately falls silent, releasing one last dramatic puff of steam.
“It needs five minutes to cool down,” she tells me softly, sweet as anything.
Then she turns back to Elodie, hands on her hips. “Why don’t you go sulk quietly in the corner instead of breathin’ down our necks? I’ll bring your coffee when it’s ready. Not like you’re here for coffee anyway.”
Elodie scoffs, throws a crumpled five-dollar bill at me, and storms off, taking the previously rejected iced coffee with her. She probably intended to slam the door on the way out, but the soft-close catches it, putting a real damper on her drama.
“Who peed in her Cheerios?” I mutter, then have to slap my hands over my mouth again.