Chapter 7 Sadie
Sadie
Saturday morning slams us like a tidal wave. Every table is packed, the line stretches to the door, and the espresso machine hasn't stopped hissing since we opened. Orders stack up on the tablet faster than we can clear them.
"Finn, I need three more lattes and that chai," I call over my shoulder, not breaking rhythm as I steam milk for the current round.
"On it, boss," he replies, already reaching for fresh cups.
Mateo works the register with quiet efficiency, taking orders and payments while I focus on drink production. Saul moves between the kitchen and front counter, bringing fresh pastries and helping where needed. It's controlled chaos, our normal Saturday rush.
"Excuse me." A sharp voice cuts through the café noise. "This isn't what I ordered."
I look up to see a man in an expensive-looking coat holding his cup like it personally offended him. He pushes past the pickup line, straight to where I'm working.
"I ordered an oat milk latte with an extra shot and light foam. This is clearly whole milk—and there's too much foam." He sets the cup down with more force than necessary, coffee sloshing over the rim. "I need you to remake it. Now."
I take a measured breath. "I'd be happy to remake that for you, sir. If you could just—"
"I'm already late for a meeting because your line is ridiculous," he interrupts. "I don't have time to wait again. Just fix it."
The café quiets slightly, other customers watching the exchange. I can feel Mateo tensing beside me, ready to intervene.
"I understand you're in a hurry," I say, keeping my voice even. "I'll remake your drink right away. If you'd like to step to the pickup area, it'll be ready in just a moment."
"That's not good enough." He leans over the counter, invading my space. "I'm a paying customer—and this place clearly doesn't understand customer service. I should speak to the manager."
"You're speaking to her," I reply, meeting his gaze directly. "I'm the owner. And while I'm happy to remake your drink, I need to ask you to step back from my counter and wait your turn like everyone else."
He blinks, clearly not expecting resistance. "Do you know how much money I spend here?"
"Not enough to justify speaking to my staff or me that way," I say calmly. "I'm offering to remake your drink. That's the solution I can provide."
Saul steps up beside me, arms crossed. "You heard her. Step back from the counter, man."
The customer's face reddens. "This is ridiculous. I'll take my business elsewhere."
"That's your choice," I say with a polite nod. "Have a good day."
He glares at me for a beat longer before storming toward the door. As he yanks it open, Finn calls out cheerfully, "Don't forget to leave us a one-star review! We're collecting them for our scrapbook!"
A ripple of laughter breaks the tension. I turn back to the espresso machine, already moving on to the next order as if nothing happened.
"Three-shot Americano for Doug," I call out, sliding the cup across the counter.
The rush continues, orders keep coming, and I keep moving. Only when there's finally a brief lull do I realize my hands are trembling slightly as I wipe down the counter. I press my palms flat against the cool surface, willing them to steady.
I haven't even realized I'm glancing at the door until I catch myself doing it for the third time in as many minutes. I'm not looking for the angry customer. I'm looking for…
My eyes drift to the front windows, scanning the parking lot without meaning to. Checking for a familiar truck that isn't there.
"He usually comes in around nine," Rowan says, materializing beside me with fresh cups.
I snap my attention back to the counter. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't." She raises an eyebrow, nodding toward the windows I was just staring at. "You handled that jerk beautifully, by the way. Very professional."
"Just doing my job," I mutter, busying myself with restocking the milk pitchers.
"Mm-hmm." She watches me for a moment longer. "You know, it's okay to admit you're looking forward to seeing someone."
"I'm not." The denial comes too quickly. "I'm just… keeping an eye on the door. Security. You know how it is."
Rowan doesn't push, but her knowing look says everything she's not saying.
I roll my shoulders, trying to release the tension that's coiled there.
My heart rate still hasn't completely settled from the confrontation, and I hate that I'm wound so tight.
Even more, I hate that a part of me is waiting for Axel to walk through that door, like his presence might somehow make this knot in my chest loosen.
That's dangerous thinking. I can handle rude customers and busy mornings on my own. I've been doing it for months. I don't need anyone else's reassurance or protection.
But as another group of customers enters and the bell over the door jingles, I can't help the small surge of disappointment when it's not him.
The morning rush is finally easing, giving way to that brief pocket of calm between breakfast and lunch.
I’m wiping down the espresso machine when the bell above the door chimes.
The air tightens. His presence drags my focus, whether I want it to or not.
Axel’s body fills the entrance like he owns the place.
Every woman in here glances up, but his eyes find only me.
My stomach knots, heat crawling down my spine.
He leans on the counter, close enough I catch the faint scent of his cologne.
My hands want to steady themselves, but I keep them busy, pretending I don’t care that he’s here.
Pretending I don’t feel the spark between us, the one that never lets me forget he’s watching every move.
“Morning,” Axel says, and the warmth of it sends a little tremor through my ribs. I lift my gaze, steadying my expression even though my chest is doing somersaults.
“You’re late for your usual caffeine fix.
” He leans against the counter with that easy confidence that never reads as arrogance.
His eyes catch mine for just a heartbeat too long before flicking down to my throat.
I feel it there, a spark that makes me stiffen, as if his gaze has set my skin alight.
“Had a meeting,” he says. He slides a bottle across the counter, the gesture casual, but the look in his eyes isn’t. “Thought I’d missed my window.”
I freeze, hand hovering mid-reach, staring at the elegant label: Blanc Wineries Cabernet, new vintage. “What’s this?”
“Thought you could use a relaxing night with a glass of wine sometime.” His gaze tracks over me dropping to my lips, my throat, my collarbone.
My shoulders lock. My walls snap back into place.
“I don’t date customers,” I say too quickly, too sharply. His brows lift in surprise, then soften into understanding.
“Not with me,” he corrects gently. “For you. Just you.”
My defenses falter. “What?”
"You look like you haven’t had a night to yourself in months.
" He pushes the wine closer, voice dropping.
"Take it upstairs. Lock the door. Strip down.
Sink into the bath. Drink every drop. You can share the next bottle I bring in with your sister or friends.
His stare pins me, steady and hungry. "But tonight, it’s just for you.
No one else." His tone drops even lower and I feel the tension in my body start to build.
“No café, no customers, no…” He lets the rest hang in the space between us.
The thoughtfulness of it bowls me over. My throat tightens, but I force out, “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Consider it a donation to the Exhausted Café Owner Fund,” he says with a half grin. “Community service, really. Practically court-ordered.”
His humor gives me room to breathe. I manage a shaky laugh. “Is that a real thing?”
“If not, it should be.” He taps the bottle lightly, then meets my eyes again, steady, unguarded.
“From what I’ve seen, you could use a minute to yourself. That’s all.”
He sounds so sincere that the tension between us shifts into something quieter, deeper, a current of understanding that hums in my veins. He’s seen the exhaustion I hide behind my barista smile, and instead of offering to lift it, he’s simply acknowledging it’s there.
“Thank you,” I murmur, meaning it more than I’d ever admit out loud. He nods once, as if we’ve settled something important without a contract.
“You deserve to breathe sometimes, Sadie.” He says my name like it matters, the syllables deliberate and gentle.
Before I can respond, he turns for the door, lifting a hand in a casual goodbye.
No linger, no chase, just leaving the gift and the choice.
The bell jingles behind him. I’m left clutching the wine bottle, feeling its unexpected weight, heavier than fermented grapes.
“Well,” Finn says, popping up beside me with a sly grin, “that was interesting.” I shoot him a warning look.
“It’s just wine.”
“Uh-huh.” He smirks but wisely steps back when I narrow my eyes.
Axel Slade noticed what I needed without a word, gave it without asking for anything in return.
My hands are still unsteady when I turn back to the espresso machine.
Not fear, not wariness, but a dangerous thought: maybe he really is someone I could trust. And trust, from where I’m standing, is the riskiest thing of all.
My gaze lingers at the door a heartbeat too long after Axel slips out, a strange ache in my chest. When I turn my attention back, the dark-green wine bottle on the counter catches my eye, morning light glittering off its curves.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” I jump. Rowan’s already beside me, lifting the bottle and squinting at the label.
“Blanc Wineries Cabernet,” she purrs, tapping it with one nail. “Oooh. This isn’t grocery-store swill.”
The bottle is out of her hand and back in mine in an instant. “It’s nothing. A… customer appreciation gift.”
“Sure.” Rowan’s smile spreads. “Let me guess, your boyfriend brought this over.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” The words snap out, my cheeks flaming.
“Mm-hmm.” She arches an eyebrow. “So… date night?”
Straightening coffee cups with a little too much focus, I avoid her gaze. “No. Nothing like that.”
Rowan leans against the counter, arms crossed. The silence stretches until I can’t stand it. “He said I deserve a relaxing night,” I admit. “Just me. A bubble bath, locked door, wine.”
Her brows shoot up. “Bubble bath and wine? He actually told you to spend time alone instead of dragging you out with him?” She whistles low. “Maybe I’ve been too hard on him.”
“It was nothing,” I murmur, but it sounds hollow. “Just… nice.”
“Nice.” Her tone softens. “When’s the last time you did something nice for yourself, Sadie?”
I’m silent, too long to remember.
Sliding a stack of flyers toward me, Rowan brightens. “Open Mic Night posters, ready to go. Thursday at seven.”
I take a quick glance downward. “Looks great. Thanks for handling it.”
“You’ll be there, right? Maybe even sing?” Her voice is casual, but her gaze pins me.
A short laugh escapes. “With Poppy and the café closing? Not a chance.”
“I can watch Poppy,” she counters at once. “And Finn volunteered to close. Said, ‘Boss lady needs to remember humans have fun sometimes.’”
“My life includes fun,” I protest.
“Sade,” Rowan says gently, “you can’t spend your life hiding.”
My muscles lock tight. “I’m not hiding, I’m being responsible.”
“There’s responsible,” she murmurs, “and then there’s being afraid to live. I’m talking about you, letting yourself belong here.”
I drag my fingertip along the bottle’s smooth neck. In that moment, a flash: onstage, eyes on me, Axel’s gaze burning bright in the crowd. My stomach flips, equal parts longing and terror, before the vision gets shoved away.
“I’ll think about it,” I whisper, neither promising nor refusing.
Rowan’s smile is small, but genuine. “That’s all I can ask.”
She heads back to the kitchen, leaving me alone with the Cabernet and the flyer. Both get tucked beneath the counter before I return to wiping surfaces, checking inventory, keeping perfect order.
Still, my mind drifts upstairs to my apartment, to that clawfoot tub I’ve never used for anything but cleaning. This bottle suddenly tastes like permission to breathe.
And beyond that, thoughts jump to Thursday night: music and laughter and the terrifying possibility of being seen. Not as the café owner. Not as Poppy’s protector. But as Sadie. Just Sadie.
With a quick shake of my head, I lean over the coffee grinder. One step at a time. First the wine. The rest… we’ll see.