A Bittersweet Summer (Oaklawn Coffee #3)

1. One

One

Cassidy

I’ve always believed in superstitions, so when my phone rattles the pine table with the glowing word Chad, I’m certain the tattoo stitched over my rib cage summoned this call. It’s like an unfortunate bat signal.

Six months of therapy was all it took for me to gather the strength to hit ignore and pull the vanilla and hazelnut latte to my lips. A bit sad it took me this long, but there’s little I can do about my attachment to men who can absolutely be fixed.

By me.

Specifically.

My fingers warm against the cup as I lean back, peering through the jungle of house plants framing the large windows of the coffee shop. Their leaves press up against the glass, pushing against the resistance in search of the hidden sun.

Surrounded by the sound of milk being steamed and quiet chatter, I watch spring shimmer on the damp concrete and bloom over the trees that stretch toward the overcast sky.

Taking another sip of my latte, I glance at the door impatiently. My brow furrows when my phone lights up again.

Same name.

Same sad request.

I refuse to jump back in bed with a man who found it appropriate to sleep with an entire country club while we were together. Even if the tattoo of his name burns on my side.

Ashamed of my idiotic decision to brand my ex’s name onto my body, I finally got the courage to schedule a tattoo appointment.

Luckily, the tattoo artist, Ryan, runs in the same friend circle I’ve created for myself since moving back to Ohio two years ago.

And even luckier? Ryan promised discretion when it came to the cover-up job—for which I am thankful.

Tattooing your boyfriend’s name on your ribcage is always a nail in the coffin of any relationship.

If I’m being honest, I knew that. But when Chad suggested it, I was so anxious to appease him and patch together our failing relationship that I went along with it and kept a smile on my face the entire time.

I like to think I’m an open book, but I struggle with the scabs of my past. While some choose to pick at them until they bleed, I’d rather cover the wound with a bandage and forget about the pain until that sticky thing falls off.

Historically, I’ve been obsessed with starting anew, drifting on a breeze of expectations and bright ideas from anyone but myself.

Moving away from Ohio was my dad’s idea.

He thought it would be a good opportunity to find myself.

Moving back was my mother’s idea, believing it would benefit our family if I had more availability.

I’ve never been one to open doors of opportunity. It’s more like I find myself being shoved into them whenever they present themselves.

I drag my gaze away from the plants and check the door again.

This job interview is the first time I’d actually sought out a door for myself. It’s why it’s so important to me, and I absolutely cannot be distracted by the ghosts of romance’s past.

I put my phone on do not disturb once the call ends, just as the rattling of a door pushes me straighter in my chair, especially when my gaze lands on the dirty work boots coated in mud.

My heart leaps into my throat, nerves sending my pulse fluttering. If ever a man was entering a coffee shop to interview a girl for a farm job, it would be the one with the soiled work boots, worn jeans, and plain white shirt.

I expected a cowboy hat, but I suppose a ballcap and mustache are still on brand.

I track his movements, wondering if I should say something, or if that would be too forward. I want to find the perfect balance of confident, assertive, and kind. A true gem, my hope is that he will take one look at my easy smile and give me a chance.

My job at the bar hasn’t formed impressive muscles, nor has it formed any semblance of joy, either. A job is a job, but this job could offer both.

Growing up, I found solace in riding horses on the weekends. It wasn’t so much an escape from my life but a return to myself. Whenever things were tense or stressful, I could always count on the fresh air and rolling grass to quiet my mind. It centered me.

My life is crying out for fresh air and a good centering. It’s my first step to blooming into something new—just like the spring outside. Though this time, that something new is simply because I want to. This one is for me.

So, when I stand up, the chair screeches across the floor as I release a breathless “Wesley Miller?” I wince internally.

Perfect. Wonderful first impression.

Not only is the mustached man with a confused scowl looking at me, but so is the entire coffee shop. Brown hair curls around his ears, peaking out from the worn cap, and I note the dark eyebrows, full and very much still lowered at me.

Confidence, Cassidy. Confidence.

“Wesley Miller?” I say again with a bit more gusto. “I’m assuming.”

I curse myself for the muttered last line there, but carry on anyway.

He gives me a flat smile but doesn’t move. “You must be Cass,” he says, before glancing longingly at the counter. “I’m just going to grab a quick coffee, and I’ll be right over.”

I let out a full breath that ends in a soft chuckle before my nerves shove my voice into the too-bright zone. “Yeah, okay. Of course!”

He nods once—the kind of nod you’d expect from a farm man departing in an old western film, and I sit down.

“This is going alright,” I whisper to myself as if I can manifest it to be so.

I debate alerting the group chat, but before I can touch my phone, he’s back and thumping onto the chair across from me at the table. His shoulders visibly slump, as if he’s been carrying around the stress of the world and decided to unload it here… during an interview.

It’s not my idea of relaxation, but different strokes, as the saying goes.

He leans back with a cup clasped in his large hand.

“That was fast!” I say, keeping my tone bright, but not too bright this time.

I hope to emanate a very hirable personality—snuff out some of my crazy that comes out when I’m nervous.

My tendency to become talkative and overly friendly when I’m uncomfortable has cursed me a time or two, and judging by the flat look on his face, I have a feeling Wesley Miller, owner of Miller Run Farms, would not appreciate anything too vibrant or bubbly.

“That’s because it’s black coffee,” he informs, and my previous assessment that this man despises all things too joyful gains validity with every passing second.

That kind of personality is exactly the type I tend to avoid in every context.

My childhood was filled with so much sadness, I can’t fathom touching any more unnecessarily.

I swallow my nerves and smile anyway. “Of course! That wouldn’t take long at all!

” My fingers wind around my cup, gripping my latte as if it can ground me.

Unfortunately, the sugar-loaded concoction can only serve to increase my chatter.

“Thank you so much for taking the time to interview me here,” I start, words rushing out of me like a swollen river after a solid three days of rain.

I’m merely swept up in the current. “I am very excited for the opportunity to work on a farm. As you know, from my previous messages, I grew up around horses since I worked for my lessons. I may have lost some muscle in recent years, but I’m certain I can get it back. I’m a very hard worker, and I—”

“Do you have a criminal record?” he asks, the rumble of his voice startling me out of my long-winded self-advertisement.

My brow furrows, the wind leaving my sails. “I’m sorry, what?” I ask, somewhat confused.

Wesley takes a sip of his coffee and relaxes further back into the chair with his legs spread wide. He looks as if he’s just sat down after a long day of work.

It’s only eight in the morning.

“A criminal record,” he asks, placing the to-go cup back on the table.

“Oh,” I say. “No. I mean, I got a parking ticket once, but I paid it right away because I was worried about—”

“Afraid to touch shit?”

I startle back a bit, doing my best to mask my surprise. “No,” I answer, letting an easy laugh slip between my lips. “Though I’d prefer to wear my work gloves when I do it. In an emergency, I suppose I could—”

“Great.” That one word feels final, and I’m suddenly unsure of myself. I cannot for the life of me gauge how this interview is going, and that bothers me.

It bothers me a lot.

“Great,” I say, suddenly at a loss for words.

Wesley taps his cup twice before leaning forward, his elbows tilting the table just slightly, setting it off balance. I feel off balance, too.

This is a specialty of his, I’m finding.

“Pay isn’t much. Fifteen an hour, but your housing is provided.

The house is at the end of the driveway.

Utilities are a part of the deal, but you’ll need your own cable service and internet.

Or not. That’s really none of my business.

” He sucks in a long breath as if our conversation exhausts him.

Which is odd, because he’s hardly spoken until now.

“You’re expected at the barn by seven. Shift ends at three-thirty.

Fridays and Saturdays off. The rest was outlined in the listing. ”

“So,” I start, the word lengthened by my confusion. “Am I hired?” With all my strength, I try to fix my face and keep any incredulous expressions to myself. Though I firmly believe Wesley Miller might prefer that expression more than a welcoming smile.

I can’t be sure.

“Yup.” Wesley scoots his chair back, sets his cup down, and places his hands on his knees as he moves to stand. He snatches the coffee from the wobbling table and gives another parting nod.

He’s not the tallest man I’ve seen, five ten, maybe, but somehow, as he looms over me, it feels as if he’s a giant, and I am nothing but a tiny beetle—utterly negligible.

I stand on instinct, robotically offering him my hand before he can leave. When he reaches out, his rough calluses scrape once, twice, a third time.

And then the handshake is over, and I’m left watching his broad back as he exits the coffee shop with his black coffee in tow.

“He didn’t even get a lid for that thing,” I mutter, my brows carving a permanent crease between them.

Unsure of what even happened, I sit down again, glancing at the time, which reads eight o’five.

I take my phone off do not disturb, and find three more missed calls—all Chad—a text from Ryan letting me know I can come early for my tattoo appointment if I’d like to, and a text from Maybe Wes with an address, and tomorrow’s date.

I drain what’s left of my ultra-sweet coffee before ignoring Chad, letting Ryan know I’ll be over in ten minutes, and giving Wesley Miller’s text a thumbs up.

It’s a response that feels completely unnatural, but I suppose there’s little else for me to do. His odd behavior robs me of the elation I should feel in this exact moment.

I’ve craved time outdoors and a re-awakening of my inner equestrian. Last night, I spent an absurd amount of time practicing questions he could have asked me and watching my face in the mirror for any unpleasant expressions. I frequently reminded myself smise—or whatever they tell you to do.

I figured there’d be more fanfare—something.

My last task is to pull up my group chat with my closest friends and let them know I’ve officially quit bartending, and I’m moving on to bigger and brighter things.

I think.

At least I got the job.