Chapter 2 #2
You have the odd business that doesn’t adhere to this, like the grocery store, the dollar store, and a handful of restaurants and bars, but for the most part, Inner Shores is up in the air.
I like to think it’s part of our charm.
That and the colors.
Here on the island, we love pastels, and Mugs coffee shop is no exception.
By the time the canary yellow siding comes into view, I’m a sweaty mess.
Not to worry. I have a spare T-shirt, extra deodorant, and dry shampoo in the back. I’ll be a new woman in no time. And bonus: there’s only one vehicle in the lot.
A giant silver truck with Pennsylvania plates.
It’s a bit early in the season for tourists, but we do get occasional travelers who want to avoid the crowds.
Old Tom flashes me a tobacco-stained smile from where he leans against the white picket fence between my coffee shop and the seafood market next door. “Morning, Sunshine,” he calls out with his hand over his brow, his voice all gravel and cigars.
I return the wave, swerving around the truck’s bumper.
The seashell wind chime that Willow made me for me last Christmas tinkles and sways in the salty breeze. A super-tall, dark-haired man waits outside the front door. He doesn’t look familiar, so I assume he’s the tourist who owns the truck.
My bike brakes let out a shrill squeak when I squeeze them.
Note to self: swing by the hardware store for a can of WD-40 on your way home.
When the man hears the godawful squealing, he whips around to face me.
I can’t see his eyes from behind his sunglasses, but his impressive arms fold across an equally impressive chest.
Don’t get the wrong idea here. I’m not objectifying him. Men are people too, not thirst traps.
However, a chronically single girl like myself tends to notice things like hand veins and toned forearms and a sharp jaw that’s just scruffy enough to leave a happy little trail of beard burn on your skin.
Have the ferry gods finally delivered what I asked for?
I hop off my bike and give the kickstand a nudge. I’m about to offer a friendly greeting when the man’s brow tightens into a disapproving frown.
Looks like someone isn’t a morning person. He and Lola would get along well.
The majority of tourists fall in love with this place and end up coming back year after year.
But there are a few who, for one reason or another, end up hating our quaint town and beautiful beaches.
The ones who wouldn’t smile to save their own lives.
The ones who get pissed off because the ferry is always late or because the beach is too sandy. (Yes, I’ve heard that exact complaint.)
I have a sinking feeling this guy is one of those tourists, which is a shame because he’s pretty.
He glowers at his watch like it just cussed him out. “The sign says you open at six.”
The deep rumble of his voice would’ve been sexy if it weren’t for the rude tone.
Someone really needs to tell this guy that being pretty doesn’t automatically give you a free pass to act like a dick.
Where’s Lola when you need her? Now I’m kinda sorry I didn’t call her for a ride.
After being in business for so many years, I’m well-versed in dealing with impatient, uptight jerks, so my smile for Mr. Punctuality never falters.
“Yup. That’s exactly what it says.” My keys jingle when I pull them from my back pocket and slide them into the lock nice and slow. Wouldn’t want to bend them.
He holds his wrist up for me to see his fancy silver watch. “It’s 6:15.”
“Sure is.” I glance past him to the three white-haired men now hanging by the fence, their skin more leathery than that of a trio of old tortoises.
“Morning, barnacles.” I nod to my regulars, who’ll hang around until almost noon and don’t mind if I’m fifteen minutes late, or closed on a random day of the week just because.
“Sorry I’m late,” I tell them because I actually care what they think. “My car had a flat tire.”
Old Tom shoots Mr. Punctuality a withering glare before giving me a wink.
“Don’t you worry, Sunshine. That smile of yours is worth the wait.
” He might be a foot shorter than the newcomer and stooped like a shrimp, but he still knocks into Mr. Punctuality’s arm on his way into the coffee shop.
His two sidekicks give the tourist the same “welcoming” treatment as they hobble over to their corner table.
Since I’m not completely heartless, I put my wardrobe change on the back burner and get busy flipping on the lights and warming up the espresso machine before setting the first pot of house coffee beneath the coffee maker.
All the while, Mr. Punctuality waits with impatient glances at his watch from the other side of the counter.
Is he one of those people who is always in a rush or is he only in a rush today?
Here’s the thing about living at the beach: It teaches you to slow down. Clearly, this guy needs a few lessons.
I take my time tying on my apron and then make my beloved barnacles their coffees just the way they like them: a dash of cinnamon for Tom; a bit of maple syrup for Mark; and extra cream for Harry.
Once they have their mugs, I take a deep breath through my nose and offer the tourist my sunniest smile.
“Good morning, and welcome to Mugs. What can I get you?”
He removes his sunglasses and slides them onto his forehead, pushing his tousled, chocolate-brown hair off his brow. His eyes are a gorgeous light green, almost like the sea glass in our treasure bowl.
Too bad he left his manners back home.
“Hot coffee. Black,” he says.
If that’s all he wants, he could’ve gone to the 24/7 gas station down the road. “Like your soul?” I tease, smirking.
He doesn’t even crack a smile.
No matter. As soon as I give him coffee, he can be on his not-so-merry way. I don’t need scowling men bringing me down first thing in the morning.
I brew an Americano and pour it into a cup that suits his disposition.
Would you look at that? He’s frowning again. This time at the black mug I chose for him—one with a smiling poop emoji on the side. I didn’t think it was possible, but his frown actually deepens, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
Man, I love my job.
“I wanted this to go,” he says, glancing down at the coffee.
Then he probably should’ve told me that when he ordered. “Did you bring a travel mug?” I ask through a smile, bracing my hands on my hips.
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Why would I bring my own mug when I came to a coffee shop called Mugs?”
“Because single-use containers have been banned on this island for the last three years. That includes plastic bags, plastic cutlery, and disposable coffee cups.” I count on my fingers as I say each one, speaking nice and slow so he remembers and maybe won’t be so much of a jerk to anyone else in town.
“Since I’m feeling generous this morning”—and I really want this grump out of my shop before I have to ask Willow to bring some sage to clear out his bad energy—“I’ll help you out. ”
I grab one of our custom “Mugs” travel canteens that are available for purchase.
It’s a beautiful, daffodil yellow—perfect for this guy’s piss-poor attitude.
I dump the coffee from his poop mug into the yellow one, chuckling to myself.
Dump. Poop mug. Classic. “Here you go.” I set the drink next to the empty tip jar. “The mug is on the house.”
After grumbling a curt “thank you,” he throws down just enough to cover the cost of the mug and the drink and stalks back outside.
Maybe the ferry gods didn’t send him after all.
Either way, my smile never fails.
Today is a very good day.
At least that’s what I thought until I picked up my phone and found a message I wasn’t expecting.
Rick
I’ll be there
Friday
Would love 2 c u.
My heart comes to a dead stop in my chest.
I haven’t heard from Rick in months.
Why is he coming back now?