9. Caden
Caden
For two solid hours this morning, it was just me and the waves. It’s my calm place, when I’m out on the water—everything else disappears. My father’s disappointment, the pressure of being a business owner . . . I don’t have to utter a word to anyone.
With salt water licking my skin, my hair curling at my neck from the stickiness in the air, I hike my board under my arm and make for my Jeep.
I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t a huge reason I left my job at Brooks & Sons.
There was never time to do the things I love, like surf every morning.
My father found joy in working me to the bone—Builds character, he’d said.
But the character he built left me an empty shell of myself, marked by the toxicity of that place.
The high pay wasn’t worth losing myself.
And maybe I’m not the ideal owner for a coffee shop, but Good Grinds has allowed me time to find myself again.
It’s been a work in progress.
With my old trusty board strapped to the top of the Jeep, I lean against the hood, letting the sun dry me off before I drive home.
A mom with her two young kids pulls up next to me, and immediately I check my phone, thinking of Fia. There’ve been no alerts that someone’s entered the property. I would’ve thought she'd be moving in by now.
With my suit still damp, I throw down a beach towel on my seat and jump into the car. Music blares through my speakers as I whip out of the parking lot and head towards Wilmington.
The sun is bright above me, and though surfing usually puts me in a good mood, good enough to drum along with my playlist, as I drive, my neck and shoulders tighten.
Realization hitting me with each second passing.
I asked Fia not to tell anyone about the arrangement, then left her to move in by herself.
“Fuck.” I slap the steering wheel, feeling like a total asshole.
This is the issue when you have to deal with people—shit gets complicated.
I slow down as I pull onto a residential street twenty minutes later and hesitate a moment.
Her little gold sedan with more scratches and dents than I can count sits in the driveway, the trunk popped open.
Then the front door flies open, and Fia skips down the porch steps with a large, lumpy trash bag slung over her shoulder.
She proceeds to shove it into the already full, tiny trunk. Well, she attempts to.
Without a second thought, I pull in behind her.
Fia pauses mid-shove, squinting through my windshield as I cut the engine.
“Hey.” I hop out. “You need a hand?”
Fia exhales hard, brushing strands of red hair off her face.
She’s barefoot, in an oversized T-shirt that swallows her shorts .
. . if she’s even wearing any. Her eyes rake me up and down, and that’s when I remember all I have on is my board shorts.
I look down—the sun is glittering off the leftover salt across my bare chest. Jesus.
“Actually, I have it handled.” She points to the trunk, which under no circumstances will close. “See?”
“Right.” I nod. “Because you’ll be able to drive with every door open, no problem.”
Her brows stay furrowed but she fans herself.
“Plus,” I say with a sigh, noticing her eyes flicking to my chest, “I should probably lead you to my property the first time. It’s easy to miss the turn in.”
That’s the truth. I don’t need her circling for hours trying to find the driveway, which I purposely made inconspicuous.
“Oh, uhm, alright.” She huffs and promptly begins shoving the bag again.
“I don’t think that’s going to fit.”
“It’ll fit,” she grunts, regripping the lumpy bag and pushing with all her strength until the car bounces. The bag barely squeezes in when she slams the trunk shut and grins triumphantly at me. “Ha! See, that’s why I’m the manager. Persistence is key.”
“Yes, your packing skills are why I hired you,” I mumble to myself, but Fia glares sideways at me.
“Anyway,” she proceeds, “I’m almost done, so if you want to just wait out here, I’ll be maybe twenty more minutes.” She turns and trots up the porch steps.
I follow her. “I’m not sitting in my car while you pack in the fucking heat.”
“Caden, seriously, you’ve helped me enough.” She pops her hands on her hips.
I sidestep cardboard boxes as she walks through the propped-open front door. Her cat lounges lazily on the oak stairs in the foyer, tail swinging back and forth.
Fia pauses next to a box.
“By the way,” she begins, “when you have time, I’d like to talk about loan payments. I calculated what I can pay you monthly, and it will take some time to pay back twelve thousand dollars, but—”
I cross my arms, cutting her off. “Let’s just get you moved, then we can discuss that.”
She grumbles, and I don’t miss the roll of her eyes.
She is very feisty outside of Good Grinds, where she’s always professional and overly kind. I’m not upholding professionalism myself, though, as I stand in her house half naked.
“Fine, follow me then,” she instructs flatly, and I snap out of it, walking into the kitchen. The cabinet doors are all splayed open, half-packed boxes line the floor, and a coffee maker sputters in the corner. Honestly, it looks like she got robbed.
“You can take these coolers. They are full of Daisy’s food . . .” She trails off, distracted by the contents of another box, so I grab the cooler.
“It’s not like I’ve had a lot of time to prepare,” she blurts out, unprovoked.
“Plus, I know they are containing the remediation to the second floor, but I’m sure it will be a mess, and I don’t want to come back once they begin.
” She pauses, looking around at the various items near her feet.
“So I’ve got to bring everything, just in case. ”
I shrug. “I’m not judging you, Fia.”
“Right, I just—” She stands up straight, running a hand through her hair.
That’s when it hits me how tired she looks. Honestly, I don’t know how she does it all—and it’s not my place to know. It’s my place to make sure she is able to keep showing up.
That’s why I’m here.
I haven’t crossed a line.
She grabs a box of cat toys and food and follows me to my Jeep.
I stack everything neatly, but Fia marches up beside me, tossing in a bag, ruining my perfect Tetris setup. When her elbow brushes mine, her eyes snap up.
“Your car’s a mess,” she remarks bluntly.
“Well, isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black,” I mumble, rearranging the trunk.
“It’s just, the other day when you gave me a ride, I was a bit surprised.” She cranes her neck to look inside my Jeep. “No offense . . .”
“And what exactly were you expecting?”
Her nose crinkles. “An obsessively clean car with everything in order. Like your office.”
“Well, I make different rules for the different parts of my life. Especially things I love,” I spit out before it registers how stupid I sound.
Her eyes linger on me for a beat.
“So, what, you’re in love with your car or something?” she asks, laughing to herself.
My jaw ticks as I square off with her. “The coffee shop—my office—is business. It requires structure, systems, and precision. This”—I lean on my Jeep—“is for joy, for surfing. It’s supposed to be messy. Different rules, Hanson.”
“Huh.” She balances on her toes to step over the cracked driveway. “You’re a very interesting person,” she mutters.
I smirk, shaking my head.
Yeah, I’m the interesting one?