Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The next morning, a nimbostratus cloud so big it could cover Tokyo had taken up residence above my head. I’d pressed the snooze button on my phone so many times it felt like I was playing a slot machine. Groaning I kicked that white covers off. I was still thinking about Dax.
Why did I even care that yesterday might have been the last time I’d see him? I’d known him for what, a month? I let the image of his chocolate eyes dimming and the hollow tone of our polite goodbyes flutter down and slap me in the face.
Nope. I wasn’t doing this.
This would not be the Riley Walls pity party of one.
He was a man, that was all. There were plenty of him around. Except… I knew that was a lie. Not men like him. He was strong but not scary, witty without being a complete douchebag. Unless he was on the phone, of course, but even that didn’t bother me as much now that I knew who it was for.
Why did he have to act like that when we kissed and ruin everything?
I shook him from my mind and got ready for the day. A fail-safe way to feel better–and one I hoped never to pass down to any children I was increasingly sure I wouldn’t have anyway–was to look super cute. And get under someone else. Pronto.
“Ooh, look at you,” Dave waggled his bushy eyebrows from where he was paying for his coffee. “Hot date?”
I shot him a dark glare. We were friends. Sort of. As much as you could be friends with the leader of the geriatric pole-dancing stripper crew of the town. But we were not share-your-personal-business level of friends. Only Rick and Breeze had achieved that status.
Dave ducked his head like he expected my eyes to shoot actual daggers, and I grinned.
“What’s going on here?” Breeze waved a hand from my head to my shoes as Dave joined the rest of the Balls Club at their usual table.
Was she referring to my perfectly blown-out hair, which had taken me approximately fifty-seven trillion hours thanks to its thickness?
Or the tall wedges I was wearing with cut-off shorts and a semi-opaque sleeveless shirt?
“Thought I’d make an effort today,” I shrugged and beamed a toothy grin at her, which lasted two seconds before dissolving under her eye roll.
I groaned. “Okay, fine, I needed to.” That woman was like a superhero with X-ray vision, except her talent was reading people’s bullshit. If I had that skill, I’d use it to look through the clothing of hot guys. For research purposes. Obviously.
“Does this have anything to do with a certain brooding-eyed man leaving town on business?” she leaned her hip against the counter, retying her hair.
“Bill left town?” I sounded shocked as I pulled my hand up to my chest in a mock gesture.
She rolled her eyes again and found the nails on one of her hands interesting. “If you’re not careful, Riley, you might end up alone.”
She couldn’t see it, because she wasn’t looking, on purpose at a guess, but my eyes sent her daggers. Apparently, I had some left.
But ouch! And also because it was so damn obvious—duh!
I already knew I was going to end up alone.
I’d accepted the cards I'd been dealt. My shoulders drooped as thoughts of Olivia crept in. The squeeze in my stomach I’d been ignoring since the moment I saw her body at St Peter’s Church made itself known again.
I felt like an emotional school bus had hit me over the last thirty-six hours.
“Actually, I was trying to cheer myself up after the funeral yesterday. Needed a bit of pep in my step to figure out what to do with Olivia’s letter.
” I pulled the envelope out of my back pocket and waved it at her.
It was actually there because I couldn’t bear to be separated from it.
Which was a feeling I couldn’t understand either. But she didn’t need to know that.
Breeze’s eyebrows fell, and the bravado dropped from her stance. She pulled her hands down to her sides and looked at me.
“Oh my God, sorry. I didn’t even think about that.” Her hazel eyes filled with remorse.
I waved a hand. “Don’t stress, it’s all good.” If we weren’t careful, we’d end up in an apologising match. And her wide eyes were making me feel guilty now. She was completely right–this mood was absolutely more about Dax leaving than anything else.
I was surprised the cloud following me everywhere wasn’t raining its pity tears into everyone’s cups.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I opened the cash drawer, checking the change.
I don’t know when my work extended beyond cleaning; Breeze had never asked it of me.
More often than not when it was busy like this morning I found myself clearing tables and checking everything was topped up out here too.
I shook my head, which no doubt Breeze expected.
The bell above the door jingled, and two women in their seventies shuffled out, helped by a weedy man in black work pants and a crinkled shirt who was holding it open. The man ran his finger down the glass as he entered, inspecting the tip as he closed the door behind him. Creep.
He'd better be planning on cleaning off that finger mark because I’d given that door and the entire front window a clean with a white vinegar and rubbing alcohol mix two days ago.
The man stood in the doorway surveying the room like a miner panning for specks of gold.
I elbowed Breeze, who was pouring beans into the grinder, and tilted my head in his direction. She peered around the coffee bag and sighed.
“Mr Sweep. I didn’t think we’d made an appointment,” she called.
Mr Sweep sank both hands into the pockets of his black trousers. Not in the hot way movie heroes do. He looked about five foot nothing, and his nose barely lined up with mine. I supposed I was taller than usual in wedges, but still.
“We don’t always work by appointments, Miss Meadow,” he said, flashing his red wine-stained teeth. “You should know that by now.”
Breeze’s last name was Meadow?
“Breeze Meadow. Breezy Meadow?” I repeated, eyes wide.
She cut me a narrow-eyed glare. “Melinda Lovecastle lost several glue-in extensions in high school for that. I dare you to say it one more time.”
I did not dare. I’d spent far too long on this blowout this morning. But suddenly, my vision of her middle-class, apron-wearing, Sunday-roast parents morphed into a pair of tie-dyed, stoner hippies at Woodstock.
“What can I do for you?” she asked Mr Sweep, who had made himself comfortable on one of the vinyl stools. I could hear the ice under her tone even if her face screamed, puppy!
“Allow me a turn around your space. Thirty minutes should be sufficient for the inspection.”
Who even says “a turn” anymore? We weren’t on Mr Bingley’s estate.
“And if I say no? It’s our busiest morning,” Breeze replied, hands on her hips.
He glanced around as if noticing the filled tables for the first time and shrugged.
“If you say no, I'll put you on probation. You’re overdue for an inspection. We take these things seriously.” He ran his fingers underneath the lip of the counter that stuck out in front of him.
He was looking for gum, I was sure of it.
This man had an agenda, but he didn’t look clever enough to have formed it himself.
I was pretty sure I knew who’d encouraged him to find a fault at Steamy Sips, and her name rhymed with Pissy.
Breeze whipped her head toward me, and I could see desperation in the hazel eyes of her otherwise calm face. Oh, right, this was my time to shine.
“If you come with me, Mr Sweep, I’d be happy to show you around,” I said, swooping an arm toward the kitchen doorway.
Breeze’s eyes looked like dinner plates as she glanced at my open-toe wedges, which were definitely not health and safety approved.
Someone really should invent cute, non-slip heeled booties for occasions like this. Damn you, cloud of darkness.
She kicked her Crocs at me, and my face twisted in disgust. I didn’t care what fashion trends said otherwise; I refused to acknowledge stupidity.
Breeze’s eyebrows arched impossibly high, and I groaned, kicking my wedges at her a little too forcefully.
I slipped on the white shoes – surprisingly comfortable – just in time for Mr Sweep to look up from the app he’d been trying to log into on his slimy phone.
Okay, it wasn’t actually slimy, but he gave off that energy.
The sort that makes you want to shower immediately.
Bonus: he didn’t even notice I was now four inches shorter. Maybe he wasn’t so observant after all.
I started the tour, guiding him through the kitchen like a real estate agent.
I opened ovens and fridges, pointing out the laminated health and safety standards pinned to the wall, which I was particularly proud of.
If professional laminator were a job, I’d take it.
Mr Sweep made notes on his phone, stopping to take photos but giving nothing else away.
Because I didn’t know who this man actually worked for—all those acronym organisations blurred together in my brain like one giant annoying entity—I was probably showing him irrelevant things, but I didn’t care.
I’d worked hard in here. Harder than I’d ever worked on any piece of copy in my life.
I’d unpack that later.
“Here you’ll find the details of our suppliers. We do most of our ordering online now,” I said, gesturing to an open file on the recipe shelf. Look at me go; I was killing this.
“And your customer list for private orders, catering and such?” His red-rimmed eyes narrowed at me, and his lips curved.
“Confidential,” I beamed a grin right back at him.
I knew my shit. “Those details are under lock and key, you can understand privacy laws and all that.” I kicked the base of the black metal filing cabinet next to the bookshelf.
“The boss is fussy about keeping the keys on her person. But we take traceability of product seriously and collect all necessary information.”
The man’s shoulders sagged, and he looked disappointed.
I on the other hand, was beaming. I hadn’t taken a moment until now to appreciate what Breeze and I had accomplished here over the past month.
It was a café transformed—and we’d done it ourselves.
Well, with Dax’s help, if you counted the garden.
Thinking about Dax felt like a punch right in the vagina bone.
Stupid cloud. We were digging out garden beds now so Breeze could grow her own vegetables. Call us a garden-to-table business.
“Everything seems in order,” Mr Sweep announced to Breeze as he finished inspecting the coffee machine and deli cabinet.
His thumb and index finger rubbed over his jawline as he sighed, and I actually felt sorry for him.
Perhaps there was more than Breeze’s café riding on this inspection.
That feeling lasted for less than a second before a flash of white tore through from the kitchen. Mr Sweep’s eyes glittered.
“Is that a dog?” he asked as he slunk toward Taco, who was now seated at Dave’s feet with her lips pulled back. Breeze and I exchanged wide-eyed looks. So close.
“It appears to be a dog,” he replied to himself in an amused tone. “Could also be a ferret. Even a rat?”
Had I said I felt sorry for him? I took it back. He was now firmly on my 'if I could murder someone for a day without consequence' list. I opened my mouth to respond, but Dave cut in first.
“A dog,” he said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “She’s mine.”
“And you allow dogs in your café, Miss Meadow?” Mr Sweep asked, now addressing Breeze and pretending Dave didn’t exist. Breeze opened her mouth, her index finger raised as though about to launch into a theatrical defence.
“She’s an assistance dog. She’s working,” Dave interrupted. He didn’t break eye contact with Mr Sweep, who was crouched down examining the ancient chihuahua. She didn’t pull her lips back in a smile like she’d done a minute ago for Dave. Dogs really were excellent judges of character.
“I’d appreciate if you ignored her. She’s working,” Dave said, his arms folded and looking even more competent than when he aced a flying showgirl on the pole.
Mr Sweep snorted, and the corners of his mouth turned up. “That’s clever. Working dogs are allowed in cafe’s in Glades Bay. I assume you have paperwork, Mr?”
“Bill,” Dave said. “It’s just Bill.” And he pulled a folded piece of paper from his wallet.
Well, take me now, Mr Bond. Apparently, Dave was a certain brooding man after all.
Mr Sweep examined the form. I was fairly sure there was a rule about demanding paperwork from a person with a disability. He probably knew that too, which was why his gaze lingered briefly.
“So, this must be Cado,” he muttered, sounding deflated again. We all bobbed our heads smiling, including Harry and the other members of the Balls Club sitting at the table.
“Well…” slimy Sweeps said, as he rocked back and forth on his heels, his eyes doing one last swing of the room.
“If there’s nothing else I can do for you, Mr Sweeps, I’ll see you out. It’s my busiest time of day after all,” Breeze finally spoke, beaming a bright smile at him.
The man nodded and allowed himself to be led to the door.
“I’m guessing that’s a pass?” I called to his back as the bell jingled overhead.
“What? Oh. Yes. A pass,” he said, looking like I’d kicked a bag of kittens.
The café erupted in cheers and whoops as he stepped outside. Breeze ran over and flung her arms around Dave.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she cried, squeezing him tight. Dave’s cheeks flushed.
“It was nothing,” he muttered, shrugging.
“It wasn’t nothing. I’m making you a big breakfast on me!”
“But I’ve eaten…” Dave gestured to the empty plate in front of him before Breeze cut him off.
She waved her hand, walking towards the kitchen in a pair of sneakers I hadn’t realised she’d switched my wedges for.
Probably when Mr Sweep’s head was inspecting the exact temperature of the fridge.
“And I don’t want to know what you’re doing with Bill’s wallet!
” She floated into the kitchen like someone who'd had the weight of the world taken off their shoulders.
Dave looked like he was going to protest about the forced breakfast again but thought better of it, lips closing with a sigh.
“I found it here,” he said, folding the paper back into the black leather wallet. “He leaves it behind all the time. I’ll get it back to him on my way home.”
I chuckled and scooped up Taco, relieved that the ordeal was over.
“And you, cheeky miss, are going upstairs,” I told her.
She gave me her signature smile, and I lifted her to my face.
“Okay, fine. You can come clean the pantry with me. But no chocolate this time!”
I rubbed my cheek against the top of her head, clearing a few cups from Dave’s table with my free hand.
Call me a multitasker.