3. Embeth
Embeth
I'm elbow-deep in ledgers when Pepper, my goofy orange furball, hops onto the counter and knocks my calculator to the floor. Perfect timing, as usual. I've been staring at these numbers for an hour, and they refuse to become less depressing.
I look around at the mismatched vintage furniture I've been adding to the café over the last couple of years and how it’s all really come together to be even better than anything I could have ever imagined.
I love this place... Every chipped mug and worn cushion...
Every silly canister and kitschy decoration...
But love doesn't pay the bills, and three months of declining sales have left me wondering if Passion Peak is too small for my vision.
Maybe boring would do better here than... Well, me.
I sigh and flip the ledger closed. Maybe today's the day my "Save Our Beans" promotion finally draws a crowd. I've advertised half-price specialty drinks all week, but so far it's just brought in the same regulars spending less money.
Miss Edie arrives first, right on schedule at 8:15. "Morning, honey. How's business?"
"Booming," I lie cheerfully, preparing her cappuccino. "Soon I'll be franchising across the Eastern Seaboard."
She clucks sympathetically. Miss Edie turns up every day without fail. At least if I go under, there will be one person besides me that will be sad about it.
By noon, I've served exactly four customers. I'm considering calling Melody for a pity visit when the door opens, and my heart does a little tap dance against my ribs.
Cadence stands in my doorway, filling it with his broad shoulders. He's wearing a faded flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing his strong, sexy forearms. He’s got a little more stubble than when I saw him two days ago, and his hair is damp like he's freshly showered.
That thought nearly has me drooling, but I manage to keep it together.
"Well, look what the mountain breeze blew in," I say, leaning against the counter, very aware of how my cleavage pushes up and slightly out of my top as I do. "Missing my coffee already?"
A hint of a smile touches his lips as he looks me over. "Came to replace your mug."
“Gotta love a man who keeps his promise,” I say as he sets a ceramic mug on the counter, and I actually have to catch my breath.
I hadn’t expected him to really replace the mug.
It was a cheap store-bought white one with no personality, but this one.
My god, the man gets me. It’s handmade, with swirls of purple with hints of blue that match my hair almost exactly.
"Where’d you get this?” I ask, turning it in my hands. “It’s freaking awesome.”
He shrugs. "It was packed up in my stuff."
I don't believe him for a second. It’s too perfectly matched to my current hair color, and it just doesn’t scream that it’s something he would have just had lying around.
I’d bet my butt he actually took time out of his life to go looking for this, but I let him have his lie.
"Well, now you need coffee to go with the delivery... On the house. Black, right?"
While I prepare his drink, I watch him from the corner of my eye.
He stands absolutely still, thumbs hooked in his pockets, taking in every detail of my café.
His gaze lingers on the small, unused corner stage I installed for the open mic nights that never quite took off.
I’d had grand plans for this place. It really is a shame that this might be the end of it all.
"Thinking of performing?" I tease, sliding his coffee across the counter.
"Hell no."
As he waits for his coffee to cool, his fingers begin tapping against the counter. Not random fidgeting. No, it’s a complex, consistent rhythm that sounds almost familiar. He’s totally playing a ghost piano on my countertop
"You play?" I ask, nodding toward his fingers.
His hand instantly flattens against the counter. "Used to."
"What instrument?"
"Guitar, mostly." He takes a sip of coffee. "Some piano."
The wheels in my head start turning so fast I'm surprised he can't hear them. "You any good?"
He raises an eyebrow. "Of course."
"Modest too," I say, grinning. "You know what this place needs? Live music. Friday nights. Intimate setting, local talent... I couldn’t get it to take off before, but maybe now?—"
"No." The word is firm, absolute.
"You haven't even heard my pitch."
"Don't need to. Not interested."
"But—"
"I don't perform," he says sharply, glancing around the nearly empty café at the couple in the corner and Miss Edie at her normal spot by the window, like he’s concerned about the attention our conversation might be drawing.
And just like that, I can see I've crossed a line. Classic Embeth. Pushing too hard, too fast, assuming everyone wants to be as open as I am.
I take a breath. "Okay. Sorry for pushing.”
He looks surprised at my quick retreat, his expression softening slightly. "Your café in trouble?"
Now it's my turn to be caught off guard. "What makes you say that?"
He nods toward the half-price signs and the empty tables. "Eyes work fine, even if one of my ears doesn't."
I consider lying, then remember how squicky it makes me feel when I do. "Let's just say if things don't improve, Passion Peak might be down to convenience store coffee by Christmas."
He studies me for a long moment, and I feel unexpectedly exposed. Not because of my low-cut vintage dress or my usual bold makeup, but because he's seeing past all that to the struggling businesswoman beneath.
"You thought about selling to tourists instead of locals? Outdoors tourism around here is starting to really pick up with the rich city kids coming through. It’s trendy now to get out in the wilderness and document every single solitary second of it.
They wouldn’t blink at paying double what you charge for your specialty drinks. ”
"How would I reach them?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"Flyers around town, a sponsored spot on the local trail maps, targeted social media where they all hang out.”
I blink at him, impressed. "You've thought about this."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "I notice things."
"Like what else?" I lean forward, deliberately giving him a view down my dress because, well, why not?
His eyes drop briefly, then lift to mine with an intensity that makes my cheeks warm. "Like how you touch your hair when you're nervous. How your smile doesn't reach your eyes when you talk about the café's future, but I would bet any amount of money in the world that it used to.”
Before I can respond, he reaches across the counter and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. The contact sends a jolt through me so powerful I nearly drop the mug I'm holding.
His hand lingers a fraction too long, and something electric passes between us. For a moment, I think he might pull me closer, but then Miss Edie clears her throat loudly from her table.
Cade pulls back, his expression closing off again. "Should get going."
"Right," I say, hating how breathy my voice sounds. "Things to do, mountains to brood on."
That almost gets a smile. "Something like that."
As he turns to leave, I call after him. "The offer stands. If you change your mind about playing."
He pauses at the door, looking back at me with an unreadable expression. "I don't perform," he repeats, but softer this time. "Not anymore."
After he's gone, I pick up the mug he brought, running my fingers over its smooth surface.
There's something in the way he said "anymore" that sounds like a story.
One with pain behind it. And despite all my better judgment, I find myself wanting to know that story more than I've wanted anything in a long time.
Miss Edie appears at the counter, startling me. "That boy's carrying a heavy load," she says, eyeing the door where Cade disappeared. "But the way he looked at you..." She smiles knowingly. "Some loads are lighter when shared."
I roll my eyes to hide how her words affect me. "Don't start matchmaking, Miss Edie. He's just my best friend's brother."
"Mmhmm," she hums, unconvinced. "And I'm just a dried up old lady who doesn't know a spark when she sees one."
She totters back to her seat, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a gorgeous mug that matches my hair perfectly.