Chapter 3
I BOP ALONG to our Taylor Swift playlist as the familiar smells of fresh coffee and baked goods settle over me like a cosy blanket.
Whenever I have second thoughts about my ability to run my own cafe—i.e.
the voices of my exes or Gabi questioning my decision to leave my boring desk job to chase this dream—I simply come in here and literally breathe it all in.
For years this place was a figment of my imagination, a wistful hope that flitted through my mind as I drifted off to sleep each night and a vast collection of Pinterest boards.
After a lot of elbow grease, many shit, what are we doing wine sessions with Hattie, and a heavy reliance on the powers of manifestation, it finally became a reality.
The floor-to-ceiling windows at the front overlooking the street.
The burgundy accent wall, a beautiful contrast to the white bricks.
The bench seat that stretches the length of the accent wall, scattered with a mix of sage and yellow pillows.
The cute little tables with glass vases and dried-flower arrangements.
The greenery dotted throughout the space. It all says Sabrina Fogerty.
Hattie’s expertly painted red lips mouth something at me as she pulls her thick black curls into a ponytail.
Hattie has this annoying ability to look camera-ready at any moment.
Never a hair out of place, flawless complexion and lipstick that remains glossy and smudge-free all day.
I borrowed her favourite lipstick once with her promise it would stay put and within an hour I looked like a vampire who’d sunk her teeth into someone’s neck.
‘What?’ I say.
She rolls her eyes and turns the music down. ‘Maybe the loud music is why we don’t get any customers.’
‘We don’t get many customers,’ I say, correcting her, ‘because we’re new and word of mouth takes time.’
‘Whatever you say.’ Her smile is tight. Before going into business with me, Hattie was killing it as an events manager.
Unlike me, who invested my parents’ money into this venture, Hattie poured her own savings into it, so the pressure to turn A Cup of Joy into a success weighs heavy on her too.
And it feels like an elephant hitching a ride on my shoulders.
If I don’t keep those contract strings intact, this dream of ours is done.
Hattie can’t afford to buy me (i.e. my parents) out and I can’t afford to repay my parents’ loan in its entirety.
Walking away with our dreams dashed and our tails between our legs would be the only option.
This is why I’m spending what little free time I have forcing myself to complete a boring business course and lying through my teeth about having a boyfriend.
‘How are things going with your fake boyfriend?’ Hattie asks as though reading my mind. ‘Is he living up to your expectations? Scratch that, does he live up to Dianne’s expectations?’
‘It’s going brilliantly.’ I wipe a small coffee stain off the counter. While my apartment may be a cluttered mess, I make sure this place shines like a diamond. ‘We’re so compatible it’s almost like I made him up.’
Hattie laughs as she finishes arranging the display of freshly baked rhubarb and custard muffins. ‘And just how long are you two going to date?’
I lean back on the counter and twist the cloth around my fist. ‘Until I find a real boyfriend.’ Which is proving to be a harder feat than I’d imagined.
It’s not like I’m living the life of a hermit.
I’m putting myself out there. Just the other night I dragged Hattie to a speed-dating event.
It was an epic failure and I walked away from said event with not a single match.
Hope is not lost though. A handsome man smiled at me yesterday when I ventured out to Kmart to get some socks.
He then disappeared in a sea of harried shoppers but, for a brief moment, hope hung in the air.
‘In the meantime, I’m focusing on this place,’ I say.
And that boring business course. If I can at least finish that I might be able to sweet-talk my parents out of the other clause.
Or, as Hattie calls it, the boyfriend clause.
Isn’t it more important that I set myself up for the future with a thriving business as opposed to having a man on my arm?
Not that having a man in my life would be a terrible thing, I just don’t want to rush into the wrong relationship and get my heart broken. Again.
‘And what a fine place this is. It would just be great if we could start making money,’ Hattie says. ‘Speaking of, I think you’re right: we should reach out to local artists about showing their work here.’
‘Small art shows, open mic nights, book launches. With your events background, Hattie, it’s a no-brainer,’ I say with a grin.
The bell chimes and Vik bustles in, his scruffy mop of hair flattened by a black beanie.
He rattles off a bunch of excuses for being late, each one more unbelievable than the last: ‘And then I realised someone had pinched the front wheel off my bike so of course I had to take the tram but I didn’t have my Myki on me so I ran back home and then I remembered I’d left my key inside and Carrie couldn’t hear me bangin’ on the door cause she was on a Zoom call so I had to try and jemmy the window—’
‘It’s fine,’ Hattie cuts him off and grips his shoulders, steering him towards the kitchen. ‘The stove is calling your name.’
Vik salutes us before heading into the kitchen, and it’s not long before the sweet scent of sizzling onion joins the mix of coffee and baked goods.
‘We really need a new cook,’ Hattie whispers.
‘But Vik’s the best. Or at least the best we can afford,’ I add. We can’t get rid of Vik. He’s part of the A Cup of Joy family. Sure, he’s unreliable but he’s so nice it’d be like firing a puppy.
‘You’re too soft,’ she says.
‘You’re too cutthroat.’
The bell chimes again and I fix a smile to my face before spinning around to greet our customer. ‘Good mor—’
Adam glowers at me, his knuckles tightening around the laptop bag hanging over his shoulder. ‘You work here?’
I glare back at him, my hands pressing down on the counter, my fingerprints marking the spotless surface. ‘I’m the owner.’
‘Well, co-owner.’ Hattie squeezes in beside me with a smile so bright it’s almost blinding. ‘Welcome to A Cup of Joy. What can we get you?’
Adam looks from me to Hattie, his glower holding. ‘A flat white. Extra hot.’
I fight an eye roll. Extra hot means burning the milk and it goes against everything we stand for. And by we I mean any resident of Melbourne.
‘How about a rhubarb and custard muffin?’ Hattie reaches into the display before I can lecture him on the art of coffee-making. ‘They’re fresh out of the oven. Sabrina is a whiz in the kitchen.’
He stares at the muffin before his eyes flick back to me with the slightest wrinkle of his nose. And then he stalks over to the table furthest away from the counter and sets his laptop on it, pushing the vase aside.
‘A cute face is wasted on an arsehole like that,’ Hattie says.
‘That arsehole is Adam,’ I whisper back, and briefly consider spitting in his coffee. Okay, I wouldn’t ever go that far. But he definitely isn’t getting any fancy froth art.
Hattie low-whistles. ‘Damn, your fake boyfriend is a hottie.’
We both look over to where he’s set himself up by the window, a notebook and pen placed neatly beside his laptop.
Heavy lines crease his forehead as he stares at the screen and then shifts his attention outside to the people rushing past on their way to work.
The creases deepen with each drum of his fingers on the table until they’re so deep you’d need a bridge to cross them.
‘He’s going to be one of those people who sits here all day and only orders coffee, isn’t he?’ Hattie says.
‘Probably,’ I mutter and blink down at his coffee. Shit. Without even thinking about it, I’ve created a nice little leaf design in the froth. I force a smile and deliver it to him, and he accepts it without so much as a thank you.
Fake boyfriend Adam would never be that rude.
He’d say thank you. And he would’ve ordered the muffin Hattie offered him.
Fake Adam is a prince. He opened the door for me last night when he took me to the cosy French restaurant I’ve been dying to try.
And he knew my love language was good bread.
And wine. Dessert. Well, food in general.
Fake boyfriend Adam also took my hand as we walked home and he planted a soft kiss on my lips before wishing me a good night.
With a huff I leave him and his creased forehead alone and return to the kitchen to tend to the decadent salted caramel brownies I left to cool.
I practically salivate when my knife slices the slab into rectangles of fudgy goodness, and my irritation with Adam fades into the background as I settle into my happy place of chocolate and sugar.
He’s still here four hours later and Hattie’s prediction that he’ll only order coffee has proven correct.
I went over twice to see if he’d like anything else, even offering the salted caramel brownie, and was met with a curt no each time.
He’s spent his four hours alternating between frowning at his laptop and staring out the window.
As more customers wander in for lunch, he switches to watching them, his forehead still creased.
‘He could at least order a macchiato to throw an extra couple of dollars our way,’ I mutter and wave goodbye to the elderly man who comes in once a week to sit with a donut and espresso while he does a crossword puzzle.
‘Or anything instead of just sitting there using our wi-fi and looking miserable. That frown is going to drive away business.’
Hattie gently pushes me towards his table. ‘If anyone can convince someone to spend money here, it’s you.’
‘Can I get you anything else?’ I ask as I approach his table.
Closing his laptop, he removes his glasses and rubs the corners of his eyes with a weary sigh like he’s just swum Lorne’s Pier to Pub race. ‘No.’
I grab the salt and pepper shakers that he’d pushed to the corner and reposition them in the middle of the table. ‘Maybe an afternoon sugar hit will help you with whatever it is you’re working on there.’
‘It won’t.’
‘It couldn’t hurt to try. How about a vanilla and blackberry cupcake? Or we have mini key-lime cheesecakes? A sour cherry danish? Maybe after something sweet you’ll be more inclined to work instead of staring out the window.’
Adam puts his glasses back on and slides his laptop into his bag. The chair scrapes against the floor as he stands and drapes the strap over his shoulder. Smoothing down his navy woollen jumper, he heads for the door without even a glance my way.
‘Oh, I know you,’ Vik says from where he’s leaning against the counter, wolfing down a bagel before he leaves for the day. He points at Adam. ‘You’re Adam Whittaker.’
Adam stops walking, his back stiff.
Adam Whittaker. Why does that sound familiar?
‘I love your book, mate. Oi, Sabrina, this guy wrote The Sleeping Bones. And the Dustin Banks series.’ Vik turns from Adam to me.
‘You still have my copy of The Sleeping Bones. Bring it in so I can get it signed. You’ll be back in here won’t you, mate?
’ He spins back to Adam. ‘When’s the sequel coming out? ’
My stomach drops. Adam Whittaker. Author of The Sleeping Bones. The book I called overhyped and awful. And the Dustin Banks series that I implied was so bad I gave up after the first chapter. Oh, shit. No wonder he hates me.
Adam stares at his feet. The tips of his ears are red.
I should tell him I’m sorry and that I didn’t hate his books, but obviously we’d both know that was a lie.
Oh God, and I told him we didn’t need a sequel.
Is that why he’s just spent the past four hours staring at his screen instead of typing?
Have I broken him? I think I owe him an apology muffin.
‘Is it true one of the Hemsworth brothers is going to be in the movie?’ Vik asks.
‘Oh, I love the Hemsworths,’ Hattie says, joining the conversation now that a Hemsworth is involved. ‘You know, we’re hoping to host book launches here in the future. We should talk.’
I swallow my groan. Adam Whittaker is a bestselling author with a movie deal. His book launches are probably held at five-star venues with A-list guests. Definitely not at the small, struggling cafe across the road from his apartment that’s run by someone who insulted his work.
Adam’s knuckles are white as he grips his laptop bag.
‘No release date yet for the sequel,’ he finally responds.
‘Why don’t you bring your copy of the book tomorrow and I’ll sign it for you.
Or should I be telling her to bring it in,’ he adds with a jerk of his head in my direction.
‘Unless she burned it because it was so awful.’
I don’t think an apology muffin will be enough. I’ll have to bake the biggest cake he’s ever seen.