Chapter 20
TWENTY
JOE
Friday, Day One of the Summer Swap
Joe considered himself a confident man. He’d backpacked the Appalachian Trail alone, interviewing fellow hikers who smelled like campfire, sweat, and bad decisions.
He’d gone whitewater rafting in Colorado, then camped in country where bison, wolves, and grizzly bears all competed for the title of Most Likely to End Your Day .
Surely—surely—he could manage a quaint midwestern ice cream-coffee-cocktail stand.
But what he wasn’t counting on…was Mrs. Bishop.
And Mrs. C.
And the rest of their self-appointed Maple Falls Welcoming Committee marching in like they owned the place.
“I say we put his skills to the test,” Mrs. C. announced, narrowing her eyes at Joe like he was an undercooked casserole she fully intended to send back. “You can tell if a man is a good barista by how well he thinks on the fly.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Mrs. Bishop said, adjusting her floral visor. “I just can’t decide what I want. Should I get a honey latte? Krista’s always raving about how delicious those are.”
Mrs. Humphrey—who had introduced herself as Krista’s first-grade teacher—leaned an elbow on the counter like she was about to administer a pop quiz. “But who knows if Mister Brown Eyes here can make it like Krista?”
Joe swallowed.
It was the first time anyone had called him “Mister Brown Eyes,” and he wasn’t sure whether to be flattered…or afraid.
He smiled politely. “Well, I’ll certainly do my best?—”
Mrs. Bishop interrupted. “Do you even know how to make the bumblebee on top? It’s all in the wrist.”
Mrs. C. nodded gravely. “And don’t scorch the espresso. Last week at that big coffee chain over in Cedarville, they—they—” She lowered her voice as if revealing a murder weapon. “They burned the beans.”
Joe blinked. “Uh…I’ll do my best not to commit any bean crimes.”
Mrs. Humphrey pursed her lips. “Mm-hmm. We’ll see.”
Behind them, a group of teenagers hovered near the ice cream counter, chanting, “Milkshake, milkshake, milkshake,” like they couldn’t wait a second longer.
A toddler licked a waffle cone so aggressively that the ice cream fell to the ground, cuing a series of wails so loud that Joe was convinced Krista could hear them downtown.
And outside, someone was yelling about a missing paddleboard they’d rented ten minutes ago.
Joe inhaled slowly. Right. Sure. He could handle this. Couldn’t he?
He squared his shoulders, grabbed the portafilter, and told himself: You’ve survived grizzlies. You can survive a group of senior citizens and some rowdy teenagers.
“Alright,” he said, trying to sound competent. “Who’s first?”
All three women raised their hands.
He pointed to Mrs. Bishop. “How about you?”
“I guess I’ll take a honey latte,” she announced, her voice wavering a bit.
Easy enough. Joe reached for the honey.
Mrs. Bishop hesitated. “Or maybe I want a strawberry matcha frappé. Do you know how to make frappés?”
Joe knew how to use his phone, and that was good enough. He’d just have to look it up.
“Look at his face. Of course he doesn’t know how to make a frappé, and you don’t even like them!” Mrs. C. was saying to Mrs. Bishop.
“I don’t?” Mrs. Bishop looked at her friend.
“You said it was like a milkshake without the ice cream!” Mrs. C. said.
“Oh, that’s right. I did say that. Better make it a honey latte, I suppose,” Mrs. Bishop said, sounding deeply uncertain.
“Right. Coming right up.” Joe moved over to the espresso machine.
The machine sputtered when he flipped the switch. He frowned and tried again. Still nothing.
Mrs. Bishop leaned forward. “Krista taps it twice on the side. Says it wakes it up.”
“Alright then.” Joe distinctly did not remember any tapping in her demo yesterday morning.
He tapped it.
It hissed violently, spraying a stream of steam that nearly took his eyebrows off.
“See?” Mrs. Bishop said brightly. “Just needed a little encouragement.”
Joe forced a smile through the fog cloud now enveloping him. “Right. Of course.”
He pulled the shot (almost evenly) and reached for the honey. “I’m not going to attempt the bumblebee art today, but how about this?” He added an artistic swirl on top .
Mrs. C. watched his wrist motion with an unnerving intensity.
“Mm-hmm,” she said. “I give that a C plus.”
“Seriously, you’re grading me?” Joe muttered under his breath.
“Excuse me?” Mrs. C. asked sweetly.
“Nothing.”
Before he could finish pouring the milk, someone yelled from behind him, “Hey, dude—your blender is cursed!”
Joe whipped around. The teenagers had managed to get the blender lid on halfway, resulting in a pink milkshake tornado spraying across the back counter.
He lunged for it, slapping the lid down, but it was too late as most of the contents were now on the ceiling.
“Can you make it chocolate?” one of them asked, unfazed.
“Not now.” He tried not to growl.
A woman at the rental booth outside called through the open window, “Sir! Do you work here? Someone’s kayak is floating away!”
“Yeah, hang on, one second?—”
Mrs. C. tapped her watch. “Her latte is cooling, dear.”
The espresso machine hissed again, mocking him. Milk dripped from the ceiling. The teenagers laughed.
And Joe… admitted defeat.
“Krista?” he muttered to himself. “Where are you?”
As if summoned by sheer desperation, the back door to the bar area opened and Krista appeared, sunlight streaming behind her, turning her into something mythic and wildly out of place in the middle of his disaster. Joe wished she wasn’t walking into a big old mess, but here they were.
“Oh. My. God,” she said softly.
Joe pointed at literally everything. “It’s…a learning curve.”
“Okay,” she said, rolling up her sleeves and stepping behind the counter. “I’ll handle the machine. Let’s salvage the living and bury the dead.”
“Copy that,” Joe said. “I’ll mop the crime scene.”
Mrs. Bishop perked up. “Good. We were worried you’d let him drown.”
Krista slid in behind the bar, close enough that Joe caught a hint of her perfume. It was the same vanilla and citrus scent that clung to her room—and now to his thoughts.
She brushed past him to reset the espresso machine with a practiced tap and flick. Her shoulder grazed his chest as she moved, a brief, electric contact.
They fell into step without even talking about it, with him wiping counters, refilling ice, handing off cups as she took orders, steaming milk, and keeping up a running line of banter with Mrs. Bishop’s crew and the milkshake-obsessed teens.
Joe found himself weirdly unflustered now that she was next to him. For every hesitation or tricky order, Krista surged forward with quick hands and quicker instincts, calling drink names over her shoulder and bumping hips with him when they both reached for the same space.
More than once, their fingers brushed over a cup or the honey bottle, a little spark skittering up his arm each time. She didn’t pull away fast enough for it to feel accidental.
It was like something between them finally snapped into place. He was calm, steady, working in the background, while she handled the machine, the orders, the small talk. It felt less like survival and more like a dance.
Mrs. Bishop watched them like they were a televised competition. “Oh, they’re good,” she whispered to Mrs. C. “Look at that form.”
“Solid teamwork,” Mrs. C. agreed. “I give them an A minus.”
Joe caught Krista’s eye and mouthed, “A minus?”
She tried not to laugh, but failed magnificently.
Somehow, in a little over an hour, the Hideaway no longer looked like a disaster movie. It looked like they knew exactly what they were doing. Together.
Joe exhaled, leaning on the counter. “Did we…did we win?”
Krista grinned. “Not yet. We still have golden hour cocktails about to start. Why don’t you whip me up a Hot Honey Margarita?”
Mrs. Bishop perked up. “Yes! The true test!”
Joe squared his shoulders like a man preparing for battle. “Alright. One Hot Honey Margarita, coming up.”
Krista stepped back as if to give him room while Joe got to work.
When he tipped the shaker to pour, the liquid flowed in a clean, steady arc, filling the glass in one smooth line. For a second, the bar went quiet.
Mrs. C. leaned forward on her stool. “Oh my word…”
Mrs. Bishop let out a dramatic gasp. “He did it.”
Krista picked up the drink and turned it slowly, studying the color, the froth at the top, the salted rim. Joe held his breath.
“It’s perfect,” she said at last.
Relief rushed through him so fast he almost laughed.
The whole place seemed to exhale with him. The teenagers at the end of the counter whooped. Mrs. Bishop started clapping like the parade had just gone by. Mrs. C. dabbed at the corner of her eye with a napkin, as if he’d just graduated from some intense bartender academy.
Joe let out a breathless laugh, tension finally sliding from his shoulders. “Did I pass?” he asked.
“With flying colors.” She grinned.
Elsie’s high heels clicking on the deck boards introduced her before she rounded the corner of the bar, already holding her phone up.
“Oh my God ,” she said, taking in the cheering crowd, the sticky counters, the Hot Honey Margarita in Krista’s hand. “Tell me I didn’t miss the grand finale.”
“You’re just in time,” Mrs. C. called from her stool. “Our boy here aced his exam.”
Elsie beelined for the bar. “Perfect.” She slid onto a stool, propped her elbows on the counter, and angled her phone. “Smile, Summer Swap stars.”
Joe barely had time to straighten before she snapped a photo of him and Krista, glasses still raised.
“This,” Elsie declared, tapping rapidly at her screen, “is going on the town socials. Maple Falls Summer Swap, Day One: Honey Margarita Madness at the Hideaway…seeing as I can’t use any of your photos…”
“What?” Joe looked over at Krista.
Heat colored Krista’s cheeks. “I may have hit a button or two and all the photos look…”
“Brighter than the sun,” Elsie answered for her.
Joe chuckled. “Yeah, that can happen. Looks like you might need another lesson or two.”
“Perfect. We’ll make that the theme for tomorrow: Krista’s second chance.
People will love it. Just like they’re going to love these photos.
” Elsie didn’t wait, snapping a photo with her phone of Joe and Krista behind the bar.
“In two seconds half the town will know Joe survived his first shift. And they’ll be even more excited to help your”––she motioned to Krista––“grandparents by sponsoring the next task.”
Krista shook her head, but Joe didn’t miss the way her shoulders loosened, just a little.
“Congratulations,” Elsie added, lifting the drink Krista slid her way. “Summer Swap has officially begun. And tonight is your first official swap night! I want pictures. Lots of them! Promise?”
Krista shared a look with Joe. “Ah, yeah. Promise. ”
With Elsie off mingling with the other locals, Krista poured two more margaritas and handed one to Joe.
“To surviving my life,” she said, raising a toast to him.
Joe clinked his glass softly to hers, but didn’t pull away right away. His fingers brushed hers. His gaze caught and held hers. The look was intent, unhurried, and a little too intense for daylight. “Here’s to you, Queen Bee,” he murmured, voice rougher now.
The air between them stretched, something warm and electric settling in.
From a few stools down, Mrs. C. arched a brow over her lemonade. “Well, well,” she whispered to Mrs. Bishop, who fanned herself with a drink menu.
Joe didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and didn’t care.
Because it didn’t just feel like he’d survived a day in her life. It felt like he belonged here, beside her. In this small town where, despite himself, he found himself wishing he could put down roots.
This wasn’t his home. But it sure wasn’t going to be easy to leave…