Chapter 8 #2
Then I remembered all the probing questions he was firing off at poor Paige, and all traces of goodwill for Elliot vanished.
This inconvenient girl crush needs to die.
A charismatic jerk is still a jerk. Remember that!
Scribble it on a mirror with lipstick or tattoo it to your forehead if you have to: never fall for a guy who makes you out to be the bad guy.
And that was exactly what Elliot was trying to do… again.
Insinuating that I’d somehow coerced Paige into making coffee last night. Ridiculous!
Paige loves barista-ing, or else why would she run a cafe?
“Two honey lavender oat milk lattes,” I repeat back my customer’s massive order, “two caramel cappuccinos, one almond milk with extra caramel drizzle, one whole milk easy on the foam. Three honey buns, two at room temperature, one warmed. One gluten-free cranberry muffin. Anything else?”
“A turkey and cheese bagel sandwich,” the customer says. “Swiss instead of cheddar, please. And easy on the turkey. I think three slices should do it. Can you cut them thin? Like real thin?”
“We can do that.” I enter in her order and call over my shoulder, “You got that, Paige?”
No reply.
“Paige?”
I glance behind me. Paige has somehow been enveloped in a cloud of steam. She’s like a chicken running around with her head cut off, frothing milk and grinding coffee. When I mentioned cutting the turkey thin, I think she visibly groaned.
Is it me or does Paige actually not enjoy running the cafe?
But that’s impossible…
The Honey Latte Lounge is Paige’s pride and joy. Why run a cafe if you hate making coffee?
Clearly, Elliot’s planting seeds of doubt in my head.
I ring up the last customer’s order and help Paige in the kitchen.
We’re swamped with orders (some of them very specific), but nothing the two of us couldn’t handle.
Between growing up with parents who ran a successful chain of Chinese restaurants and bartending in college, I have a near photographic memory for drink orders and special food requests.
I take care of the sandwiches and pastries while Paige works the espresso machine.
By the time we served our last order, Paige was looking decidedly less miserable, albeit more disheveled.
As we’re wiping down the counters, Paige lowers her voice. “What’s really going on between you and Elliot?”
“We’re dating,” I say, unable to meet her eye.
“Are you?”
“Of course we are.”
“For how long?”
“Um… three weeks.” I sneak a glance at Elliot. He’s pretending to be on his phone, but is really watching the both of us. How do I know he’s pretending? There’s a tenseness to his shoulders and a faint tick in his jaw when he’s on high alert.
Paige doesn’t believe me. “But you two argue like an old married couple.”
Trust me, I’m beginning to feel like we’re an old married couple. “What can I say, Paige? The honeymoon’s over…”
The honeymoon hasn’t even begun and now it’s over.
“So you want to break up with him already?” she asks.
I study Elliot again. “Once he cures his impotence and I take him for a test drive, then we’ll see if he’s a keeper. Hey!” I say, laughing at Paige’s scandalized reaction, “I’m joking. Just joking.”
“Holly,” Paige nudges me over to the corner, “why does it feel like he was interrogating me about making coffee? You don’t think I had something to do with the poop under your Christmas tree, do you?”
“Of course not,” I reassure her. “Elliot just lives and breathes his work. In fact, he was one of the best insurance fraud investigators before he threw in the towel and started his P.I. firm. He’s suspicious of everyone. In fact, we’re all guilty until proven innocent in his eyes.”
“Did you hire him as a P.I. to investigate the poop?”
“No, no.” I shake my head adamantly. “He was the first person I told after I discovered it,” I scratch my nose, hoping I sound believable, “and he’s very protective of me, as a good boyfriend should. Inquires being his line of work, he naturally wants to catch who did it.”
Paige shivers. “I can’t imagine finding poop under my tree. I don’t know how you deal with it.”
“Believe me, I can’t deal with it. It’s a good thing I have Elliot looking out for me.”
Paige purses her lips. “So you and the detective.”
“Yes.”
We’re a cute fake couple, aren’t we? But let’s set the record straight here.
“Elliot’s not really a detective,” I add. “Never been a cop, remember? But insurance fraud investigator is just as exciting. It’s kind of like being a detective, except at a desk.”
Paige nods along with me. “He seems very good at his job.”
“Oh, he’s the best,” I say, though I don’t actually know. Elliot gives off a competent vibe. I bet he was not only the best damn insurance fraud investigator in the city, but he practically wrote the book on insurance fraud investigation.
“But he isn’t glued to his desk,” I add, feeling the need to convince myself. “He roams around. I mean,” I add with a curl of my lips, “he’s too hot to be chained to a desk.”
“Thank you,” says a familiar voice behind us, causing us both to yelp.
Unbeknownst to us, Elliot has roamed his way behind the counter.
“How long have you been standing there?” I ask, bracing a hand to my beating heart.
“I guess that’s for me to know,” he says, mouth twitching with amusement. “Paige, if you would be so kind…” He crouches down in front of the mini fridge beneath the espresso machine. “What kind of milk are you using to make your cappuccinos and lattes?”
“What does this have to do with anything?” I ask, annoyed.
Elliot gestures to my friend. “Paige?”
“The usual,” Paige frowns, blindsided by his question. “Whole milk, non-fat, oat, almond. Why?”
“Holly just got me a fancy new espresso maker and I’m trying to improve my coffee making skills.” Elliot picks up a container and holds it up to the light. “Interesting…”
Paige checks over her shoulder, looking meaningfully at me. Without saying it, I know what she’s thinking. Your new boyfriend is weird.
He is indeed. Fingers crossed there’s a method to his madness.
I shoot her an apologetic smile. “He’s putting together a home cafe.”
“Paige,” Elliot frowns, “all these containers look so similar. How can you tell which milk is which?”
“They’re labeled,” Paige says.
He rotates a half-filled bottle up to the light and squints. “Where?”
“On the cap.”
“Ah,” he says, “there it is. This one’s rubbed off.”
“That’s fine,” she says. “I can still tell it’s almond milk.”
“Do you ever get the milks mixed up?” Elliot asks, setting down the almond milk and picking up another bottle. “During a morning rush, do you ever switch the caps and make a whole milk latte when someone ordered an oat milk latte?”
“I-I suppose it can happen, but I know this work station like the back of my hand. I have a system. I’ll never mix up someone’s order. The consequences could be disastrous.”
“How so?” Elliot asks.
“Furious customers, for one,” Paige says. “And it’s bad for business if I served whole milk to someone who’s lactose intolerant.”
Like Jen…
My sister, who was locked in the bathroom all night. I wave frantically at Elliot behind Paige’s back. He ignores my attempts to nab his attention and resumes grilling Paige.
“Wouldn’t it be easier if you just kept your milks in their original cartons?” Elliot asks.
Paige sighs. “It would be a lot easier.”
“So why don’t you?”
She sneaks a guilty glance at me.
Wait. Why is she looking at me for?
Instead of answering his question, Paige shrugs. “Someone suggested that my cafe would be more ‘aesthetically’ pleasing if I decant the milks into uniformed containers.”
“I see,” Elliot says. “But these uniformed containers make your job a little more difficult, don’t they? Now you have to have a system to distinguish the milks if the caps are mixed up. What is your system, Paige?”
“I set the plant-based milks here when I’m working,” Paige points to the right of the espresso machine, “and the whole milk goes here. To the left.”
“Ah… so I see.” Elliot studies the espresso machine. “This machine looks exactly like the one Holly bought me,” he smiles sweetly at me, “Thanks, babe.”
“No problem,” I say, frowning. “I have the same one at home. I can’t recommend them enough.”
“Oh?” He tilts his head, surprised. “Did you recommend this same model to Paige when she opened up her cafe?”
“She bought it for me,” Paige says, her eyes downcast. “To help me start up the business.”
I’m a little taken aback by the dissonance in Paige’s tone when she said that. She’s already thanked me profusely when I surprised her with the espresso machine and even refused to accept it.
Every time I come into the cafe and compliment the machine, she’d blush and say, ‘I’ll pay you back.’ She’s been trying to pay me back for three years. It must make her feel better to say it, but I sure as hell won’t accept it.
“It’s a gift.” I’d reminded her repeatedly. “You deserve it.”
But something in her tone today almost sounds… resentful.
“Wow,” Elliot leans over and whispers in my ear, “you are generous. This is a fifteen grand machine.”
“I don’t really like to talk about money,” I whisper back. “Besides, the perfect cup of coffee is priceless.”
“I didn’t know I was dating a sugar mama,” he says.
“Oh shut up, I’m hardly anyone’s sugar mama.”
“So, Paige,” Elliot straightens up, “I happen to notice the same ‘aesthetic’ milk containers at Holly’s home cafe. Did you bring them with you when she assigned you to make coffee for her guests?”
“They belong to me,” I say.
Elliot is bemused. “Did you buy these milk containers for her, too?”
“Well, I… it was a great many years ago. I might have recommended these containers since they fit so well with the interior design.”
The door swings open and another pack of customers pile in.
Elliot glances at his wrist watch. “We’d better get out of your way,” he says. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Paige.”
Paige nods. “And you.”
“Lunch on Wednesday?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says, already taking her first order.
He crooks his elbow at me and I loop my arms through his. As we’re halfway out the door, Elliot halts and calls back, “Paige! What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue,” she answers absentmindedly.
“Thank you.” Elliot glances around the glaringly yellow cafe. “Blue,” he says, looking pointedly at me. “Blue.”