by Amelia Wilde
Great.
The man who was wearing the red shirt yesterday joins Morris at the microphone. “We’d like to start a petition for the removal of The Coffee Spot on the grounds—pun intended—that this business will hurt our economy.” He laughs at his own joke.
A loud gaveling cuts him off. The mayor—it has to be the mayor—is furiously banging wood on wood. “Gentlemen,” he says, then again, louder. “Gentlemen. This is absolutely absurd.”
I want to shout thank you but I bite my tongue.
“You can’t protest a business on the grounds that you don’t like the fact that they’ve taken over some real estate. That’s not how the rules work, and you know it perfectly well. Walt, if you have some other issue, save it for your letters to the editor.”
Walt, who today is wearing a green shirt, frowns and slinks back to his seat in the first row. Grumbling ensues.
“Are there any other public comments?” the mayor asks.
I’m out of my seat before I have time to think. Straight to the front of the room. Straight to the microphone. I lean in, trying to catch everyone’s eyes and mostly failing.
“Your name, sir?” asks the Mayor.
“Dash Huxley,” I say, slowly, making sure they’ve all got it. “I own The Coffee Spot.” I drop my voice to a menacing level. “And anyone who has a problem with it”—they’re hanging on my every word. A tingle runs up and down my spine. This is my moment. This moment, right now, will determine everything else.—“can come in tomorrow for a complimentary coffee. Give it a chance. I have a daughter.”
“Me, too!” cries a guy in the back, and a pocket of women around him applaud.
I give them all a crisp nod and get the hell out of there.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Ellery
Come over.
That’s all the message says, and it comes it at ten o’clock, when I’m frankly already in my pajamas and nestled in with a sitcom on Netflix. But Dash’s name on the phone has me scrambling for a pair of jeans and a top as soon as I read the words.
I don’t bother replying. I grab my phone, shove it into my purse, and head for my car. I make it to his place in less than ten minutes.
I knock softly at the door and pull my phone out in case he doesn’t hear. The evening coolness paws my neck under my hair while I wait. The door opens a few moments later revealing Dash, who is still looking at his own screen.
“You look confused,” I say softly. His daughter has to be asleep. I’m not going to be the one who wakes her up. Even from outside, I can tell that a nighttime stillness has settled over his house. If we fuck, it’ll have to be quiet. I could get on board with that mood.
“You didn’t write back.”
“I live in Lakewood. It was quicker to drive over.”
He cracks a smile, but there’s a tension around his eyes that sends a bolt of nervousness straight through my chest. “Want to come in?”
I give him a slow nod.
Dash steps out of the way.
Once I’m all the way in the house he closes the door tightly behind us and flips the lock. He takes one deep breath, then steps in close, sliding his hand around the back of my head like we’ve been doing this forever. Have we not been doing this forever? I wouldn’t mind if we had.
He kisses me so long it takes my breath away. Finally I have to surface, gasping for a breath. “Whoa,” I say, pushing him back an inch to get first dibs on the oxygen in the room. “What’s going on?”
Dash looks down at me. “Do you want to go for a swim?”
“What? I’m getting whiplash. Swimming?”
“Swimming,” he repeats. “I want to be in the water. With you.”
“I don’t have a bathing suit.”
The grin that spreads across his face is slow and sultry. “You don’t need a bathing suit.”
A thrill runs over my shoulders and down to my fingertips. “You have a dirty mind.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
He grabs a baby monitor and his phone, then disappears into the bathroom, returning with two beach towels. One of them has Mickey Mouse on it in repeating patterns. “Hot,” I tell him.
“Damn right,” he says, and ushers me out into the night.
For once in my life, I don’t feel completely creeped out. But I do put my hand into Dash’s. Can you blame me? No, you can’t.
He leads me to the beach. “Are you sure about this?” The cottages on either side of the property seem awfully close. Couldn’t we get arrested? I like being naked with Dash more than most things in the world, but this might be more of a risk than I’m willing to take.
Dash ends that argument with a kiss. And not just any kiss. A hard kiss. A long kiss. His hands slide down over my waist, over my hips, and he hooks his fingers into the waistband of my jeans, tugging them down to my thighs. When he reaches between my legs, I push away with a gasp.
“I’m sure,” Dash says with a low laugh that skips over the surface of the water. Then he whips his own shirt off, drops his shorts and boxers, and strides into the water.
“Challenge accepted,” I call after him. It takes me a minute longer because I have to fumble my jeans off, plus my bra, and he’s already waist deep by the time I stick my toes in, the night air caressing my nipples. Jesus, it feels good. It also feels terrifying. Any number of people could see my naked ass right now.
“Come on,” he says. “The water’s fine.”
“Fine?” My toes are cold as hell. “Why did you think this would be a good idea? This is freezing.”
“It’s warm once you’re in,” he says, dragging his hands over the surface. “Get in, Ellie. Then it won’t be so obvious.”
I cross my arms over my nipples. “I don’t care if it’s obvious to you,” I say, forcing myself to take another step in. The water rises halfway up my shins.
“Come to me,” he coaxes like I’m a nervous dog.
“I’m not a dog,” I tell him, and he laughs out loud.
“Trust me, I know.”
I keep my arms crossed tightly over my chest.
“You look gorgeous,” he says.
“I look cold.”
“You look fucking amazing.”
“Like, amazing enough that we could go back inside, get under the blankets, and—”
“Fuck?” Dash laughs again, so pleased with himself.
The water is up to my knees. I am a human goosebump. “This is torture.”
“This is true love,” he says, and an electric joy explodes out from my heart like the world’s brightest firework.
“What?” I sputter. We just had a conversation touching on this, and now he’s throwing around the L word? “Are you seriously—” I start moving faster out of pure shock, the water dragging me back. “Did you say that you love—” My foot catches on something on the lake bed, and I swear, it’s moving. A scream tears from my throat and I try to hop away but I’m pushing off against a mucky patch of sand. My ankle goes sideways. My legs go sideways. I go sideways with a strangled cry, my noooooo echoing across the dark water.
It’s not deep but I have to fight my way to the surface, a lungful of water burning in my throat. “Shit!” I yell, swiping at my eyes to clear the lake water. Dash’s laugh is loud and free.
“You fell in the water there, Ellie,” he says, doubling over.
“This is your fault.” Oh God it’s cold cold cold. It’s not better now that I’ve been unceremoniously dunked in the lake.
“Should have watched your step.”
I do the only proper thing in this situation. I summon the rest of my energy and run at him, tackling him for all I’m worth. He lets me win, falling underneath me into the lake with a splash. The second time, it’s a little warmer. But not much.
When we resurface, he sweeps me up into his arms and heads for the shore, still laughing. “You had a point.”
“What point?”
“About a bed. And blankets. Oh, hey,” he says, his arms st
iffening. “Your phone is ringing.” I’d put it into my pocket on the way out to the backyard and dropped it on top of the towels. He’s right—the screen is illuminated.
He takes his final steps out of the water and I grab for the phone, picking up a towel along with it.
The name on the caller ID makes my heart sink.
Aunt Lisa would never call this late.
Unless...
Chapter Thirty-Six
Dash
Opening day.
Opening fucking day.
This day has been weeks, months, in the making. It’s all coming together. Becoming something, out of the rubble. Finally.
I drop Rosie off early, still pink-cheeked and warm from sleep, and cruise downtown in the dark. There are a few cars lining the street, but I don’t park there. I go back behind The Coffee Spot like I always have.
I’m alone in the shop today. There are two applications slipped beneath the door when I get inside. They must have been dropped off yesterday. Yes. Even if I don’t hire them, this is vastly better than being completely shunned by all of Lakewood.
The lights are already on in Medium Roast by the time I get behind the counter. Dark figures move across the street, darting up toward the door—the regulars. They’re the ones who are always waiting for Ellie to get there. She’s illuminated like she’s onstage.
Something about the way she’s standing isn’t quite right. What is it? She seemed all right until that phone call came in. Then she’d beckoned for me to go inside, mouthing start the shower. So I had, and then stood there waiting for ten minutes. I turned it off. It was fifteen more minutes before she made an appearance, brushing off the call like it had been nothing.
When we went to bed, she curled away from me, backing up enough to touch me but holding herself far enough to signal that there would be no sex.
Which was fine. Completely fine. Strange, but fine. One step forward, two steps back. Isn’t that how it works in relationships? I swear, I’m not doubting this.
Not much, anyway.
No, I’m just nervous. It’s opening day for my business, I’m all by myself, and there are people lurking outside who’d love it very much if I failed. It’s not her I’m doubting.
But I do know how to make coffee. So that’s where I’ll start.
I open the bags of roasted beans, shipped direct from a supplier even further upstate than Lakewood is, and breathe in deep. They smell like possibility.
I take my time.
I measure them out, grind them into a cup, and put them into the filter. I slide the basket into the industrial machine and hit start.
The water drips through the filter...to nowhere, because I forgot to put a fucking carafe below it. How do I turn this thing off. “Nope. Nope, nope, nope.” Useless words tumble out of my mouth while I get the carafe out of the sanitizer and shove it underneath the drip.
No problem. I’ve got this.
I repeat the process—this time without any stupid mistakes—for the second carafe. The Coffee Spot has a lot more counter space than they do over at Medium Roast, which means the drip coffee will sit right at the end of the counter I’m going to be behind.
I grind some espresso beans.
I test out the portafilters, pulling the first few shots into shot glasses. So far, so good.
I pull a gallon of milk from the under-counter fridges and steam it. I nailed this technique in the class I took. I only fumble it a little bit on the first try—the knob on the espresso machine is different when it’s brand-new.
What the hell was I thinking, waiting until the grand opening to run these trials? I can’t throw open the doors right now. Instead, I take a deep breath and start running through the menu.
I make a cappuccino, a caramel latte, a macchiato. I make an iced latte next, then blend a mocha in the blender. I run everything through the sanitizer and start again.
Customers are coming steadily in and out of Medium Roast by the time I flip the switches on the signs and prop the door open, waiting for the first customers, my heart in my throat. There’s a chance nobody will show up here. There’s a chance Ellie’s regulars have ruined this before I even start.
A voice comes through the door, the sound bending on the glass. “Hey, look! It’s open.” A woman comes into view wearing a big sunhat, trailing a husband and two teens along with her. “Let’s try it.”
The Family of Sullen Teens breaks the seal on The Coffee Spot, and after that, it’s customer after customer.
Every one of them is a tourist.
I’m too busy making drinks to process what this means. It might not mean anything. It might mean that everyone who lives in Lakewood is running on autopilot. They might need another nudge to try this place out. It might take them more time to see it. They’re not looking with fresh eyes.
Whatever it means, the tourists seem to be talking to each other. By noon they’re coming in groups. A line forms at the counter then goes out the door.
An answering crowd gathers across the street.
There’s no sign—whatever Ellie said to them must still be in effect—but badass Walt stands at the curb with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring in the direction of The Coffee Spot.
I don’t have time to glare back.
I get lost in the rhythm of pulling shots, steaming milk, letting it swirl together in the to-go cups. Brewing more drip coffee. Opening more gallons of milk. People come in, people go out, all of them talking about the new place.
It feels strange, to work like this. Investment banking was nothing like this. There was no space for mindless motion. Friendly chatter was limited to the water cooler.
“Aren’t you handsome,” crows an older lady who wants a cup full of steamed milk and nothing else. She winks at me. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
The next time I have time to look across the street, Walt is still there, still glaring. There are people camped out at the tables in front of Medium Roast. Let them camp. I don’t care.
The hours slip away into the afternoon. Around four I see the sign in Medium Roast’s window go off. It’s like an alarm clock ringing. It’s like that same clock is shouting enough, enough.
Pretty fucking good for a first day. I have a register full of cash, enough supplies to get through tomorrow and the next few days without a problem, and Ellie, right across the street.
I’m cleaning up, wiping everything down, when she appears at the side door. A soft knock. Timid.
As soon as I see her face, I know. This is not good.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Ellery
Dash’s face lights up with a smile, but it falls away as quickly as it came. “Ellie...” He steps back to let me in.
It smells different in The Coffee Spot. It smells like a real, functioning coffee shop, but with notes of fresh paint. Dash looks slightly dazed. “Did you send them home?”
“Who?” He’s got a rag in his hands and heads back toward the front counter to finish wiping it down.
“Your people,” I say, looking for any sign of the college kids he has to have hired already. He has hired people already, hasn’t he? With all this nice remodeling, he can’t have let staff members fall by the wayside.
“Not yet,” he says, rinsing out the rag in the still-gleaming sink. He tosses it into a basket underneath the counter—God, that is a classy basket—and washes his hands. “I got a couple of applications, but I ran out of time to call back. Once I’m done cleaning up, I will.” There’s a strange, distant tone to his voice as if he’s been underwater for a long time. Time to resurface. I know that feeling. You can get into the groove of making drinks, of trying not to burn the hell out of yourself, of talking down people who get intense about things like foam and drizzle, and when the end of the day comes you don’t know quite where you’ve spent it.
“Wow.” I’m having to talk around the lump in my throat. “I figured you’d have people.”
“I didn’t think of it,” he says, and the
n bends down to the sanitizer. He pulls out blender parts and a few stray mugs and puts them carefully back into their places.
I came here to say something.
I don’t want to say it.
Last night, my phone rang on the beach. I picked it up. It was Aunt Lisa, her voice trembling, stretched to the breaking point.
“Ellie, why didn’t you tell me?” Those were the first words out of her mouth after I said hello.
I froze. Which thing was she talking about? The protest sign? Dash? Something to do with my dad’s farm? I didn’t have any updates on the farm, or myself, really, other than Dash. “What do you mean?”
She’d sighed heavily, exasperated. I’d raised a hand and waved Dash into the house for the shower. It’s not like Lisa to be so down, so easily irritated. “You didn’t tell me that a new shop is opening right across the street. That would have been good information to know.” Her tone was sharp. It made me feel fucking stupid. I hated it.
“It shouldn’t change the day-to-day at Medium Roast.” I tried to keep things upbeat. “A lot of the regulars—”
“I’ve heard about what the regulars have been up to, Ellie, and I can’t believe you tried to interfere.”
“It was one of the crazier things I’ve seen since—what?”
“What people do on a public sidewalk is not up to us.” Her voice shook, and for the first time it hit me—she was angry, not sad. “If they want to defend our business, you need to let them.”
“The sign was a little much, and—”
“What do you not understand?” Her voice had dropped to a deadly quiet. “Tell me, Ellie. Are you not getting it? We can’t afford to lose customers to another shop. If they want to stir the pot a little, let them. You focus on your job. Nothing else.”