Grounds for Romance (The Coffee Loft Series: Fall Collection)

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Devon

“ I ’m going to look like a fool!” I shout at my phone, tethered to the dashboard of my car. I’m sitting in the parking lot of a small coffee shop, about to do something I have no business doing. Why? Because of my agent of three years, Marvin Yonders, who stares at me on the screen as if I’m acting out—because I am.

“Don’t be so dramatic. Oh wait, never mind; that’s your job.” Marvin doesn’t give in to my anxiety; he never does. He’s been down this road a million times with other clients. Thirty years in Hollywood, working with young, nervous actors. I’m not the first to have a meltdown on the phone with him.

“Terrific, I’m freaking out, and you’re doing standup. What time do you take the stage at the Laugh Factory?” I turn off the engine and take a deep breath, the crisp mountain air filling my lungs. As I step out of the car, I glance up at the wooden sign, slightly weathered, swinging in the crisp fall breeze. Coffee Loft East. The name is familiar, so is the distinctive font—it’s plastered on billboards across southern California. The Coffee Loft is a quickly expanding franchise I haven’t spent any time in. I’m not a coffee drinker, which is ironic given the task ahead of me.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I mutter the words to myself, forgetting Marvin is on the line.

“It’ll make a great origin story one day. Trust me, there’s a method to her madness.” He reminds me of my assignment. A ridiculous task which I’m still trying to wrap my head around. “Look for the owner, Mrs. Alice Whitehead. She’ll get you up to speed.”

I slam the car door and pause, taking in the view. I’m in Crestline, California, a small, quaint town nestled in the San Bernardino Mountains. It’s less than a two-hour drive from the relentless grind of Hollywood, but it might as well be a different planet. Here, there’s no flash, no “ have your people call my people” nonsense. I’ve been here twenty seconds and already feel my pulse slowing and a desire to leave my car unlocked.

The mountains provide a majestic backdrop, which I compare to a Hollywood set I visited last month. I really need to spend more time in the real world.

“This is going to be the longest week of my life.” I remind myself of the commitment Marvin forced me into. One week of my time for a chance at the biggest break in my career. Last month, I auditioned for what I thought was a bit role as a barista in what was pitched as a straight to streaming service movie that is being produced in abundance these days. These types of movies help cover the studio’s overhead and fill the voracious appetite of viewers who demand new content. I guess that’s the reason I didn’t take notice of the three security checkpoints or the two-way glass in the audition room. I had never taken an audition with such little prep in my career.

Marvin’s advice when he sent it to me, Just walk in and follow your instinct. Stop overthinking things.

The next day, Marvin calls with the news. The real news. I’ve won the role, and the director of the project is none other than Hollywood royalty, Elliot Reminger, one of the top directors in the industry. My fortunes changed overnight.

A rushed contract for me to sign with no specifics other than Elliot’s name, my role as a barista, and more money than I’ve earned in my last seven projects combined. Marvin worked his extensive network, finding out details Elliot thought were well-hidden, and I signed immediately. I should have read the fine print.

As I walk between cars in the parking lot, the scent of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the piney aroma from the tree-lined sidewalk. I can’t help but feel a flicker of excitement. Maybe this is exactly what I need, to approach things differently, but what they want me to do is a tall order, pun totally intended. “I don’t even drink coffee, and I’m not clumsy. I was on my high school gymnastics team.”

After signing, the studio shared a few additional details, some of which Marvin had already uncovered, others not so much. The tiny barista role is actually a supporting role to the main characters in the movie. Part wise sage and part slapstick comic relief. Between spewing life-changing advice, I’ll be spilling drinks, breaking dishes, and creating chaos, hence my concern. But, as Marvin reminds me, none of it matters because the female lead in the movie is the one and only Xenia. The Hollywood hermit who only goes by one name and picks one project every five years like a groundhog with the Midas touch.

Like every movie Xenia has been involved in, it’s covered in secrecy, misdirection, and mixed messages. Everyone tolerates it because of her track record. Five for five. Box office smashes. Five out of five, Oscar wins for Best Picture. She always fills her cast with up-and-coming unknowns whose careers have all skyrocketed afterwards. That’s for all the ones who survive.

“The menu is your script,” Marvin reminds me of my mission. The one he devised after speaking to ten different actors who have worked with Xenia in the past. “She’s a staunch believer in method acting. She immerses herself in every role, and the best way to succeed is to follow her lead. For the next week, until the production kicks off, you’re no longer Devon Alexander, struggling actor, but Devon Alexander, barista extraordinaire. Your job is to master the role of charming but bumbling barista. No one other than the owner of the shop can find out you’re an actor. It’s part of how Xenia works.”

My feet halt next to a pickup truck filled with pumpkins and bales of hay, and I imagine it filled with kids in Halloween costumes, high on sugary treats, laughing at a full moon. “No one can find out why you’re there. If they do, and she or her people find out, she’ll fire you. She demands secrecy. At least two actors have warned me that chances are she’s offered the role to at least three actors, so she has a backup ready to go, but the part is yours to lose. So, keep your lips sealed.”

I hear the excitement in Marvin’s voice. He’s been in this business for thirty years. I know he’s looking at an exit strategy and me landing a role in a Xenia project just might be the rocket fuel I need for my career but could be the perfect capper for his.

“Shut tight.” I pinch two fingers across my lips and toss away the keys.

“Perfect. Observe everything.” Marvin shifts his advice from sales mode to the practical. “The smallest detail may make the difference. Trust your instinct. Trust your training. Let all those wasted months of improv finally pay off. A year from now, we’ll be sitting in the audience at some fancy auditorium, and they’ll be calling your name for an award.” He pauses, knowing my mind will race to the same image he’s painted for me. Us sitting in the Shrine Auditorium, Jimmy Kimmel hosting, and Scarlett Johannson tearing open an envelope and calling my name.

“One final warning, and I’m not sure I should tell this one. I don’t want you to freak out.”

And just like that, my anxiety returns. “You know you can’t mention it without telling me. What?”

“Don’t lose it…”

“Okay, but by you saying that tells me you expect me to, and I’m guessing there’s a good reason. Out with it.”

“This role is too important to half-step. I’ve told the owner of the shop to toss everything at you. She’s clearing her shop schedule to have you work by yourself as much as possible. It’s costing me a pretty penny, so make the most of it.”

My fingers squeeze the backpack handle tight, my anxiety building. “Are you setting me up to fail?”

“It’s the opposite. I know you, Devon. You’re a let me study how others operate, and I’ll practice by myself all night type. I have no question about your dedication or your ability to learn. This is the opposite. I need you to jump out the plane without thinking and figure things out on your way to the ground.”

“Your method is going to have me in a chalk outline on the ground.”

His chuckle puts me on edge. “If you’re doing method acting the right way, if you fail, there won’t be enough of you left to draw a chalk outline.”

I pick a straw of hay and grind it between my nervous teeth. “Your argument isn’t as compelling as you think it might be.” I’m a red bull and Gatorade drinker. I studied the Coffee Loft website last night. It was like reading a foreign language. I understand America is shifting away from the hot water and instant coffee of my grandparents’ generation, but this all feels like a massive overcorrection. The YouTube video of the knockoff version of one of their most popular drinks has eight ingredients and takes thirteen steps to concoct. So, yes, my plan today was to hang in the background and watch my co-workers. It was the perfect plan until my agent decided to toss me into the deep end with a backpack filled with weights.

“Stay out of your head. Don’t overthink things. That’s how you nailed the audition. Relax, have fun, and let your talent shine.”

I nod. It’s a speech he’s given me a hundred times. One I know I’ll need to hear a hundred times more. I’m not built that way. I need information. Lots of it. That’s my security blanket because it’s one of the few things that tamper down my anxiety. It’s why I’ve purposefully gone out of my way to take every random class I could find. Everything from clown college—yes, it’s a thing—to underwater basketweaving—okay, I did make that one up, but you get it. I have range. “I’ll try,” I mutter.

“No try, do,” he delivers Yoda’s famous line like the wise mentor he is. “And kid, next time I see you can you bring me something?”

I ignore him calling me kid. I’m twenty-seven years old, but I guess when you’re pushing sixty, anyone under forty seems like a kid to you. “Sure, Marv, what can I get you?”

“Medium, skim milk, two sugars.” Marvin’s laughter is the send-off I need.

“Sure, and thanks to this ridiculous assignment I’ll make sure to spill it in your lap.” Marvin shoots his signature peace sign before disconnecting. It’s his signal to let me know I have everything I need to succeed if I just trust my instinct.

I slip the phone in my back pocket and step onto the curb outside the café.

“I’m going to kill you.” A stressed female voice startles me, and I make the mistake of turning toward it. A giant sky-blue ball of some sort heads right for me. Dark black eyes the size of fists close the distance. “No, no, no.”

I hear the woman’s scream, but all I see is Indiana Jones about to be steamrolled by a boulder and in this picture, I’m playing the part of Indiana. I react on pure instinct.

I spin, twisting my hip, my left foot lifting parallel to the ground—a picture-perfect, Ralph-Macchio-approved sidekick. Crisis averted. I fight the urge to dial my mom and tell her those three years of karate when I was seven years old have finally paid off. Instead, I push back my shoulders and strike a superhero pose. I’m totally ready for the next Avenger’s movie. I wait for the applause, and all I receive is a harsh shove.

A frazzled woman pushes past me, racing toward the dented giant head rolling on the concrete. She lowers the phone in her hand to the ground, knee next to it, scooping up the head in both hands as if it’s the long-lost treasure Jack Sparrow sought. Her shoulders droop, and my anxiety kicks in.

“Shut up.”

My feet halt, and a shiver races through my body. The head is part of a costume of some sort. A mascot head that you’d expect at a sporting event. That’s without the giant dent caused by my kick. I fear I’ve destroyed this woman’s hard work.

She remains lowered to the ground, her back to me. “You’re dead to me. I can’t believe you did this.”

She doesn’t turn to face me, and guilt floods my veins. “I’m sorry.” My soft whisper prompts me to approach the woman. She’s African American, the sun sparkles off the hairspray in her perfectly coifed afro. She’s wearing tight designer yoga pants I’ve seen worn by models and actresses up and down Ventura Boulevard. But her colorful top is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Gold and black stripes on sleeves that don’t quite reach her wrists, an intricate hash of purple and green lines across the back.

“Zara, I’m sorry. I had no choice.” A strange male voice floats up from the ground. Her phone. She wasn’t talking to me this entire time.

She lifts a finger, twisting over her shoulder, holding it in front of me, hold on. It’s the briefest of glances, but it upsets my world nevertheless. Midnight electric eyes filled with an exciting history twists my anxiety into something warm.

“Your timing sucks. I’m going to remain pissed at you for another forty-eight hours. But I’ll fast forward for thirty seconds and give you a glimpse of what future me will say then.” She pauses, lifting the phone in the palm of her hand. She pushes her shoulders back and waves her hand in front of her face like it’s a windshield wiper, clearing away rain. “I’ll always support you chasing your dreams. Remember it’s not the outcome but the journey. Be true to your heart. And if she doesn’t fall head over heels in love with you, it says more about her than you. You’re gold. Always will be.”

I tug the straps of my backpack, unsure of what to do. I feel like an uninvited guest to a private moment, and I take two small steps back, away from the conversation. She must sense my movement, as her manicured finger raises in my direction once again. I can’t tell whether it’s a gentle hold on for one more second move or a don’t go anywhere, I’m not done with you just yet finger. I pray for the former but fear it’s the latter.

My anxiety returns tenfold, and I spin to escape her orbit. I glance through the giant window of the Coffee Loft. Two women in jogging outfits sit at one of the tables, sipping and chatting. At the table next to them, a mother sits with a kid rocking in a stroller while she gobbles down a morning treat. The shop is calm and quiet, exactly what I need.

A rainbow of color reflects off the glass, and my eyes adjust to the woman behind me, rising to her feet, phone in hand. She takes two steps toward me.

“Now back to our regularly scheduled program. You suck! Next time I see you, I’m going to punch you so hard, you’ll forget whatever her name is.” She’s still on the phone, her brilliant grin giving away the true meaning behind her words.

Her smile is like a burst of sunshine on a cold, cloudy day. Bright, warm, welcoming. The type of radiant smile that makes you want to sign up, regardless of the cost, to get admitted into that special circle of people. She looks this way. She’s breathtaking. I can’t tear my eyes away from her reflection, each second that passes feeling like a stolen treasure. Her electric eyes are like twin stars in the night sky. Her button nose is adorably perfect, and the dimple on her right cheek—no, left, completes the picture-perfect image that should be on the giant screen.

“Love you,” she says, and I swear she’s staring directly at my reflection.

Her dimple dances at me, and my heart races. She’s full-on flirting with me, a stranger, and professing her love to me. I’m packing up my stuff and moving here. I clear my throat and can’t believe I’m about to spin and utter the words Love you, too. I take back every word I’ve ever said about those silly rom coms. This can happen. It’s happening to me. My mouth goes dry, my lips part, here goes—everything. Cue the orchestra.

“Call me when you get there.”

Wait, what? My wobbly feet go statue still. Where? I’m here, here already. Duh, she’s finishing her call with her friend. Not me.

She stares at the phone as if she’s about to redial but doesn’t. While she bends down to retrieve the giant head, I pick up my shattered ego. I twist to face her, unsure of how she’ll react.

Her gaze lingers for a moment, a look of introspection and inspection. I’m an actor; I’m used to people staring at me. Judging my performance. My kick was perfect. Even the Russian judge would approve.

She squeezes her phone and approaches. “You could have just caught it.” She nods toward the dented head underneath her arm. Gone is the irritation from her voice. If I’m not mistaken, I detect a hint of humor in her tone.

Humor, I can work with that. “You could have given me a better heads up than I’m going to kill you.”

The corners of her lips curl into a smirk. “Heads up—nice.”

I hadn’t realized what I said, and I burst into laughter. Her smirk transforms into that radiant smile, which I quickly memorize. This time, I’ve earned it. The air electrifies around us. Her dimple returns, and I make sure to note it’s on her right cheek. I point to the Coffee Loft. “I’m sure they have Tylenol in there, for massive headaches.”

She takes a stride toward the café entrance. “Jokes, Bruce Leroy has jokes.”

“No way. That was my dad’s…” I begin.

“Mine’s too. Berry Gordie was a god in my Nana’s house,” she finishes my thoughts. What are the odds I’d cross paths with someone familiar with the movie The Last Dragon . It was one of the cheesiest of cheesy Bruce Lee knock off movies from the 80s. This one was set in a California hood with the main character an African American kid named Bruce Leroy. It was produced by the head of Motown Records Berry Gordie.

She pauses next to me, and I inspect the damaged head. “I’m sorry. Devon.”

The smirk remains plastered on her face as she extends the pinkie of the hand holding her phone. “Well, sorry, Devon. I’m Zara, and I’m not sorry.”

I give her pinkie an awkward handshake that causes her to giggle. “I may know a shrink that can help fix your friend here.”

“Well, sorry, Devon, do you go by Mister Devon, or do you use your first name, Sorry?”

She’s teasing, but there’s a spark in her eyes that makes my heart skip a beat. Our gazes lock, and, in that moment, the world around us fades away. It’s as if I’ve known her forever, yet I’m seeing her for the first time. The connection is instant, electric, and undeniable. “Devon will do just fine.”

“Good, well then, Devon, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” She pauses, her eyes twinkling with mischief, waiting for me to catch her pun. I give her an exaggerated air clap, and her giggle is like music to my ears. “I’m a professional, I can fix him.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to slander your profession. Are you a psychiatrist?”

She shakes her head quickly. “Naw, I can’t even stay in my own head. Every thought I have seems to find its way out of my mouth. I’m a fashion designer.” She twists the giant head. “At least that’s what I tell myself most days.”

I hear a familiar doubt in her voice and want to ask but don’t.

“What about you? Kung Fu instructor?” Her smile is disarming, and I feel my defenses crumble.

“Nothing as exciting. I’m an…” Marvin’s voice screams in my head. No one must know what I do for a living. I turn away from Zara, unable to spill a lie to her face. I look at the entrance to the shop. “As of today, I’m a barista. I work here.” My voice quivers, and I wait to be called on it.

“Really? I didn’t know Mrs. Whitehead was hiring. I guess I’ll be seeing a lot of you then.”

I twist to face her, trying to decipher her words. “Bad coffee habit?” I try to keep it light.

“Worse. I’m one of those horrible people who camp out in a coffee shop all day, using the Wi-Fi.” She must read the confusion on my face. She adjusts the giant head under her arm. “I live a few blocks away. I technically work from home, but where’s the fun in that when inspiration and fascinating people are so close?”

“Shall we then?” I extend my hand to help her carry the head.

“You want to hold my head, Devon? Shouldn’t you buy a girl a drink first?”

I chuckle and take the head from her. “I think I can arrange that. Two words—employee discount.”

“I’m so going to take advantage of you…” She pauses, teasing the line like a promise. “…your discount. You have no idea what you’ve agreed to.”

We fall into a laugh. “I can’t wait to find out.” I twist the head, pointing the giant eyes in her direction. “I’ll keep my eyes on you.”

She lifts a hand to hide the silly grin, and my mind races ahead to what I can say next to keep her laughing. Gone is the anxiety I felt pulling up to the shop. Gone are the concerns Marvin placed on my shoulders. I hold the head in one hand and the door open for her with the other. “Let’s head in.”

She lowers her chin to her chest to hide her laugh, but not before I get to witness her dimple pop. “Head in—nice Bruce Leroy. Very nice indeed.”

I follow Zara into the café, my sentiment matching hers. Everything about meeting her has been just that—nice. I’m not in L.A., I’m in Crestline. The air is cleaner, the people friendlier, and the vibe… well, it’s something I could get used to. Maybe this assignment is exactly what I need. It’s already off to a fantastic start. All I have to do is trust my instinct.