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

3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Zara

I ’m thirty feet deep into the rabbit hole, and it’s the most wonderful place in the world to be. It’s nearly two o’clock in the afternoon. I’ve already wrapped up my assigned tasks from my nine to five. Which means I get to use the rest of the day to design to my heart’s content.

Today, I’m sketching out designs for stylish women’s boots. Tall, fashion-forward boots worn by stylistic gen-zers strutting down the sidewalks of New York or Chicago. My fingers swipe across the secret pocket I’ve designed on the outer top part of the boot, a perfect place to hide a lipstick case while wearing that deadly, dangerously short flare dress with no pockets.

The design is a perfect complement to our City Nights collection. It has been five years since the collection last had a major makeover. Sales peaked years ago, but the management team doesn’t want to take any risks with a line that’s still profitable.

No risk, no reward.

I let my mind wander. The constant dream of having the autonomy to run a complete line nourishes my soul and refills my cup.

“I’m totally going to wear that!” A familiar voice floats over my right shoulder, extracting a cheerful smile. “I’ll trade you this for it.” A to-go cup appears next to my keyboard, and I turn to face my younger sister Stacy.

“How did you find me?” I joke. Stacy goes to college two towns over and regularly pops into the café during the week when she finishes class and gets bored.

“Michael sent me.” She gives me a reverse bear hug, and I take the squeeze, inhaling her comforting vanilla scent. She slips into the seat next to me, leaning forward. “He wanted me to double-check that you haven’t hired a professional assassin to eliminate him.”

“I hadn’t considered the option, but thank him for the suggestion.” I point to the dented ginormous head sitting in the chair across from me. “I’ve only practiced my roundhouse kicks imagining that was his head.”

Stacy pushes the microbraids hanging in front of her face, her gorgeous dark eyes popping, and her lips pursing when she takes in the damaged head. “You serious?” She leaps from her chair and inspects the damage while I do the same of her. She’s wearing a tight rainbow tank top I designed for her senior year of high school. It warms my heart every time I see her still wearing it three years later. She’s wearing her spray-painted-on beige barely there biker shorts which causes Papa to fake having a heart attack every time he sees her in them.

“Where’s your helmet?” If she’s wearing the shorts, it means she biked over from school.

She waves her hand toward the window. “On the bike, Mom.” She needles my protectiveness, and I don’t mind one bit. “For reals, tell me what happened to Mister Magic?” Stacy refers to my design as if it’s a person.

I push out a breath and close my laptop. Time to face the giant elephant head in the room. Two months ago, Stacy blindsided me. Her college roommate’s father purchased a professional men’s volleyball team near Anaheim. Yes, it’s a thing. As part of the takeover, he’s revamping everything from their logo, social media accounts, down to their uniforms and mascot. Because my sister is adorable, and no one can say no to her, she somehow got me on the short list of designers pitching to this millionaire.

“I only have one mascot suit. It fits Michael perfectly. He knew that. Yet he’s decided to skip town and run off to Arizona to chase the girl of his dreams, leaving me high and dry,” I state the obvious. None of this is new to Stacy. She’s all hearts and moons, and I’m sure she had her hand in pushing Michael to rush to the airport to win Grace’s heart like some cheesy rom-com movie.

The image causes a smile to flash across my face. I adore Michael and wish I could have witnessed it.

“So, you decided to put a hole in Michael’s head? Newsflash, that’s not his real head.”

“I wish.” I wave a hand toward the counter. “Just a café accident with the new barista.”

My sister lifts the straw to her lips and looks up at Devon. “He’s cute. I guess that explains why you’re seated on this side of the table rather than working at the window counter spot that practically has your name engraved.”

My pulse races when I hear her words. She’s right. I hadn’t realized it until she said it. I always grab the same, highly coveted high stools by the large café window. I’d set my laptop on the bar countertop and steal glances at people coming and going. In my head, I’d build backstories for them and design new outfits for their lives. The busy mom crossing paths with the PTA president at school drop off and can’t show up in her ratty PJ’s, opting for a comfortable yet stylistic athleisure outfit. The man who rakes the leaves for their elderly neighbor’s driveway before heading to work, wearing breathable cotton stretch business casual slacks that can be paired with a matching blazer for the afterwork cocktail hour.

But I didn’t do any of that today. I knew when I entered the café the most interesting thing I would see would be Devon, so I sat at a table that gave me a direct line of sight to his movements and by doing so, I monopolized a café table meant for four people—Mrs. Whitehead will forgive me.

Stacy’s face scrunches with disgust, the same look she had the first time she chewed black licorice. “What the holy heck?” She stares at her Arnold Palmer as if it contains poison. Devon strikes again.

“Enjoy the Devon show while you can.” I point to the clueless barista, then at her drink. “He won’t last long.”

She slams the drink on the table. “It’s ice, tea, and lemonade. How do you mess that up?”

I lift my backpack from underneath the table and unzip it, holding back the flap so she can see inside. “I met an UberEats driver in the alley around the corner for these bad boys.” I point to the three bottles of Doctor Pepper in my bag. “I felt like I was making a drug deal. Devon may have personally cured me of my latte addiction forever.”

“And no one’s told him how bad he is?” Stacy grabs a soft drink and pops it open in full view.

“Chill,” I say, my eyes ping ponging in Devon’s direction. Luckily, he’s busy with a customer. I grab the drink she brought me. “Take this to the bathroom, pour it out, and fill it with the soda.” I tap on my drink. “That’s what I’ve been doing.”

“Ridiculous,” she mutters and stands. She takes two steps before pausing. I rise to my feet because I’ve seen this look on her face before. She spins toward me. “He’s the one who damaged Mr. Magic?”

I don’t know where she’s going with her question, but I can tell by the tone of her voice, it’s not a place I should follow.

“And you’ve been paying good money all day for lattes you can’t drink?”

“To be fair, he’s given me his employee discount.”

“But you still put twenty dollars in the tip jar?” I nod. She’s aware of my routine. My daily contribution to the tip jar, to offset the fact that I’m taking up space in the café all day.

She marches to the giant head and scoops it under her arm. “I can’t believe you haven’t spoken up.” I’ve seen this version of Stacy. The I won’t be deterred version who speaks her mind. Stacy would never stand for a recurring unproductive Zoom call every morning. She would never sit quietly at a job for three years, waiting for a shot. “You coming?” Her question is a challenge, and I have no choice but to follow.

“Hey, you!” she shouts toward Devon, approaching the counter just as another customer steps away.

“You’re back already.” Devon gives my sister a sparkling smile. One that fades the moment he sees what she’s holding. His gaze finds me, a look of confusion on his face.

“You damaged my sister’s head. She’s too nice to say anything, but she’s been working on this for a month. You owe her.” If I didn’t know how much of a sweetheart Stacy could be, I’d be scared to death. Which is exactly the expression I read on Devon’s face.

“Of course.” His apologetic words do little to lower the fire in my sister’s eyes. She’s set him up perfectly. For what, I have no idea. “How much…”

“We don’t want your money. Based on how poorly you do your job, something tells me you’re going to need every cent you have.” Stacy speaks as if reading my mind.

“Wait, what?” Devon looks to me for clarification.

I give him a thumbs down symbol. “Your drink game is weak.” I feel bad piling on but if not now, when?

“Really?”

Stacy dismisses his question. “How tall are you?”

“Five eleven.” Devon recites his height as if an everyday inquiry. He looks as if he’s about to volunteer his weight, shoe size, and mother’s maiden name. And that’s when it hits me. How did I not see it earlier? Devon and Michael are about the same size. Height, weight, wingspan. A damn near match.

Stacy has done what she’s always done for me—kicked down a door I’ve been unwilling or unable to open. It’s my turn to do the rest.

“Devon,” I start, and I love how Stacy allows me to take the handoff, stepping back from the counter. “Come see me on your next break. I need your help, and I think I can help you too.”

His back straightens as if he’s assessing me. I want to say more, but I feel the eyes and ears in the café on us. I don’t enjoy being the center of attention. But my sister doesn’t have this issue.

“Dude, she’s propositioning you.” Stacy wraps an arm around my shoulder, pulling me away from the counter. “She’ll be right over here, and the only answer we’ll accept is yes.”

I stumble backwards, my gaze locked on Devon to gauge his reaction.

Uncertainty floods his face. I can only imagine what he’s thinking. His eyes find me and just like that, it fades away. His tongue swipes across his lower lip, before shooting a grin at my sister. “Pleasure meeting you, Zara’s sister. I’m Devon.”

“I know. What do you think Zara and I have been chatting about over there?”

“Stacy!” I scream, stepping out of her hug and smacking her forearm. Thank goodness for my black girl magic skin. Devon will never notice the blush forming on my face.

His chuckle causes Stacy to giggle. “Nice meeting you, Stacy,” he says with a gentle kindness that disarms my concerns “Hey, Zara?”

I nibble on my lower lip; it’s the closest I get to flirting.

He points to Mr. Magic. “I’ll head over shortly.”

Stacy tugs me by my wrist before I can respond, giggling and leaning close. “This café just became so much more interesting.”

And once again, I realize my sister is right. So, so right.