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

4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Devon

“ H mmm,” Mrs. Whitehead’s tone puts me on alert. She’s scanning the register report of the day’s sales. My anxiety shoots up, and I glance across the café at Zara. She has her head down, sketching in a large artist’s notebook. Strong, confident strokes across the page, followed by her glaring at it as if it holds a secret which she alone can decipher.

I could watch her all day. And I have. She’s been here my entire shift. As much as my ego wants to claim it’s because of me, I know the truth. This is her daily routine; she’s told me as such. Her café remote home office.

“Okay, I guess.” Mrs. Whitehead rubs the back of her neck, and I hear the disappointment in her voice. “It’s not like Marvin didn’t warn me.”

I stuff my hands in my front pockets and wonder exactly what my agent said to convince Mrs. Whitehead to take on an inexperienced barista and let him operate with minimal support for most of the day. I’m no business owner, but even I wouldn’t allow me to operate untethered.

Your drink game is weak. Zara’s words ricochet in my head, and I try to remember why I’m here. I’m an actor, and this is the role. The drinks are supposed to suck, even if the look of disappointment on people’s faces pushes me to the brink of shouting the truth. I need to embrace the character persona. A clumsy, not too bright, unqualified barista. I’ve even swapped many of the ingredients from their organized labeled shelves to have an explanation locked and loaded if challenged. My practiced look of confusion on my face— I followed the recipe.

This is a role. An assignment. One I desperately must ace as my time is running out. Each year, when I don’t hit it big, I move. When I first arrived in L.A. with Hollywood dreams, I selected a nice one-bedroom apartment near the major studios. It was pricey and immediately burned a hole in my life savings, but I believed in myself. How long could it take to land a leading role?

And every year, when I wasn’t deemed the next star of young Hollywood, I would move. Downscaled my apartment, moved a little further from the studios to save money. The trickle of income I have now is barely enough to afford even a studio apartment in La Brea. I now live according to the real estate listing, an hour away from the studios, which in the LA space time continuum, means it can take up to three hours to reach with traffic. Hollywood executives commute faster on planes from San Francisco. I can’t lose this part, or I’ll be commuting from Nevada next.

Method acting is all about believing. I’ve done my homework. I’m supposed to live and breathe the character. I need to stop thinking like myself and embrace the role. “Better days ahead. Guaranteed.” That’s what the clueless barista would say. He’d maintain his rose-colored glasses and remain steadfast. “If I smashed it the first day, I’d have nowhere to go but down. Fifteen, right?” I note the timing of my break and wait for her acknowledgement.

“Yeah. I know Marvin wants you to work by yourself as much as possible but I’m right in the back in the office. If you need…” Mrs. Whitehead is a kind soul. Late forties, from what I can guess, white with a bottomless reservoir of energy, she owns the building and, by all indications, is a savvy business owner. Which is why she’s already wavering on her commitment to Marvin.

“I got it. Every hour is better than the previous one. Two steps forward, as they say.” I untie the brown apron from around my waist and slide it onto the hook on the wall before she responds.

I ignore the scraping of chairs as half the café spots Mrs. Whitehead at the counter and rush to form a line. Their actions speak louder than their words— Thank goodness someone here knows how to make a drink . I force myself to stay in character and remind myself that my shaky confidence isn’t the only secret I need to hide as I stride toward Zara.

“It’s time you took a break.” I slide in the chair across from her. Her sister is long gone, but the giant dented head remains, a silent witness taunting me.

She lifts a finger in my direction, her gaze locked down at her tablet. The stylus in her other hands swipes across the screen and she whispers “yes” to herself. Her chin lifts, her eyes, warm and inviting, lock onto mine. Her gaze is like a gentle caress, disarming me completely. It’s a much-needed dopamine jolt to my wavering ego. “I’m assuming you’re here because you’re going to take me up on my offer?”

I lean in, a playful smirk on my lips. “Don’t you mean proposition?” I embrace my assignment. I may have to play a bumbling idiot half the time, but it does deliver perks such as this—flirting with a beautiful café regular.

Her smile turns brilliant, a look of happy surprise spreading across her face. She leans back in the chair, her posture relaxed. “I see break Devon is a lot less—”

“Yes, he is,” I interrupt before she can remind me of my failures. “What about you?”

Her eyes sparkle with delight. “I have my moments. I’d relax a lot more if you just said yes.”

I give her a well-timed chuckle, one my acting coach would applaud. “I’m sure that would be enough for most of the guys you come across to sign up. But I’m going to need a little more information.”

She crosses her arms, assessing me with a playful glint in her eye. “Right? Wouldn’t want to interfere with your plans for the upcoming barista conference.”

Is that a thing? Why didn’t Marvin tell me about it? I could have gone there instead of signing up for a week of this. My mouth snaps shut before I reply. She’s teasing. Well played, Zara. “I’ve had it circled on my calendar for months. Maxwell House is giving the keynote about franchising coffee shops in Russia—the keynote is called Tsarbucks.”

Her hands fly to her face, too late to prevent the snort laugh escaping. “There’s my Bruce Leroy. I’ve missed him.” Her eyes widen in shock at her admission, and the air electrifies around us like it did this morning.

“I need your help,” she says, steering the conversation away from her admission. “I’m pitching a fashion line to a sports team next week, and the model I’ve designed all the outfits for has abandoned me.”

I see where her breadcrumbs lead. “I’m just a barista.” I’m an actor and play pretend for a living, but this is different.

“And the friend who abandoned me is a carpenter. I’m not looking for a professional model. You just need to stand and profile. I’m only asking because you’re about the same size, and…” Her gaze flashes behind me to the ever-growing line of customers who are desperately filling their orders before I return from break. “Looks like you might have a lot of free time on your hands soon.”

I twist in my chair, my hand resting on the frame of the chair. “I kinda did a P-O-U-R job,” I spell out the word for her knowing when I turn, I’ll be rewarded with another bright smile.

“I can help you too,” she offers an intriguing incentive.

My chuckle is my agreement. I turn to face her, her dark eyes assessing me. I pause and allow her to drink in all of me while I do the same. I finally understand the draw of coffee addiction. Something so strong you can’t refuse. “So, what am I agreeing to?”

“When do you close?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to recall the schedule. Marvin had me vary my shifts, wanting me to get experience with opening, mid-day madness, and the quieter evening shift. “Tonight, if I’m still employed,” I say the joke before she does.

“Perfect,” she declares as if she’s already plotted our future. “I live nearby. I’ll bring a few of the outfits right before close. We can begin then.”

“One down, one to go,” I remind her of the other half of the deal. She’s a coffee shop regular. She knows more about the culture and expectations than anything I can learn in a script. She’s the perfect research subject for my role. “What do I need to do?”

She points a polished nail directly at my chest. “Do more of this.” I don’t follow. She reads my face and snickers. “You have a serious problem with how you prepare the drinks. But that’s an easy fix.” My shoulders unclench, hope on the horizon. “But the true secret is for you to be more like this. This guy sitting with me. Warm, charming, funny. People come to cafés to catch up with neighbors, gossip, and sometimes to work. But most of all, they come for the environment. Mrs. Whitehead knows everything about every customer who enters. Knows their kid’s names. Which relative is visiting in town and how they like their orders before they tell her. People come to be greeted like old friends. To feel like they were missed since they last visited. You’re handsome. You’re funny. Show more of this—the real you.”

She reaches across the table, her delicate fingers landing on my forearm, and I fight to ignore the spark that shoots up my arm. She’s asking me to do the one thing I’m not supposed to do. Be me. “It’s a lot, I know. But I’ll be with you every step of the way. You’re a good listener, and that’s half the battle.”

I lay my hand on top of hers, a bold move for someone who was a stranger hours ago. I trust my instincts over societal protocol. Her gaze lowers to take in our hands for a few seconds before she lifts her chin, the corner of her lip curving up. My instincts are spot on. Internally, I’m pumping my fist to the sky, but I won’t let her see that. I wish I could sit like this with her for the rest of my shift, but my break is ending soon.

Her eyelids flutter, and, this close, I see a blush forming beneath her caramel skin. She’s feeling it too. “You said half the battle.” I lead us back to the safety of shore. “What’s the other half?”

“Teaching you to always put a heart-shaped latte art on my order.” Her long eyelashes flutter, a twinkle shooting sparks through me. “I’m a sucker for creative latte art. You know, me being a designer and all. Can you do that? Will you give me your heart?”

The moment demands a smart retort. Something cute and clever. We sit in silence for a few heartbeats, our fingers lingering on top of one another, and I realize this moment doesn’t deserve any further words.

Sometime silence is the perfect response.

Zara just taught me my first lesson.