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

8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Devon

“ Y ou’re supposed to be there getting ready for your role.” Marvin shouts through FaceTime at me. I press my earbuds tight, standing outside the back entrance to the coffee shop, away from prying ears.

“Don’t tell me what I’m supposed to be doing and tell me what to do. Why can’t I just tell her who I am and what I’m doing here?”

“You can’t do that. It’s in your contract. Xenia is strange that way.”

“And how would she ever find out? It’s not like she’s going to leave her private island and pop into a coffee shop in the middle of nowhere.” I knew before I picked up the phone that Marvin would toss the contract stipulation in my face. But it’s the simplest and cleanest solution. Moreover, I feel a connection with Zara and can’t bear to deceive her any longer.

“I never promised you she wouldn’t show up.” Marvin’s statement gives me something else to worry about.

“You can’t be serious right now?”

“Kid, why do you think I told you to always remain in character? Xenia has been known to pop in on actors in training in disguise to see if they’re doing what she demands.”

“I can’t believe this.” I shake my head.

“Keep your eyes on the prize. This role will put you on the map. Everyone in Hollywood will be watching this film. Think of it as doing ten thousand auditions simultaneously. After this, casting directors will be calling me, not the other way around.”

He reminds me of my why. My career. My future. “Please tell me you’re kidding about her showing up.”

“She doesn’t always do it herself. Sometimes she’ll send someone from her company. They’ll have a hidden camera and record you, streaming it back to her. You’ve heard of Olivia Young?”

“Yeah, she won the best supporting actress five years ago in Xenia’s last picture, playing an arrogant kindergarten teacher.”

“That’s the one. What you don’t know is she was the backup actress for that role. The original actress refused to act like a jerk to five-year-olds in character for two weeks at the school. Xenia kicked her off the project and replaced her with Olivia. The rest is history.” Marvin laughs, and I add another chapter to the long Hollywood history book he constructs for me, one lesson at a time. “Irony of ironies, that actress is now teaching first grade in Ohio.” His laugh does little to erase my concerns.

“Got it. Stay the course.” Resignation fills my voice, and I hate the sound.

“It’ll only be another week. Just avoid her, then you and your lady friend can have a good laugh about it next week.”

If only it were that easy. Zara lives in the café. Besides, no part of me wants to avoid her. It’s the opposite. I want to spend every free moment I have with her. Lying to someone you care about just sucks, and I know it will catch up with me.

“I’ll figure it out.” I disconnect and take a long pull of fresh air, hoping it contains a secret answer. “One week,” I mutter. Marvin is right about one thing; all I have to do is keep up this facade for one week. I’m an actor. I’ve played parts much longer than this in the past.

I square my shoulders and remind myself who I am and what’s at stake. I’ll continue to flounder in the café, even though it pains me to appear this incompetent. I’ll walk that tightrope and show enough flashes of competence to remain employed.

As for Zara, I’ll let her focus on her pitch in a few days, let that be the distraction I need to keep her from prying into my identity. One week. I can do this.

****

I press send and wait for her phone to buzz. I’m sitting on the same stool her sister sat on earlier. A short yip escapes her lips when the phone vibrates in her hand. “There you are.” Her lovely smile makes me feel like the world’s biggest heel. She taps away, adding my name to her phone. “Now for the pic.” She lifts the phone and snaps a candid before I can prepare.

“Nice. If this barista thing doesn’t work out, you should really consider modeling.” She twists the phone, and all I see is my fake smile. Everything about the man on her screen screams fraud.

She pecks away, and the tremor I feel has nothing to do with the phone in my pocket. “I’ve just sent you my socials.”

I nod and don’t say a word. After speaking with Marvin, I set my social media accounts to private. Devon Alexander is a common name. If she searches, she’ll find over three thousand of us. Too many even for the most determined person to scroll through. I hate that I’ve had to do this, but one glance at any of my accounts would expose my truth in less than three swipes.

Her brow rises at my silence, and I realize I need a distraction. “I only have a few minutes left on break. How was your latte?”

Her gaze lowers to her phone before finding mine. “Much better than yesterday. Pumpkin spice makes everything better, but I’d like to think the real reason was you. I bet it helps to use the right ingredients, right?”

“Sure does.” A heavy guilt lays on my chest. I mixed up the ingredients yesterday on purpose. I can’t tell her that. I can’t tell her my truth. Any of it. I can’t tell her I arrived early this morning and practiced making every kind of latte on the menu. It’s her favorite drink, one she rotates from flavor to flavor throughout the day. Vanilla, caramel, pumpkin spice, who knew there were so many variations. I may have to screw up everyone else’s drink order, but I won’t do that to her any longer. I spent thirty minutes practicing my stencil art. Hearts, maple leaves, the Coffee Loft logo. I can’t let anyone know what I’m capable of but when this assignment is over, I’m going to show her my skill. What I’m capable of. I want to show her everything, but mostly, I want to share the real me.

“But it’s not just the drinks people come to the shop for.” She spins on the stool, her feet pressed on the foot stand, her elbows pressing behind her on the bar, facing the store. “There.” She juts her chin at a woman sitting with three elementary-aged kids. “That’s Miss Anders. Her seven-year-old goes to elementary school three blocks away. She picks up two of her neighbor’s kids and watches them each afternoon until their parents get home from work.”

“She stops in the café after pickup for her afternoon caffeine jolt to help her manage three active kids. She rewards them for working on their homework here in the café with a choice of cookie. Regardless of which one they pick, Mrs. Whitehead has a sugar-free version ready for them. It’s a secret agreement she has with Miss Anders. She switches out the cookies when they order. They think they’re getting sugar, and Miss Anders gets happy kids none the wiser.”

If I were on shift yesterday when she came in, I totally would have mixed up the order. Those kids would have been swinging from the ceiling in some sugar-induced frenzy. I cover my mouth to suppress the laugh bubbling up from my chest.

Zara taps my elbow and juts her chin toward the door. An older man, head full of gray, wearing a USC t-shirt and carrying a backpack, enters. “Watch this.” The man’s gaze scans the café and halts when he spots a table filled with high schoolers. A happy smile pulls on his face as he marches toward them. The six kids hop to their feet, offering him fist bumps and high-fives, clearing a space for him in the center of the table.

Zara leans in toward me, her scent of cinnamon and vanilla welcome. “That’s Mr. Johnston. He’s a retired math teacher. A year ago, he was sitting in the café and overheard those kids struggling with calculus.” Zara’s giggle lets me know this story has an unexpected twist. “Rather than hop up and correct them, he mentioned that he had just retired and was finally going back to college. It had been so long, and he was struggling with math as well. Would they mind if he joined them in their study group? I was here that day, and those sweet kids invited him to their table. He fake-struggled with the simplest of problems and let the kids correct him. He let them lead, to teach him, and, in the process, gain the confidence they needed. Now, three times a week, they meet. The kids arrive thirty minutes early, study, and prepare so they can teach Mr. Johnston what they learned.”

My gaze lingers on Mr. Johnston. I’m not the only person in the café working a secret identity. “And that doesn’t bother you? Him pretending to be something he’s not.”

Zara elbows me. “Of course not. It’s sweet. He’s not hurting anyone. He told me last semester that each kid is now an A student, and one of them is considering becoming a math major when he goes to college.”

“Means to an end,” I mutter, feeling some of my guilt melt away.

“Exactly.”

Exactly , I repeat to myself. Maybe Marvin is right. Maybe a week from now, when the truth is out, Zara will get a good laugh about it. I’m just like Mr. Johnston working toward an end goal. “I’m off at six tonight. What time should I swing by?”

“If I say 6:05 p.m., would that make me sound desperate?” A nervous smile fails to hide her truth. She wants to see me as soon as possible.

“It’s four minutes later than I want,” I let her know I’m just as excited to see her.

“It’s a five-minute walk,” her breathless whisper causes my stomach to do cartwheels. Between yesterday and today, we’ll have spent over fifteen hours together, yet it doesn’t feel like enough.

“How long if I run?”

“I’ve seen you run. You’ll probably trip and fall in front of a truck. I can’t have you showing up at my doorsteps a bloody mess. I’m not a very good nurse.”

I laugh. “6:06 it is.”

She shakes her head. “You going to make a girl wait, huh?”

“Trust me, it’ll be worth the wait,” I openly flirt with the woman who’s quickly working her way into my heart. “If you’re hosting, I’m bringing dinner. I got us.”

I’m rewarded with an appreciative smile. It’ll be our first night together outside of the café, and, if she’s anything like me, she’s stressing about everything. This will give her one less thing to worry about.

“Whatever you get, here’s a little hint. I like it spicy.”

I give her a shoulder nudge and stand. “I figured. And here’s a hint for you.” I pace backwards, my break ending. “So do I.”

***