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

11. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

Zara

T he crash of glassware behind me doesn’t cause me to turn. Nor does Devon’s shout, “I’m sorry. It slipped… I’ll get another drink for you.”

Instead, I lower my design pen to the tablet, the final touch up of the volleyball baseball cap design will have to wait. I flip up the screen on my laptop, the spreadsheet already open. I update the cell from three to four. The title Barista Bumbles flashes. The bar chart to the right of the table updates, triggering the sound of a car, tires skidding, crashing. It’s a silly sound clip that I found while multitasking on this morning’s Zoom call. The happy distraction help make the twenty-minute torture session fly by.

For the last three days, I’ve tracked Devon’s blunders in the shop. He’s trending down, and I suppress a giggle, recalling Devon’s words shared on a break when I showed him the chart this morning.

“It’s directionally correct.”

For the last three days, he’s been a man of his word—we’re taking things slow. We still ogle each other a hundred thousand times a day with a look that says the last thing we want to do is go slow. But we don’t act on these feelings, no matter how badly I want to.

Devon sits with me every break. Every single one. That must mean something.

He continues to be a disaster in the café, which has extinguished any hopes I may have of him pulling off the dance routine. I pick up my phone and tap my new favorite folder. My fingers swipe, and I stare at the gorgeousness in front of me.

Devon.

Since we agreed to look, don’t touch, when Devon tried on the outfits three nights ago in my apartment, I turned it into a fashion shoot. My camera roll swelled with over a hundred photos of him. I told him it was so I could see how the clothes hang from a body from every angle.

We both knew it was a lie. Over half my photos are closeups of Devon’s face. His ridiculously handsome face has me clinching my knees together and swooning.

With tons of leftovers and a few remaining outfits remaining, I invited Devon back to my place the next night. He showed up with dessert. An entire lemon iced pound cake because he saw me lick my lips when a woman sat near me with hers in the café.

It feels good to be watched over.

I twist and glance over my shoulder, already knowing what I’ll find. Devon behind the counter, preparing a beverage for a thirsty regular. Like magic, he peeks up, sensing my presence. Our gaze connects, and the familiar sparkle flashes to life in his eyes. It does every darn time.

My lips part, and I hold my inhalation. I’ve never had this effect on another man. No man has ever made me feel this way. Devon winks at me before focusing on the drink order, dropping ice from the scooper to the cup. Of course, a few cubes miss the cup and fall to the floor. Of course, he continues as if it’s a regular occurrence because it is. At this point, Mrs. Whitehead has propped the mop from the storage unit behind the counter for easy access. He’s a café disaster, but he’s so beautiful to watch.

I spin and tap on my keyboard again. A different tab on the spreadsheet, a different chart. This number rises from two hundred and seventy-four to two hundred and seventy-five. The accompanying bar is red. When it rises, it triggers a GIF of heart bubbles exploding. This graph is also trending directionally correct—upwards. This chart I’ve yet to share with him.

It’s been less than ten seconds since I’ve had the pleasure of his profile, yet I miss him. He’s quickly become my favorite café addiction. I resolved myself days ago that I’m perfectly fine being called a stalker. But I don’t turn.

I swipe at my phone for my Devon fill. He’s perfect. I sort my photos from the shoot by outfit, starred selections which I return to again and again. Last night, Devon completed his model assignment, the last outfits in the collection: a varsity style sweater, a tie with the team’s logo, hoodie, sweat suit, and collared shirts.

Everything except the mascot uniform.

The repairs to the head are nearly complete. Tomorrow night, Devon is set to close at the café and will be trying on the uniform here. The head has limited visibility and having Devon stumbling around my small apartment is a disaster waiting to happen, so we’ve agreed to this. A place with enough space for him to stumble and recover without hurting anyone or anything.

All he has to do is walk four feet without falling, then I’ll be set for the pitch. We’re close.

A hand slaps against the café window, causing me to jump in my seat. Through the glass, I see Stacy with a mischievous grin on her face, her lips moving, but I can’t make out what she’s saying through the glass. She waves a hand in laughter toward the parking lot and skips toward the entrance, her microbraids bouncing in perfect synchronization with her steps.

That’s when I see what she was waving at. Rather who she waved to—her friends.

All of them.

She leads a procession of a dozen classmates like she’s the Pied Piper. I meet her at the entrance, where she holds the door open with her foot, high fiving each of her friends as they enter. “What are you doing?”

“You’re going to love this.” She giggles, and I know immediately I won’t love this. “Some doofus in the chem lab set off the sprinklers. We had to evacuate the entire building; classes are canceled for the rest of the morning while they clean up the mess.”

I’m confused. “What does that have to do with…” I wave a hand at her mob that continues to stream into the café like an endless procession of clowns from a tiny car. “…this?”

“You keep telling me your boy crush barista is doing much better. I thought I’d come and see for myself.”

I ignore her boy crush comment and focus on the impending disaster in front of me. Visions of me updating the bumble spreadsheet for the next three hours float in my head. “And you brought the entire campus with you?”

Stacy finally releases the door after the fifteenth person enters. Yes, I counted. “I may have mentioned to a few friends that drinks were on me if they drove. Next thing I knew, we had a campus caravan.”

I follow Stacy, who pushes through the scrum of college classmates, working her way to the counter. She slams her palms on the top of the glass, where a bewildered Devon glances at me for assistance.

I shrug my shoulders.

“Everyone, this is Devon, the incredible barista I’ve been telling you about.” Stacy milks the moment, stepping to the side and waving her arm as if presenting the wonderful wizard of Oz. “Everyone, this is Devon.”

Her classmates chime out in perfect harmony, “Hello, Devon.” No way they didn’t rehearse that on the drive over.

“Ladies.” Devon shoots them a Cheshire cat grin as if facing nearly twenty half-dressed co-eds is an everyday occurrence. “I appreciate you making the trek. What can I get you?”

I take a step back. For three days, I’ve watched every move of this man. One minute, he’s clueless, staring at the register as if it holds the nuclear codes. The next, I catch him balancing three cups of steaming-hot drinks and perform a Zac Efron High School Musical sidestep when a kid in the stroller unexpectantly tosses their bottle in front of him.

He’s an enigma, that’s as entertaining as he’s mysterious.

I take in the scene even as I stride backwards to my stool. The café fills with giggles and booming whispers. The regulars stop what they’re doing to observe. Crestline is a quiet town, and anything out of the ordinary instantly takes center stage. I spot Mrs. Whitehead poke her head out from the hallway, something she’s done all week.

Whenever the café gets slammed like this, I’ve seen her pop out from the office and pitch in. A smile spreads across her face, and she crosses her arms, pressing one shoulder to the wall. Her body language is a clear signal to Devon— you’re on your own, kid. It’s a curious reaction on her part, and Devon’s concern about being on probation snaps to the front of my mind.

“You can relax.” Stacey gives me a shoulder bump, stepping within whisper range. “I told everyone chances are their drinks will suck. We stopped at the market on the way and grabbed a few cases of Red Bull, White Claw, and Gatorades. I even threw in a Doctor Pepper for you in case his drink game still suffers, and you’ve been sitting here parched.” I give her a short headshake to let her know it’s not necessary. “You may believe in your boy, but I still have my doubts.”

I know she’s kidding, but her words still sting.

“I like him,” I say the words I said to Devon the other night. This time to my sister. And the words carry an unexpected weight.

She turns to face me, a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I know.” Her words mean the world to me. “And he seems like a good guy. He agreed to fill in for Michael. He’s still employed. He’s…” A scream from the counter causes us both to look.

Devon is furiously wiping up a spill on the counter, Stacy’s friends hopping three feet away from the splash zone.

Stacy giggles, and I prepare. “Where was I? Oh, right, I was about to say a third nice thing about your friend. But for the world of me, I can no longer remember what that could be.”

We share a sisterly laugh.

“I can’t believe you did this.”

“I did it for you. You once told me if you want to see a person’s true character, watch them carefully and see how they handle a stressful situation.” Stacy reminds me of another lesson I’ve passed on to her from our parents. I’m so honored to have her as my little sister. “This is his stress test.”

We stare at Devon attempting to process over a dozen orders by himself. We’re too far away to hear what’s being said, but he gives one of the girls a half smirk, mouths something, and the entire group bursts into a loud laugh.

I recall our meet cute. He had damaged my design; I was furious, and he disarmed me with his humor. He’s quick witted in a pinch.

He scoops up a drink with his left hand, hands it to one of the girls, and points toward the condiment table. Spinning on his heels like Usher, he wipes off the handle of the espresso machine with the towel. He says something to the group, eliciting another wave of giggles.

His smile is brilliant. His comfort level is higher than I’ve seen all week. I would wither being the center of attention. He’s in front of an audience and looks like he’s loving every minute of it.

Stacy gives me another shoulder bump. “A person’s true character.” She juts her chin toward Devon. “I hope you’re taking notes.”