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

12. Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

Devon

I wipe down the counter and nod to Anita, another barista who’s working with Mrs. Whitehead today doing inventory. She’s my relief today. She approaches, stepping behind the counter.

“It’s quiet; take your fifteen now,” she whispers, and I swipe a mini chocolate cupcake from the display case.

“Thanks. You know where to find me.” I haven’t tried to hide my attraction for Zara from anyone. I spend every available second I’m not working in the café with her. Which is why my world feels a little off today.

Last night was the first night since we met that we didn’t hang out together. She needed to concentrate on her pitch and finish up the repairs to the mascot head. The presentation is in two days.

It took everything in me not to show up at her door with some made-up pathetic excuse to get her to let me in. But I didn’t. Instead, I spent the night re-reading the script. The pre-production walk-throughs starts in another week. I know all my lines. Even practiced the key scene when Xenia enters the café disturbed by an argument with her love interest and comes across the barista from hell.

It’s a brilliant scene that will require all my comedic skills and timing to pull off. Luckily, I’ve used this week to perfect all the moves. From the spilled cup, the plate that slips from my hand, the tangled feet. The only one I haven’t done is the backwards tumble over the counter. That one requires a stunt person for me to crash into.

I step within two feet of Zara. She has her earbuds in, staring at the screen, and, from this angle, I catch the talking heads of the Zoom call on her screen. She’s experiencing her daily dose of hell, and I hold a treat for her as a reward.

“Well, that’s not what you promised six months ago.” My feet halt as she barks at the screen. “I was next up to lead the spring collection for that line. I’ve waited my turn. You promised.”

I feel the tension in the air and want to wrap her in a protective hug. She goes silent, listening to whatever is being said on the other end. She swipes at the screen, and her microphone on the corner of her screen turns gray with a line slashed through it. She’s gone on mute.

“I hate liars,” she shouts to the screen, causing my blood to race.

She quickly swipes again, the slash on the microphone disappearing and turning black. “I know I was on mute,” she says in response to a comment from someone who can’t read lips. “I said I’ve heard enough. I’ll talk to all of you next week.” She taps the red Leave button and rips the earbuds from her ears. She slams them to the tabletop.

I take a tentative step toward her. “Is everything okay?”

“Peachy,” she says, turning to face me. The tension in her face immediately disappears when she sees what I hold. “Is that for me?”

I push forward the tiny cupcake and wish I had grabbed the full-sized one instead.

She scoops it in her hand. “What a sight and to think this is only the second-best treat I’ve seen today.” Her eyes rise to meet mine, and that unique spark that exists between us returns.

“They’re fools for not seeing you.” The other night, after I modeled the last of the volleyball collection, I lingered at her place. She shared with me her design journey. An interest that started for her when she was nine years old. Nurtured by her parents. She pulled out her design scrapbook from college. Stunningly beautiful gowns, original practical accessories, and women athleisure outfits, which are both stylish and practical.

I was stunned by the intricate touches she puts in every design. An expression of not just her talent but the love and care she brings to each.

“Thanks,” she says as her tongue dances across the frosting of the cupcake, and I try not to stare. “It would mean more if I didn’t want to toss in the garbage the outfits you consider fashion.”

I bite on my tongue so as not to mention I own a twelve-hundred-dollar tux hanging in the back of my closet. Right next to the designer outfits from the studio productions I’ve been a part of. I’m no George Clooney, but I do possess a certain amount of style. But this assignment is a role. Therefore, I’m dressed for the part.

“They’ll find out soon enough. How long after the pitch will they notify you?”

She closes her eyes and hums to herself, enjoying the sugar high from the sweet treat. “They’ll notify the winner within a week. The rest of us won’t hear until the winner has signed the contract.”

“You mean the rest of them. You’re totally getting that phone call next week. Your designs are incredible. Just like you.”

She closes the laptop and gives me her complete attention. “I’m not so sure. My competitors are much larger than a one-person operation. They’re coming with teams of models. Stylish runway presentations worthy of fashion week in Paris. One team is setting up a volleyball court and will play a game. How do I compete with that? I should have taken Michael leaving as a sign from the universe that it’s not my time.”

I wrap an arm around her shoulder and pull her to my side. “You know that’s nonsense. You can hear it in your voice.” She holds the cupcake in the palm of her hand, the topic ruining the treat. “You’ve been ready for years. You’ve honed your pitch skills with your blind colleagues. You’re ready, and you know it.”

She gives me a reluctant nod.

“And you have a giant head.”

She pokes me by the side. “Are you making fun of my afro? I knew I shouldn’t have blown it out.”

She’s so adorable. “I mean, Mister Magic. They’re going to be blown away.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought originally.” I hate watching her doubt her abilities.

“You’ll see tonight when I put on the mascot uniform. You’ve built the winning collection. Heads down.”

My pun pulls a soft giggle from her. She presses her palm to my chest, something I’ve grown fond of. “How can you have so much belief in me while my coworkers who have seen my work for years continue to put me to the back of the line?”

I rest my hand on top of hers on my chest. “Because they haven’t kissed you like I have.”

She leans back and pokes me again. “How do you know they haven’t?”

Three smart retorts shoot to the front of my head, but I remember where I am and who I’m supposed to be and pivot to the fourth option. “Because if they had, you’d be lead designer on an insanely popular brand. Which would have meant you wouldn’t be hiding here at the café but jet-setting to fashion shows around the world. And we would have never met.”

Her gaze rises to meet mine, my earnest words striking the right chord. Zara has been the brave one in this relationship. She’s shared her fears, her frustrations. “And I can’t fathom a world like that.”

She nods. Her kissable lips separate a half inch, and a response dangles from the tip of her tongue.

I cut her off before I lose my courage. “After the pitch, can we talk? I have something to share with you.”

“Sounds serious.” The twinkle in her eyes disarms my concern. I can trust her. I should’ve from day one. “We can talk tonight after the fitting.” It would be so easy for me to say yes. To remove the albatross of lies that hangs around my neck.

I want to say yes, but I won’t hang this load on her shoulders. Not when she needs to concentrate on the pitch. “Let’s focus on your pitch presentation. What I have to say to you can wait. The pitch is what matters.”

“You’re what matters, Devon.” She shifts in her chair, taking my hands in hers, lowered in her lap. “I hope me stressing about the pitch hasn’t given you the impression that you’re not important to me. You are.”

“I know. And you haven’t. And for the record—same.” I avoid her gaze, staring down at the floor in front of my chair. “I’d like to revisit our look, don’t touch policy,” I distract her concern.

“Of course.” I recognize the giggle filled with relief that escapes her lips. “For a minute there, you had me worried.”

I feel the warmth of her body as she leans close to my ear and whispers, “And since we’re on the record, I was totally going to steal a kiss the second the pitch ended. I miss that part of us.”

Kissing Zara again has been in my dream every time I close my eyes. “Me too.”

I feel her breath on my neck; she hasn’t moved an inch. “Is that all you wanted to talk about?”

No, I scream in my head. I want to tell you that I’ve been living a lie. I’m not the world’s worst café worker but an actor who’s falling for you—hard.

But I don’t say the words that I should. I stick to the script. I play the part that others have designed for me. “Yeah, that was it.”

My words bury the truth that my instinct wants to scream. Sealing my fate for another two days. Zara deserves the truth. She deserves better.

“Shh, don’t tell anyone,” she whispers, and I feel the warmth of her lips on my cheek. A stolen kiss to tide me over. A gift from the woman with the biggest heart I know.

Too bad she’s shared it with the two-faced man who no longer listens to his heart. I whisper back to her, “I can keep a secret.”