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

15. Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

Devon

O ne day.

I just need to survive one more day. Tomorrow is pitch day. Tomorrow is the last day I’ll ever have to keep my secret from Zara. Despite Marvin’s warning, my instincts tell me I’ve waited long enough. After we celebrate her pitch, I’m going to tell her everything.

Tomorrow.

My eyes find Zara, right where she always is, seated by the window, tapping on her laptop while stealing glances out the window. My gaze lingers for a few heartbeats. Long beats that let me appreciate the woman I so admire. I expect her to turn any moment, like she does a hundred times a day, but she doesn’t. I know the reason why—tomorrow.

I’m sure she’s lost in her head, visualizing the meeting. Her introduction, me walking in with the first outfit. She’s gone in circles ten times, picking out the introductory design. The outfit that will set the tone and capture the owner’s attention. I watched her swirl for an hour, only to land back where she started—the most logical place—the volleyball uniform the team will play in. She’s elevated the tank top and shorts to be both functional and fashionable. The tiny, intricate details are the hidden gem of the outfit. Each time you look at the uniform, you’ll discover another unique element that Zara has perfectly placed. A blue star sewn into the seam of the short. A reflective stripe the same color as the shorts, which when hit with a spotlight in a darkened arena, it will allow fans to follow the players’ movements like skeletons on Halloween.

I’ve overhead discussions on the backlots of Hollywood of people with their voices filled with awe, appreciation, and acknowledgement of working with special talents. And I now know how that feels. Zara is a special talent, and I feel honored to be able to play a tiny part in her journey to greatness.

Movement in front of me causes me to shift my attention to an arriving customer. A middle-aged woman with a head of massive wavy, red hair. It’s clearly a wig as I spot the edge of her brunette hair poking out from beneath it. Her skin is pancake white; her eyes hidden behind a large pair of sunglasses even though she’s indoors.

If this were L.A., I wouldn’t give her a second glance. But out here in Crestline, she’s an instant attraction. She grabs opposite forearms, points her left foot in front, twisting as if posing for a magazine cover. “I’ve heard about this place. Best cappuccino in Cincinnati.”

I feel my jaw droop, my mouth hanging open like a cartoon character, and my head swirls. Her line.

That line.

It can’t be.

My hand lands on the edge of the counter for balance as I wait for my vision to clear. Her large hands pat her crooked wig before lowering to open the single button holding her beige trench coat together. She flaps back each side of the coat behind her as if they’re wings, and she’s about to take flight. “Fill up one of those fancy thermoses. My boyfriend is in hot water, and I’m planning one of my marathon ‘constructive criticism’ sessions that will keep him simmering all night long.”

It’s her.

Standing in front of me with the world’s worst wig—Xenia.

This can’t be happening. Not today.

She bats her ninety-nine-cent, extra-thick fake eyelashes at me, waiting. It’s the most ridiculous costume I’ve ever seen, and I’ve played the budget-challenged local theater circuit for two seasons. She’s fed me the first two lines from the script. My scene. The next line is mine.

It’s her—not her team. Not some hidden camera. This is the moment that will decide my future.

My short inhale is all the preparation I allow myself. I ignore the pounding in my chest and point to the chalkboard menu written on the wall to my left. In the script, it calls for the menu to be above my head behind me. “Cappuccinos come in vente, out all night, and thanks for contributing to my boss’ boat fund.”

Xenia tips her chin down, her index finger lowering her sunglasses just enough for me to catch a glimpse of her world-famous eyes. The corners of her mouth tick up for a fraction of a second. An appreciative glance for me hitting the line.

“To that, I’d say ‘Ahoy, mate! Fill up the thingamajig and charge me whatever. I’ve got places to be and people to scare.’” She waves a hand at the thermos collection on the shelf next to the counter and takes a purposeful stride. She hits her mark, like the pro she is, and I remind myself to do the same.

The red and silver thermoses are stacked on a triangle display just like they’re in every Coffee Loft store around the country. Just like they’ll be on the movie set, only three feet higher. Everything on the screen is larger than life.

“Okay but do know I’m breaking corporate rule 34.843C, sections A and D,” I recite the line like an auditor and step around the counter. My gaze floats across the room out of habit, just as it’s done a thousand times this week. It finds Zara staring at me, her gaze locked on the interesting figure wearing a full-length beige raincoat in a city that averages a half inch of rain a year.

“This is the largest we have.” I pull down a thermos and act as if I’m reading the label on the bottom. “The only other time we filled it with a cappuccino was for Linda. She needed it to stay up all night to finish a ten-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle of the Sistine Chapel. She ended up seeing double and thought she was Michelangelo by the end of it. To this day, she still finds stray pieces in the cushions of her couch and gets heart palpitations whenever she drives past Saint Benedict’s Temple.”

Out the corner of my eye, I spot Zara spin around in her seat, her shoulders scrounged an expression that screams, What the hell are you saying, Devon?

“Good, I like it big, and I like things to last.” She lifts her index fingers in each hand and makes an inappropriate gesture. Snickers fill the café. We officially have an audience. Zara slips off the stool and paces toward the counter. All eyes are on Xenia.

And me.

I reach for the thermos in the bottom row and time my response. “Super-size it is. So, I guess the rumors are true, you really do like it…” I tug the thermos, and the entire pyramid of cups cascade from the shelf, crashing to the floor. This move puts me in the danger zone.

Both Xenia and I step around the mess as if dozens of thermoses crashing around our feet is normal. We’re professionals. I’ve practiced portions of this maneuver all week. Hopping around broken dishes, skipping around dropped baby bottles. I’m part acrobat, part magician, part everything but my true self.

The Coffee Loft customers aren’t actors working on a scene. They react like normal people. Many of them rush toward the disaster in front of them, retrieving rolling cups.

I tiptoe to the false security of the counter and catch the streak of orange racing toward the pile on the floor. Zara. The autumn-themed sweater that had captivated me all morning rushes to help. Concern and empathy written across her beautiful face. She wants to clean up the mess I created, and I can’t stop to let her know it’s unnecessary.

I step in front of the espresso machine and press buttons, ignoring the clamor around us. A mist of steam shoots up in front of my face, which I lean into. I feel the heat, but my face is never in danger. I’ve practiced this move a few times this week and know the perfect distance to make it appear that I’ve scalded my face without doing any damage. “My eyes!”

My hands grab my face, and I initiate a controlled spin. I flail, knocking over paper cups, napkins, and cutlery. On the set, all these items will be breakaway glassware and dishes. Fingers pressed to my eyebrows, I concentrate on the floor. Years of training coming together. Footwork, juggling, comic timing, acting. It all melds together into a complete performance that pushes me to my limit. I’m a tightrope acrobat expertly stepping around café items like they’re landmines. A controlled spin places my hands on the reserve coffeepot on the top of the machine. In the movie, it will be filled with hot liquid but at this time of the day, it’s cold and empty.

Slapstick may be an underappreciated form of comedy, but it’s one of the oldest and hardest. It takes hours of dedication, coordination, and practice to make oneself appear out of control without injuring oneself or someone else.

My hand reaches for the pot for balance, and I immediately jerk it away, reacting as if the pot has burned my fingers. I rush toward the employee sink and prepare to dunk my head. It’s the money shot that will be followed by Xenia shouting to everyone in the café, “Who else wants a cappuccino?” I stumble toward the sink and freeze when I hear her.

“Devon!” Zara’s scream sends a chill through me. She’s rushing toward me in full sprint. My hands shoot out to halt her, but all they do is smack against the uncovered cup of coffee on the counter. I watch helplessly as the coffee flies in a Nike swoop pattern right toward Xenia.

Zara’s hands hit the other side of the counter, her face filled with panic. “Are you okay?”

I don’t have time to answer because we both turn at the sound of a woman’s scream.

“No, no, no!” I shout, already knowing what I’ll find.

Xenia stands a foot in front of me, arms lowered to her sides, a coffee stain the shape of Africa plastered on her yellow dress. She runs in place, a shocked expression on her face, both of us amazed that not a drop of the coffee landed on her raincoat. Her ill-fitting wig slides to the side of her head. Her sunglasses fall to join the mess on the floor.

Zara’s eyes widen in recognition, and my heart nearly explodes in my chest. “You’re… you’re Xenia.”

I’m so screwed.

Xenia is legendary for staying in character, the end credits with outtakes one of the most anticipated moments of her movie’s release. Despite scenes going awry, she demands the same of her co-stars.

Zara’s eyes shift from her to me, attempting to reconcile what’s happening in front of her. But I don’t direct my words to her. I direct them to Xenia, hoping she sees how committed I am to the part.

I point at the mess on her dress. “Order up.”

I freeze and do what I’m trained to do. Wait for validation. I ignore Zara’s indignant whisper of “What the actual…” I ignore her pull of my wrist, inspecting my hand for damage that doesn’t exist.

I ignore everything except Xenia. Her reaction will determine my future. Zara realizes what I’m doing. She drops my hand and joins the staring contest. Xenia’s gaze bores a hole through me. When I catch the tremble and the flicker in the corner of her lips, I exhale.

She presses her hands in prayer position, pulling them to her chest, and bows toward me. “End Scene.”

I feel the smile spread on my face. I’ve done it. I’ve stayed in character and have won the roll—the one that means the world to me. I’ve won.

“What the…” Zara’s repeat puts me on edge. “This was some elaborate act of some sort. I was…” Her eyes shoot down to my uninjured hand. “I thought you were…”

If Marvin were here, he’d be awed to see Xenia standing in front of me, clapping. But it arrives at the absolute worst time. “Bravo. You’ve nailed it. I loved your commitment. Most actors would have broken character when that coffee hit me.”

I turn and watch the bewildered look of confusion in Zara’s eyes turn to fire. “Actor?” I reach for her, but she hops back, a mix of confusion and disgust on her face. “This was all an act?” She spits the indictment at me, and I fumble to find words to justify my actions. She lifts a finger, warning me not to speak.

“A good one, too. I should know. I hired him. He’s been fooling everyone here all week.”

“All week?” Zara’s whisper words aren’t meant for my ears, but I hear them. The hurt in every syllable. “I’m a fool.” I helplessly watch her connect the dots. Everything she’s witnessed this week. My worst nightmare forms in front of my face. “How could you?” Confusion transforms to anger in the blink of an eye. “I believed in you.”

“There’s no reason to stop.” I’m an idiot. These are the worst possible words to say at this moment, and I’m not surprised when she strikes back.

“Yes, there is. I don’t know who you are.” She walks backwards, her head shaking in disbelief. “I can’t believe I trusted you.” Her feet halt, and she pulls back her shoulders. “Future me will be happy you got the role you obviously are so well-trained to play. A bumbling liar who hurts everyone in their radius.” She wipes a tear rolling down her cheek. “At least when Michael left me high and dry, he was trying to win someone’s heart—not break one.”

She rushes to her station by the window, slams her laptop shut, gathers her design pen and tablet, stuffing each into her shoulder bag so hard I’m surprised they don’t rip through the bottom.

“You did teach me one thing. I need to stop counting on other people to chase my dream. I’ll do what I should have done years ago when my firm turned down my first design proposal.” She taps a finger to her chest. “I’ll do it alone.”

She waves a scolding finger at me, and I have no choice but to listen. I’ve broken us. “Don’t call me. And don’t come anywhere near my pitch tomorrow.”

I don’t say a word. She needs time to process everything. All week, I’ve weaved lies and skated around simple questions, all in the name of keeping a secret. Now that she’s seen me for who I am, it’s no wonder she wants nothing to do with me.

My gaze continues to linger on her. She marches to the door, gripping the handle tight for two heartbeats. Her shoulders clinching. Her neck twists in my direction, a deadly glare delivering ice-cold shivers through me. “I won’t be watching your movie on the big screen nor on Netflix.” Fire shoots from her eyes. “I hope I never see you again. You can roll the damn credits now. This is the end.”