A trickle of sweat makes its way down the center of my back as steam from the frother billows into my face. I step back, wipe my forehead with my arm, and keep moving. The early-March air that gusts in with every swing of the door isn’t anywhere close enough to cool me off.
I shake cinnamon onto Mr. Steele’s latte. He keeps telling me to call him Henry, but the man was my high school principal, so, no way. I push the drink to him and glance around the shop. The line isn’t getting any shorter, which is good. Great, even. But at the same time, it would be awesome if people could time their need for caffeine in a way that made my mornings a little less insane.
I’m grateful; don’t get me wrong. Of course I’m grateful. I’d have lost the shop way before now if these glorious customers weren’t lining up for their daily dose.
That’s the name of the place, incidentally. Daily Dose. I’ve owned it since I was twenty-three, a whole four years now. You know that saying, Ignorance is bliss? Yeah, that was me. Blissfully ignorant, thinking how hard can it be to run a coffee shop?
Ha.
It’s hard.
Suck the marrow from your bones hard.
Beg the town bank to take pity on you and restructure your loan because you had no idea what a balloon payment was when you signed the initial loan papers hard, and thank your lucky stars your best friend loaned you money and is a hard-core coffee drinker because you’re now giving her free coffee for five years hard.
But at the same time, it’s pretty badass to own a business this young. To have managed to haul myself up after my firefighter brother died in a fire and go for my dream? Epic. It’s the only time I’ve really done…anything, really. My badassery got even badder after my dad hightailed it out of town in the wake of my brother’s death, closely followed by my baby sister taking off to chase singer-songwriter dreams in Nashville. Then, finally, the money shot: my mom sold my childhood home and moved in with her mom in Charleston.
Meanwhile, I managed to not only healthily grieve my brother’s death, but move forward in the same damn town, a freaking block from the firehouse where my brother worked. And not a soul gives me credit for it. Especially not my family.
“Love of my life, sweetness and sunshine, your ass is so glorious but could you please move.” Darius growls that last part at me.
I shimmy my glorious ass, as Darius so eloquently puts it, out of his way. He’s my only full-time employee and according to him I pay him a pittance, but I like to remind him that his goal is to be a published fantasy author, not a barista, and that usually shuts him up. For about five seconds.
We move around each other, a dance borne from two years of coffeeshop-counter choreography, and keep the line moving.
“Mrs. Withers!” I beam at the crotchety old lady as she steps up to the counter. “Your usual?”
She smiles at me, and I nearly trip on the floor mat. I keep forgetting that she isn’t as cranky as she used to be. She and my best friend/ex-sister-in-law, Devon, sold the house Devon inherited from her grandmother, and Mrs. Withers turned into a fluffy little kitten overnight. It isn’t right. Frankly, I’m worried her new attitude is going to mess with the Earth’s rotation.
“Yes, please. The lavender latte with two shots of vanilla syrup.” She insists on repeating her order to me every time she’s here, even though I know hers, and everyone else’s, by heart.
“Coming right up,” I say. A glance at Darius tells me he’s halfway through making her order already.
“When are you going to take me up on my offer of selling my famous lemon squares?” She peers up at me from behind her thick glasses. And I’m only 5’2”, so you can imagine what it takes for someone to peer up at me.
I smile politely. “Because then I’d have to hear about it from Miss Betty, who swears she’s the one with the famous lemon squares. And I’m not getting in between the two of you.” There’s been enough animosity between old ladies in this town, thank you very much. I’m not about to be the start of another one.
But I’m gonna be honest: Mrs. Withers’ are better. I think it’s all those years of being sour.
Mrs. Withers sniffs like she knows I’m bullshitting her—she probably does—then pays and moves to the left to pick up her drink.
Next is Sarina, who owns the burger and beer joint on the other side of the town square, then Rebecca, the best hairstylist on the planet, then Brook, who owns Brook’s Books. And more after that. Then it’s nine a.m. and the rush is over.
And then.
Sweet mother of all that is holy.
The Brothers Joseph walk in.
Two firemen and a paramedic walk into a coffeeshop.
It’s as if the movie of my life has gone into slow-mo as three fine-as-hell walls of navy-uniformed muscled goodness walk in, joking and laughing with each other. There’s Aaron the paramedic, the blond baby of the bunch who’s engaged to Devon and is smiling like he’s stupid in love. But he actually is in love, so he doesn’t make me want to barf. Then there’s Will Joseph, the oldest and the darkest and the beefiest, who always looks like he’s disappointed with the world and gives off this Very Stern vibe.
But then.
Then there’s the middle brother. Price. Melter of panties and primary provider of my alone-time fantasies. His dark blond hair flops deliciously over his forehead and he sports a perfectly-maintained beard that’s thick but still manages to look like it’d be soft if he graced you with a kiss.
I have crushed on this man since I was twelve. Is it healthy? Probably not. Do I place the blame for my persistent virginity at his likely-pedicured feet? Damn straight I do.
“Ahem.” Darius hip-checks me and lowers his voice. “Try not to let the drool get into the steamed milk.”
I glare at him before turning my signature matte-red smile at the trio. “Good morning, guys. To what do we owe the pleasure of all three of you at once?”
Oh, god. That sounded dirty. I can feel the splotches of red on my chest and neck, and I’m a ginger, so it’s not a subtle look on me.
Will barely looks at me, but Aaron tilts his head a little and leans in. “You okay? You look a little flushed.”
Aaron and I have been, if not friends, then at least acquaintances, for a long time. We weren’t in the same grade growing up, but it’s a small town and there were only two schools, so, close enough. And right now, if it wouldn’t mean that Devon would have lost two great loves in her life, I would murder him in his sleep. “I’m fine,” I grit out.
The espresso machine chooses this moment to hiss at me, and I flinch.
Aaron narrows his eyes, and all my prayers to the coffee gods that he lets it drop must get answered, because he smirks and lets it go.
“Hellooo, Jodi!” Price bounds to the front and smiles at me.
See, this is the thing. Price likes people to think he’s like an overgrown Mastiff puppy. And generally, that works for him. It has his whole life, from what I can tell. He was far enough ahead of me in school that I don’t think he ever never knew I existed until I started making him lattes. But I knew of him pretty much from the time I started noticing boys, and these days, I choose to believe there’s more to him than he’s letting on. I give him a warm smile. My warmest of smiles. I’m very smiley right now. “Hi, Price. Your usual?”
He nods and winks at me. “You know my weakness.”
