“Coffee first,” I declare, steering her toward the café before she can argue. “Non-negotiable.”
She shoots me a look, like I just suggested she frost a cake before it cooled.
I loop my fingers through hers and keep walking. “You’re half-asleep and look like you’re about to face-plant into a snowbank.”
Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t push. Which is how I know she’s really exhausted.
The bell over the door jingles as we step inside Love at First Sip, the smell of nutmeg and espresso wrapping around us as every person inside turns to look.
Audrey tugs me toward the counter, rattling off her order at the young barista like muscle memory. “Dirty chair latte. Extra shot.”
“Black coffee,” I add, ignoring the way Eileen Burrows pauses mid-step with the espresso beans when she spots us.
It’s an awkward few minutes as we wait for our drinks, her hawk eyes never leaving us. Then, in a voice meant to carry, she says, “Well, don’t you look merry and bright.”
Her gaze doesn’t stop at my face. It drops lower—to the icing smears still ghosting across my Henley from yesterday’s gingerbread fiasco.
Audrey groans into her latte.
Oops.
But before I can brush it off with a joke, Eileen vanishes into the back, reemerging seconds later wielding a long-sleeve tee with a glittery café logo like she’s about to knight me into her secret order.
“Off with that mess.” She holds up the shirt like a mother dressing a toddler. “On with this.”
Audrey mutters something about divine intervention and closes her eyes as if in prayer before grabbing our drinks from the counter.
Her unusual reluctance for caffeine makes sense as I remember Hideaway’s small-town status—where nothing goes unnoticed.
Eileen arches one imperious brow. “Arms up.” Sheshakes the shirt impatiently while Audrey burrows her face deeper into her scarf, mortified.
Which is all the encouragement I need.
Grinning, I peel off my jacket, grab the hem of my Henley, and tug it over my head in one motion. The corner table of silver-haired ladies audibly gasps. If my career ever tanks, it seems I’ve got a fallback as a coffee shop calendar pin-up boy.
Eileen assesses me rather like a cowboy judging a horse at auction. “And you’ll need cream for those claw marks on your back.”
Audrey chokes on her latte.
I grin, slide the tee over my head, and spread my arms like I’m auditioning for a holiday latte ad. “How do I look?”
Eileen winks. “Like caffeine and gossip.”
Which, judging by how Audrey nibbles her lower lip, is apparently not a bad look on me.
“There now.” Eileen dismisses me like she’s just stamped my passport into the land of small-town gossip. “You two go enjoy yourselves.”
Honestly? I’ve closed tougher rooms.
But none of them made me feel this accomplished.
Or this proud.
Audrey
“Larry the Lobstah loves you.”
That’s the message painted on the six-inch plastic lobster ornament Jack just purchased from a stall in Hideaway Harbor’s Winter Market and is now holding up like a proud papa.
