‘My burned banana caramel latte didn’t turn out anywhere near as good as it was in my head,’ he laughed. ‘And there was that time I tried toasting my own Kenyan peaberry beans at home in the kitchen.’ He grimaced.
‘Not good?’
‘Tasted like charcoal. You could say I’m still searching for perfection.’
‘Let me know when you find it,’ she said, sipping her latte happily.
‘You’ll be the first person I tell.’
Annie gestured at all the stuff he’d unpacked from his delivery onto the glass shelves at the back of the food prep area. ‘I knew you were into coffee, but this is a whole new level.’
‘I suppose you pick it up, working in a coffee shop.’ He lifted one shoulder, shrugging off the idea that this was anything other than a nerdy hobby, an extension of his day job. ‘Paisley always complained that I came home from work smelling of coffee, like it was in my clothes and hair. I could never smell it.’ He sniffed his sleeve now.
‘That sounds nice to me.’
‘Hmm.’ He let this go. Paisley hadn’t liked it one bit. It smelled of a lack of ambition.
Heat was radiating from the oven with its timer counting down its last few seconds. A good, sweet smell of creamed butter and sugar, eggs and self-raising flour had been blooming in the cafe for the last twenty-five minutes.
The sweetness, combined with the heady coffee aromas, and the sound of rain pelting against the cafe windows in the red lamp glow made Annie remark that the Borrow-A-Bookshop cafe must be in the running for the cosiest spot in the South West this morning.
As the timer bleeped, Harri set down his empty cup and opened the oven door to an ‘Ooh!’ of appreciation from Annie.
Twenty-three and a half simple sponge buns in paper cases (they’d run out of mixture on that last one) had turned golden brown while Harri had demonstrated his prowess with the espresso machine.
‘Just like in Aber,’ Annie said, watching him turn them out onto a cooling rack. ‘Hangover buns.’
He smiled at the shared memory of whipping up his grandma’s recipe in their flat that first time, way back during freshers’ week, and how the whole gang had made him bake the buns regularly after that, since they were so easy to stomach after a late night in the Union bar.
Harri sniffed a laugh. ‘They’re not exactly coffee shop standard though, are they?’
‘Folks like simple things, especially in winter when they can still remember theirnew year; new meresolutions. Half the little one with you? For taste testing purposes?’
‘Obviously.’ Harri was already tearing the bun to reveal its fluffy, golden, steaming insides, passing her half.
‘Cheers,’ Annie said, raising hers to Harri’s.
The light in her eyes told him the taste was a time machine, transporting her right back to sleepy Sundays spent under duvets in the shared lounge, sprawled with their flatmates’ feet across laps, heads on shoulders, taking tentative sips of what Harri taught her to call ‘builder’s tea’, the TV showingFriendsreruns.
‘I’ve missed this,’ Annie said, and Harri nodded his agreement. ‘Maybe we can sass these up with a twist?’
‘Such as?’ Harri looked dubious.
‘Something for Valentine’s? Passion fruit filling?’ she suggested.
‘And pink frosting?’
She was laughing, white teeth gleaming. ‘That oughta do it!’
Harri pretended to lose his enthusiasm. ‘Where do you buy pink food colouring and passion fruit in Clove Lore in February?’
‘Split another one?’ She looked hungrily at their day’s wares. ‘Something tells me we won’t get twenty-three cafe customers today anyways.’
As Harri peeled the paper case from another bun, she contentedly turned to watch the raindrops tracking down the cafe’s glass door. He was making his friend happy. This was everything he could have hoped for from this trip.
‘Text it to my mam as well,’ Harri told Annie, after she sent their shop-opening pictures to her mother.
Annie didn’t expect a reply any time soon. Her mom was kind of sick of her, but she hoped putting the Atlantic between them might soften her up a little.
