I scanned the crowd, but no one needed me at the moment. Mr. Kendrick erased something from his crossword puzzle and jotted in new letters. If I raised prices, as my accountant suggested, could Mr. Kendrick afford to be a fixture here anymore?
Maybe the trip to London would take care of it. If the authenticator I was visiting agreed with what the jeweler thought, then I’d have enough money for?—
Focus on the customers, Grace. There’s plenty of time to think about the trip later.
I took another order, called it to Vanessa, and slid the breakfast sandwiches she’d prepared into the toasting oven.
One more glance around the shop. I paused on Tristan and his… friend? Associate? I was spending too much time checking the guy out, but life was too short not to appreciate a pair of handsome men. Even when at least one of them was taken.
Life might be too short, but you’ve got work to do.
I ground fresh beans and started a pour-over for Tristan’s friend.Yeah, let’s go with friend. The scent bloomed when the boiling water hit the grounds. Dark, chocolatey Guatemalan beans with a touch of earthiness from the Sumatran. So smootha man who likedjust blackcoffee would pause before his second sip.
Challenge accepted, hot stuff.
A lull in orders gave me a chance to do a round of the café. I moved past the reading nook, straightened a stack of bookmarks with QR codes advertising a farmer’s market, and verified the sugar caddies were stocked. For two and a half years, my coffee shop had been the kind of place where my customers could settle in for hours or drop by for a quick fix. I wanted it to remain that way, no matter who showed up at my door.
My accountant had other ideas. He said settling in for hours didn’t bring in enough money. He was right, but raking in untold riches wasn’t why I’d opened the place. Iwantedpeople to sit. To talk. To simplybewith each other.
I slowed as I passed the photo wall next to the counter and straightened the ancient sepia-toned photo of my grandmother. My Didi. Opening the café had been her idea. Well, it had beenmyidea, but if it hadn’t been for her, I would have stayed in finance for the rest of my life, holding onto the stability of working in a large organization. Opening my own company had been a big risk, but my whole heart was in this job.
In the photo, Didi was thirty years old, wearing the velvet jacket she always said had brought her luck. What kind of luck? No idea. She’d hinted at—but never finished—so many stories. Especially near the end. She was the soul of this place, and she wouldn’t want me to raise prices, either.
The oven dinged, and Vanessa waved me over. “They’re ready.”
I pulled on an oven mitt and carefully removed the toaster tray. Cheese bubbled at the edges of the sandwiches, making my mouth water.
Vanessa handed me a serving tray. Waggling her eyebrows, she said, “Want me to deliver?”
“I’ve got it.” I bit back a laugh, then shook my head. “Thanks, though.”
“Remember the no staring part.” She brushed a strand of her light-brown hair back and returned to grinding the beans.
I plated the sandwiches and added them to the tray. Personally delivering a meal or a snack that made someone’s day better was my small, happy ritual.
And from the tension radiating off Tristan and his friend, they could use a little happy.
Chapter 2
Galahad
Somethingabout the café had my shoulder blades itching. The exposed brick walls showcased abstract artworks that no doubt cost at least five times what they should. There were plants everywhere: tall ones in the corners, more hanging at the front windows, and a couple nestled into colorful pots on the counter. Mismatched vintage chairs. Ancient wooden tables. The scent of freshly ground beans invaded every corner. All of it created a strangely cohesive vibe.
It was too comfortable, too inviting.
It was like the whole room was trying to hug me.
I hated hugs.
“You’re acting like you’re in a hot zone,” Tristan muttered. “Relax. The most dangerous thing here is Mr. Kendrick when he wants help with the crossword.”
Exits: main door, emergency exit by the restrooms, probable kitchen route. “Old habits.”
“More like old paranoia.”
The crowd included business types tapping on their laptops, a few couples sharing quiet conversations over steaming mugs, and an older man erasing something from his newspaper. Thebarista moved deftly from machine to machine, doing the prep work. The woman who’d taken our order was loading items onto a serving tray, a quiet smile on her face, as though she loved her job.
Tristan swiveled in his seat to look at her, then back at me. He inclined his head toward the fern beside us. “How many combat applications for this potted plant?”
