CHAPTER 2
LEE
Isat in my truck in the parking lot of Goose Run Gas, staring at the doors and wondering if maybe just this once I could skip the bad espresso and worse service that were a regular part of my mornings.
But who was I kidding? When you started work as early as I did, even bad coffee was better than no coffee. And to be clear, the guy who worked nights here made the worst coffee I’d ever tasted.
The thing I liked least about my job was the brutal start time, but it was also part and parcel of being a baker. People wanted their buns and French loaves and sourdough fresh out of the oven, and that meant some poor sucker had to get up and make it for them.
The poor sucker was me, in case it wasn’t clear.
I was in charge of the small production team at South Hill Bakery, and that meant starting an hour before the two other guys, checking the schedule for the day’s orders, preheating the ovens, and starting the bowls so the first batches of dough were ready by the time everyone arrived. And I liked what I did, but Ihatedearly starts, so I stayed in bed as long as I could. And I tried to keep the noise down when I got up so I didn’t wakemy mom and my little sister. So I inevitably ended up stopping at Goose Run Gas for a shitty espresso and whatever passed for breakfast—usually stale premade pastries.
The only thing worse than the drinks and the food was the service. The guy behind the counter always looked like he was a minute away from stabbing someone, and he argued with me every single morning over some dumb thing. Yesterday it had been tipping and Doritos. Who knew what it might be today?
And was it wrong that I kind of looked forward to it?
Because for all his murderous glares and shitty espressos, it was kind of entertaining to stir up the guy—Chase, his name badge had said the one night he’d bothered to wear it—and see how he’d react. And I had the feeling he got a kick out of it too, because he was always quick to fire right back. I’d caught him almost smiling once, although maybe I’d imagined it.
I watched through the doors of the gas station for another minute before dragging my ass out of the car and strolling inside. As the doors rolled open, Chase’s head snapped up. He glared at me and made no move to get out of the chair he was slouched in.
I walked over to the refrigerator first to check if they had any Monster, but the space was empty. So was the Red Bull. I went over to the counter. “You’re out of energy drinks.”
He shrugged, then reached under the counter and pulled out a single can of Monster and waggled it in my direction.Score!But when I reached for the can, he pulled it back, cracked the tab, and tilted his head back and drained it, holding my gaze the whole time. Then he belched and said, “Yep. Looks like we’re out.”
“Hey, I needed that!” Bakers ran on energy drinks and exhaustion, and it was important to keep them balanced.
“Cry me a fucking river,” he said.
“Can you go check in the back?” I asked.
He belched again. “Nope.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Fine,” I said, “I’d like an Americano.”
Chase stared at me.
“That’s espresso and hot water,” I said, and then, feeling brave, I added, “Double shot.”
He sighed loudly and finally got out of his chair.
“Do you even know how to make a double shot?” I was pretty sure the answer was no. Every night he stabbed at the buttons on the coffee machine until something happened, but the result was always terrible and it really seemed like he had no idea what the hell he was doing.
He glared at me and pushed some buttons. Then he punched a few more, and the coffee machine whirred to life. A thin brown stream trickled out. It spread in a puddle as it splashed on the spot where the cup was supposed to be.
“Fuck!” He narrowed his eyes and hastily hit a flashing green light. The machine shuddered to a stop.
Then he shot me a look that dared me to say something. And on any other day I might have taken pity on him, but I was still kinda pissed over the energy drink. That, and I’d never been able to resist a challenge.
“Forget something?” I asked, grinning. This was great. It was waking me up more effectively than an espresso ever could.
“Forgot you’re an asshole,” he muttered, grabbing a cup and setting it in place.
“You really are the worst barista I’ve ever met,” I said. “No wonder they make you work nights.”
His expression tightened and he jabbed viciously at the machine. I felt bad for about half a second, but then he said, “I guess that means you suck as well then. Otherwise why areyouworking at ass o’clock?”
“None of your business, dickhead,” I said before I realized the little shit was smirking at me. Dammit. Points scored for Chase. It didn’t help that the smirk somehow made himattractive.
