“The creamer is good, Lucy,” she says again, choosing to (for once) ignore the mistake I just made. “Do you think youcan multiply the recipe so we can test it out with some customers?” She pauses and adds, “Thetinyamount you made this morning won’t cut it.” Just for effect, I’m sure.
Can I?Biting my tongue, I reply, “Uh, yes. Yes, I can. For sure, Sarah.”
“Okay, please have that done for tomorrow, and we’ll offer it as a free sample to customers to see if they like it.”
Wow. Responsibility. I’d always yearned for this feeling. I’m elated but also absolutely terrified. Is that normal? Is this how regular people feel when they have something big happen at work? Something people are counting on them for? This feeling is new to me, but I’m determined not to waste it.
I come back to Pleasant Coffee after they’ve closed—with Sarah’s permission, of course—and lay out all of my ingredients once more. I drove this time so I could bring everything over in one trip. “This is simple math, that’s all,” I say to myself as I place my hands on my hips and stand in the Superman pose.I can do this.Then I open the calculator app on my phone and get to work trying to figure out the right measurements.
I still have some creamer from this morning left, so I’m keeping that as my baseline. The creamer to which I’ll compare all other batches. I also bought a notebook so I could write down all my measurements and different attempts. I’m organized and ready. My mind quickly flashes to Dylan and all the notebooks he uses. A small smile creeps up on my face.
How hard can this be?
Hard. This isveryhard.
I’ve made at least five different batches, being conservative with my ingredients, and something is off with all of them. None of them tastes right. Not like Dylan’s.
My shoulders slump as I rinse out the pot from my last batch. I decide to fully start over and make the batch the way I know how, with the original measurements. Maybe I can keep doing that over and over again to fill a big container. More time-consuming? Yes. But itshouldwork.
I make the batch and pour it into one of our mugs. It fills to the brim with a good amount still left in the pot. I grab another mug and pour the rest into it. It perfectly fits two of our mugs.
I stand back for a second and stare at the filled cups. “Okay, so one batch equals two mugs. If I want to make twenty mugs…” I count quickly on my fingers. “Ten batches.” I grab my pencil and turn toward the notebook, realization hitting me. “I need to multiply everything by ten!”
I’m so excited I could cry. I measure everything once more and make this final batch in the largest pot I can find. Once it’s simmered, I pull it off the stove, pour another cup of coffee, and add some of the pumpkin spice creamer to it.
Bringing the cup to my lips, I blow on it and take a small sip.
Delicious.
Now for the real test. I compare it against the original. “It tastes the same!” I scream into the empty kitchen, my voice echoing off the walls. “Take that, Sarah. Take that,Marcus!” I whisper as I close my notebook and pack up the rest of the creamer into containers to pop into the fridge for tomorrow. I can’t believe I did it. I am so proud of myself. I wish I could text Dylan right now. He’d be overjoyed forme. He’d also probably say something snarky like, “Took you long enough to figure it out,” and then I’d smack his shoulder. Then he’d give me that smirk I love.
Suddenly, Saturday can’t come soon enough.
Chapter Twenty
Iknock loudly on the red door of the lighthouse. Mostly out of habit by now, even though I know he can’t hear me. The red paint is even more faded today; I can see the old, grey wood showing itself. If I ran my fingers along it, I’m sure I’d get a sliver. The rusty hinges squeak as I open the door, swinging open with a loudcreak, and I call out as soon as I get inside.
“Hello, 1993. How’s the weather over here?”
The stomping I hear upstairs pauses momentarily and then resumes, making its way back down the stairs. My chest tightens with the excitement I feel knowing I’m about to see him again. I leave the entry room and come into the main level of the lighthouse, just as he comes into view on the staircase. Dylan Hart is a sight to see. He looks straight out of an old J. Crew ad, with light-wash jeans cuffed at the ankles, bare feet, and a tight-fitting ocean-blue long-sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing his toned forearms. Long, wavy hair is pulled back in a half updo with a bun, and his deep, emerald-green eyes twinkle as they find mine and pin me in place.
I’m fucked.
“Well, hello, Lucy.” He smirks and motions for me to follow him upstairs. I tuck my loose, wavy hair behind my ears and roll up the sleeves of my brown knit sweater. It’s warmer today, and I took that as an excuse to wear another miniskirt and tights since I thoroughly enjoyed watching his eyes explore me last weekend. I paired it with my favourite brown mini Uggs and crew socks, and the look he gives my outfit is filled with both amusement and bewilderment.
Mission accomplished.
As soon as we get upstairs, I grab his hand, trying to ignore the sparks I feel as soon as his skin touches mine, and move him over toward the couch. “Before we do anything, I have to tell you about my week,” I say, my voice dripping with excitement.
“Okay, sure.” He turns to face me and waits for me to begin, hands now placed in his lap.
“I made your pumpkin spice coffee creamer,” I start.
“Yourpumpkin spice coffee creamer.”
“Our pumpkin spice coffee creamer.” Now we’re both chuckling. “I made it for my boss, who hates me, by the way. She loved it and wanted me to make a big batch for our customers to test out. After a lot of trial and error, I figured it out and made a big enough batch for people to try.” As he listens to me talk, his hand comes over and rests on my leg. We both look down for a moment before he pulls it away and gives his head a light scratch. I shake my head slightly and continue. “Customers wereobsessed. We offered it free to anyone who wanted to try it, and it was such a hit, we’re going to sell it for the fall season at the cafe!” I’m so giddy and excited that I squeeze my hands into little fists and punch the air.
“Proud of you,” he says as he gives me a wink.
