“No, we all did it,” Jo replied, sharing the credit. Technically, Blue had done it for her. She wondered if he knew.
“I’ve never seen anything like this happen,” Maileah said. “It’s a total fluke, but run with it all the way to the bank!”
By noon, the campaign had crossed seven thousand dollars. By midnight, it had passed eight, closing in on her first hurdle. She was sitting in bed with her laptop, watching the numbers climb in real time, when her phone buzzed.
It was Blue.
Heard your campaign is blowing up. Congrats.
Thanks. It’s going well.
Boring. She deleted that and typed: It’s been a good day. She deleted the message again and typed: The campaign is doing well. Your interview drove a lot of traffic. People saw the cup.
I’m glad.
She didn’t know what else to say, so she put the phone down and stared at the ceiling.
The money was coming in. And Blue would be gone.
She blinked as her eyes began to fill.
She hadn’t wanted it to happen this way. She’d spent months building her brand, sourcing her beans, writing her story. She’d poured herself into that campaign page. The women’s cooperatives, Mahina’s groves, the all-female supply chain. That was her story.
And now the comments were about the hot cop.
Her phone dinged, and she picked it up to read his new message.
I’m glad people are finding the campaign. I only wish it was because of the coffee, not me.
The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
He finally finished his message: They’ll stay for your coffee. You have what they want.
She read the message twice. Then she typed: That might be the smartest thing you’ve ever said.
I booked my flight. Goodnight, Jo.
Goodnight, Blue.
She had no idea what they were doing anymore. She closed her laptop and lay in the dark, listening to the quiet sounds of Sunshine Avenue. Across the street, Junie and Knox’s house was dark. The neighborhood was asleep.
She reached for her phone to check the crowdfunding app one more time.
Nine thousand dollars.
If this kept up, the campaign would reach its funding level soon. Jo was ecstatic even though she’d wanted to do this on her own. But if people came for the cop and stayed for the coffee, she could live with that.
And then an uncomfortable thought struck her. Had he planned this as a parting gift to her?
14
The morning sun was barely up when Jo arrived at the Crown Island ferry terminal. Boats rocked in their slips, and a pelican sat on a piling surveying its territory.
Sailor’s truck was parked near the loading ramp, packed with surfboard carriers and luggage. Adrian helped Sailor load items onto the red ferry. Pride for his son showed in his expression, along with a trace of concern. After all, Sailor chased the most dangerous waves in the world for a living.
Maileah sat on a nearby bench in a sundress and sneakers, her laptop in hand, answering emails.
“Did you sleep at all?” Jo asked, greeting her.
