Page 22 of Christmas Coffee

Celyn

The next morning I’m up at 4am and out the door. I won’t see Quin until much later, which is fine since I want to strangle him. He always says that I spend too much on crap that doesn’t matter. Maybe he’s right. Maybe that’s the point of this whole thing, to teach me to be a tightwad and treat employees like shit. It’s the fastest way to succeed, at someone else’s expense.

Why did I have to be a fucking idealist? I try to turn it off, but I can’t. There’s no fucking switch, so I put on blinders and ignore it, and I fully intend to be the hard-ass boss that people can’t stand. They can hate me all they want. It’s only for a few weeks and then I’ll be in the boardroom, back where I belong. I park my car behind a pile of snow. I don’t like that it’s out of sight from the hut, but there’s not much I can do about it. Besides, I have more pressing matters threatening to crush me. I need to get moving. The shoppers will come in swarms starting around 7am. It’s peak shopping season and I want everything to be perfect.

I’m pulling out the cookies from the bakery and putting them on a baking sheet. There’s a piece of white parchment paper on top of the pan, beneath the confections. Each cookie is about the size of my hand. I angle the tray and tilt it up a bit by sticking a brick under it so the people standing outside can see. I grab the mason jar candle I bought from the dollar store and light it. This was literally my last buck of the five grand. I light the sucker. It smells like the sugar cookies. I put it in the window. We’ll never bake them here and the candle was an afterthought, but it might make a difference. At this point, anything that helps is welcome.

When I finish grinding chef Rupert’s concoction of different coffee beans, I put the grounds into an airtight container and stick it on a shelf. I start on the decaf when I see a POS car roll up and park. A guy with model-like features gets out wearing the sorry excuse for a uniform I required. The fur vest hangs loosely around his toned chest and the dark leather-like pants are a bit tight. A silky blonde mop adorns his head and hangs to his clean-shaven chin. He looks like a Norwegian model.

Donning the fur cap, the guy walks over to the hut and visibly rolls his eyes as if he never thought he’d have to stoop so low. That makes two of us, pal. When the Thor-like man pulls open the door a rush of cold air hits me in the face, I turn to him and nod.

“Good morning.” I stop what I’m doing for a second to shake his hand. “I’m Celyn, the owner.”

“Hey. I’m Shannon.” He glances around the shack, bleary-eyed. I show him how to use the machines. He watches me with complete disinterest. Finally, he mumbles, “I worked a similar set up at a shop in Manhattan.”

I glance at him, wondering why he’s not there anymore. I don’t ask. “Great, then you don’t need any hand holding today.” I bend down and grab my briefcase from the floor. I wedged it between the cabinet and the wall when I came in earlier. After placing it on the counter, I pull out the coupons for a free cup of coffee. I added snowflakes and other winter shit so they look more aesthetically pleasing. I still feel like the coffee should have a cute, catchy name but it eludes me at the moment. I’ve been operating on too little sleep for too long.

I hand him the coupons. “Hand these out and when they’re gone, come back.”

The guy frowns. “You realize it’s cold enough to snow, right? And that I’m not wearing a shirt?”

I stare at him. My face is stern but I feel like a shit.

Shannon rolls his eyes as he says, “Whatever,” to himself, and then turns on his heel and heads back out the door. He spies a pack of women and starts beaming and I can tell that the man is a bullshitter. He can turn on the charm when he wants, and he must have been at full wattage when he interviewed yesterday. I make a mental note to consider moving him to the night crew. The man clearly isn’t a morning person.

Shannon points back to the hut, and hands a woman a coupon like it’s a bar of gold. She tucks her chin for a moment and shyly looks at the pavement that’s covered in ice and sand. When he walks away, the group of women glance at the shack several times before disappearing inside the mall.

I check my watch, wondering where the other employees are—she’ll be late if she doesn’t get here soon. I finish the decaf and start the corresponding machine before I take the container, seal it, and shove it on the shelf.

My heart is in my throat. I can’t believe Uncle did this to me. That bastard has been vying for this since dad died, but I didn’t see it. I should have noticed. How did that many years go by without my seeing the signs? Again, idealism bites me on the ass. I made excuses for him, thought he was just a hard man who never let his guard down. Rose-colored glasses did nothing but skew what’d been in front of my face for years. Truth be told, I have no idea if I can actually do this. I hope to God that I can, but I don’t know. Today will clue me in. If people come over, we’ll be okay. If they don’t—I’m fucked.

An old gray Honda rolls to a stop in a nearby parking space. The windows are fogged but I know the car. It belongs to that beautiful woman, the one I walked away from. The one I’ve been thinking about every day since. My heart leaps up my throat. How did she find me? I lean on the windowsill, planning some suave line and practicing my best smile, when she kicks her car door open.

Black boots hug the lines of those curvy legs. Just above them, her skin is covered in tights that flow up to a…I gape. Shocked. She stands and smooths the pale blue, fluffy skirt, with the white slip peeking out from the hem, making sure the frilly apron that’s tied around her waist is perfectly smooth. She’s missing a jacket, so she shivers, rubs her arms and sighs heavily as she smooths her palms over the tight-fitting dirndl top. It hugs her in a way that makes it impossible to not notice those full tits and the way they fill out the top. She stomps across the snow-covered lot toward the door, skirt billowing in the cold wind with her golden hair in twin braids, poking out from under a fuzzy hat. Holy fuck. The woman is a force of nature. Eyes turn to her, it’s impossible to look away. The curve of her back, the way she carries herself like she doesn’t take shit from anyone has me seriously worried. A girl like that shouldn’t be in a place like this. Quin did not hire this woman. There’s no fucking way.

As much as it pains me, I pull away from the window and riffle through my briefcase, pulling out the papers and find her application. The morning crew is Shannon, Erin, and Nova—my new manager. I glance out the window again, while scanning Erin’s application. There’s no picture, just a vague description from Quin’s notes—five foot, blonde, previous experience. Her application looks like it was filled out by a lovesick middle school girl. The I in Erin has a little heart over it. My chest feels like there’s a vice crushing me slowly. I glance up again and know that it’s her. Holy fuck. It’s her. The sex goddess with the Chilton’s manual is here, and her name is Erin. Somehow Quin hired her. As my eyes sweep over her papers, they get ensnared on one line. The date of birth. My face falls.

I mutter to myself, “No fucking way.” Sweat lines my brow even though it’s cold. I can’t make excuses and I sure as hell don’t want her to know I’m the asshole who made her wear that outfit. I panic. That’s the only reason for doing what I did next.

I’ve regretted it ever since.