Page 4 of Go Back to December

“Always do.” She glances at Baz and frowns. “What is he doing here?”

“You tell me!” I hiss. “I thought he’d left for the holiday.”

“And miss the B&S party?” Her frown deepens. “He’s pacing like a caged animal.”

A notification on Lacy’s phone usurps her attention, and she lets loose a low curse. “You got the email about the meeting tomorrow, right?”

“What meeting?”

“For the Finance Committee.”

Her eye contact is shaky, and it’s a bad tell. The Blackhart & Steele Finance Committee oversees the café’s budget. We meet twice a year, in March and October. A break-in meeting smacks of certain doom.

“Lacy, what’s going on?”

She yanks me away from the mob. “No one knows anything yet; it’s only rumors, but there’s some whispering about a reorganization.”

As part of Blackhart & Steele’s commitment to fund the café as a social enterprise, all of our staff are direct employees, and a firm-wide re-org could impact us.

My throat dries. “Are they talking about layoffs?”

“No, no! Nothing like that. You have nothing to worry about.” She gestures to the surrounding chaos. “They love this place. They need this place.”

Of course they do. Investing in the café dragged Blackhart & Steele out of the reputational gutter. Their fiefdom-building upstairs has no bearing on what happens down here.

Shattering china shrieks from the front coffee bar.

“Oh, God.” The new guy reaches for the shards scattered on the ground.

“Don’t!” I shout. In a softer voice, I add, “You’ll cut yourself.”

He mumbles a profuse number of apologies. I pat his arm and move him aside to grab a towel from the bar. Ignoring the tightness in my throat, I crouch down to clean up the mess.

“No—oh, Mel. Your favorite mug.”

Gently, I wrap the painted pottery pieces in the towel. When I rise, Amal tries to take it, but I can’t let go of the fragments. They’re broken beyond repair, and I’m horrified as the prick of salt in the corner of my eyes morphs into hot tears that tumble down my face.

Amal finally wrestles the towel from me with a worried glance across the room. I follow her gaze to where Baz has halted his pacing to stare at me.

The pull of his brow and the tightness in his jaw tell me he finds my entire existence utterly pathetic.

Chapter Two

Today, I’m back on my game.

The café is humming with holiday atmosphere. Celtic solstice harmonies play softly from the sound system; the scent of freshly baked gingerbread mingles with the spice of our homemade wassail.

And I’m practically glowing with the deep satisfaction of watching Baz squirm.

He arrived at his usual time this morning, hair damp, gym bag slung across his body, which makes today a swim-before-work day. Because it’s a swim day, and he’s hungrier than usual, the effort to prohibit any morsel of food from reaching his lips is so much more rewarding.

“That’s exactly what I told him,” Baz says in a silky voice reserved for client conference calls. He occupies our best table in the corner, which should seat four people, but only hosts him, his computer, two Moleskins, and a book with a blurry black-and-white photo cover. His squatting is preventing my team from turning the table, which is beyond irritating since we’re trying to ring as much business as possible before we close for the end-of-year break.

As a waiter leaves the kitchen with a tray of steaming fragrant omelet plates, Baz’s gaze sharpens on him like a hawk.

It’s been ninety minutes since the bastard sat down. No one’s stopped at his corner. Not to take an order, or refill his drained water glass, which someone made the mistake of pouring before they received the memo that no one serves Baz until he apologizes for his behavior yesterday.

The outburst certainly wasn’t his first, or his worst. Which is exactly the problem. I’ve let it go on for too long. It can’t continue. Especially if I won’t be here in the future to protect my staff.