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“No.” I pressed my lips together to stop from laughing at his concerned face. Did he really think we were adding pieces of pork or filet mignon to his three-dollar cup of joe?
“Delilah, technically, your slogan is wrong,” I told her as I headed toward our new fancy and very expensive espresso machine. Charlotte, the wealthy owner of the coffee shop, always bought us the best equipment. The problem was none of us ever knew how to use any of the items she bought.
“What do you mean?” Delilah moved back to the silver-and-chrome machine with me, her hair in a tight bun on top of her head. She looked the picture of a perfect barista, with her crisp white shirt, black apron, and khaki pants, but as soon as you got to know her, you knew that appearances were super deceptive.
“Humans are made of meat.” I grinned at her. “We’re flesh and bones.”
“I meant the meat we eat,” she said, and we both stared at the machine. Then she looked back at the guy in the suit. “I’d munch on him all day and night.”
“Delilah.” I shook my head. “What if he heard you?” I peeked back at him. He was still staring at his phone, but now he was tapping his foot impatiently.
“Then he could take me up on my offer.” She giggled and reached up to undo her bun. I kept my mouth shut. Delilah could have him. “So, how exactly do we use this machine again?” she asked me as she shook her head and looked to see if Mr. Wall Street was staring at her. He wasn’t.
“Your guess is as good as mine.” I sighed, staring at the machine, willing it to start spewing out espresso of its own volition. “I draw for a living. I don’t solve complex mechanical engineering equations.” I grabbed a clean white cup and held it in my hand.
“Right?” She nodded in agreement. “I drive a car. I don’t build a carburetor.”
I looked back at the surfer dude that was scrolling on his phone. “Just checking you want a coffee and not a tea or lemonade or something?”
“Yeah, a black coffee.”
“Okay.” I held in a sigh and looked into Delilah’s gleeful brown eyes. Delilah was fifty-five, but she was constantly stirring up trouble for me and Molly, the other employee at the store. “What is it?” I asked her. There had to be a reason she looked like the stray cat that had just stolen a carton of milk.
“Gimme your cup,” she said, taking it from me without waiting for me to hand it to her.
“What are you going to do?”
“When the mountain doesn’t come to you, you go to the mountain, Harriet.” She winked at me.
“What?”
“Hold on.” She just grinned, and I watched as she headed toward the small back office. “You go keep that young man occupied. Maybe sell him some toast. Upsell, Harriet, upsell.” She repeated the words that Charlotte berated us with every time she came to the store, and I rolled my eyes.
“Uh-huh.” I had no idea what she was up to, but I wasn’t going to argue with her. “Would you like an avocado waffle with—”
“You mean avocado toast?” Surfer Dude blinked as he put his phone away.
“No.” I pressed my lips together. “Here at Charlotte’s, we like to do things a little differently. We have avocado waffles and strawberry and egg toast with…” My voice trailed off as he made a face.
“No thanks.” He tapped his fingers against the white oak countertop, sniffed, and made a face. He smelled the burned toast that Delilah had made just a few minutes before he’d walked in the door.
“Here we go, sir.” Delilah joined me at the countertop and handed him a cup filled with coffee. My jaw dropped as I stared at her. Where the hell had she gotten the coffee from? She nodded down, and I looked at her hand. She opened her palm slowly, and I saw a Keurig pod sitting there. “That’ll be eight dollars, please,” she said as she headed to the till. I didn’t say a word about the new price. Delilah was known for charging customers different prices for the same items, depending on how much she liked their sense of humor. Tourists thought it was a quirky and fun part of the experience. Only I knew Delilah was pocketing the difference because Charlotte paid us “like shit.”
I didn’t particularly like Charlotte, so I never said anything, and neither did Molly.
“Good morning, good morning.” The bell above the door rang as Molly entered, singing cheerfully, as if she wasn’t over an hour late for work. Surfer Dude turned to look at her, and I could see a smile crossing his face as he gazed at her. Men loved Molly. She was short and sweet and wore the most revealing clothes she could because she loved the attention. Molly’s biggest goal was to leave Port Sunshine to become an actress, and if that didn’t work out, she wanted to be a “trophy wife.” I thought that her life goals were really sad for someone who was eighteen, but I understood it. When you grew up in Port Sunshine, all you wanted to do was leave.
“Morning, Molly.” I nodded and watched as she headed to the back with Delilah and left me with Wall Street Dude. I sighed as I turned toward him. He wasn’t even paying attention to me.
“Charlie, I’ll be back in New York by the end of the week. I just need to find a housekeeper for the new place I bought in Port Sunshine.” He sounded irritated, and I watched him tapping his fingers against his thigh while he paused as Charlie, whoever he was, said something to him. I watched his handsome face contort into a grimace. “No, I’m not giving up the business to become a beach bum. It was my mother who convinced me to buy the place… She thinks I work too hard.” He seemed to roll his eyes at the thought. I knew I was being rude eavesdropping on Mr. Wall Street Banker’s phone conversation, but he was the one talking loudly in the middle of a coffee shop. And he was wearing a suit. He’d stand out wherever he went in town. No one in Port Sunshine wore suits. I didn’t even think the locals owned one among them all. I knew my dad didn’t, but maybe that was why my mother was filing for divorce.
I stood there waiting for the man to acknowledge me and place an order. I was half hoping someone else would walk into the store so I could serve them first, and then if Wall Street Douche complained, I would be like, “I wasn’t sure if you came to buy a cup of coffee or just boast about your new home.” I giggled quietly to myself at the thought. That would show Mr. Too Cool for School. But, of course, my wish didn’t come true because no one came in before he finally got off the phone.
“A venti latte with three shots of espresso, oat milk, and a dash of honey.” His voice was impatient, and he was still looking at his phone—rude asshole.
“Will that be all, sir?” I asked in my most polite Southern drawl. He was still staring at his phone screen.
“Yup.” He shook his head in disgust at something he was reading. “Can’t leave them for two days without something getting fucked up,” he muttered. Was he even paying attention to me?
