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He handles the backpack and the helmets, so my hands are free to take notes and pictures and explore the building. The real estate agent gives a small pitch and hangs back to let me explore on my own. Luke doesn’t say a word, letting me come to my own conclusions while he inspects structural things I’m not particularly interested in.
This unit was once a coffee shop, then a taco shop, and has been empty for a few months now. The interior is plain. Cream walls, concrete floors, and big windows on the corner walls that line the patio. My spot in Station 19 is an odd triangular-ish shape that Devon described as a design nightmare. This one’s a normal rectangle. A blank slate.
Tables here, here, and there.I walk around, imagining the setup.Couch here, more tables by the back wall, big plants on the east-facing window, and Hector and Brian’s comfy chairs could go by the front like they are now. A twinge of sadness tightens in my gut. Hector and Brian would come out here once to congratulate me, but who’s going to drive forty-five minutes to hang out at a coffee shop all day? Not even those two. Not that I’d blame them.
MovingTurbineout here would be starting over in just about every way. Devon said it could be good for me. Maybe even force me to have a better work-life balance.Work a real schedule.
I could tweak the menu and finally drop the damn Cookie Explosion blended drink that I added on a whim years back without realizing what a pain in the ass it would be to make. Cookies, peanut butter cups, chocolate-covered espresso beans, dates, caramel drizzle, and sprinkles on top of the whipped cream. It’s a monstrosity, and people love it. I took it off the menu once, and people continued to order it, due in large part to the “Quirky Things to Try in Palm Springs” article that’s been making the rounds for ages. I even kicked up the price of every size. It’s the most expensive thing on the menu, but people still order it.
The idea of burying the Cookie Explosion once and for all is appealing, but it’s still nothing compared to losing Hector and Brian.Not to mention Daisy. Or Marisol. Or any of my other staff. And there’s no barre studio across the street for—
“It’s a little bigger than what you’ve got now, right?” Luke asks into my ear, his arms wrapping around me from behind, calming my racing heart.How did he know I was about to spiral? Am I that obvious?
“It is,” I say, with forced cheer in my voice, leaning into his hold. His biceps press in around my arms, the hard planes of his chest firm against my shoulders. Arching my back, I rub my ass against him. “Maybe we should get out of here and trash this whole idea.”
“Sweetheart, I cannot wait to have you again,” he whispers into my ear, dark and low. “But we’re here for a reason. Tell me more about what you see.”
He’s right.I hate how often that happens.“I love the windows and the patio outside.”
“Where do you think you’d put the register?” He kisses my temple, letting go of my waist, so I can walk overand show him. Once my feet are planted, hands up in the air to show I’m in the spot, he says, “Oh, I see it. You look good there.”
“You think I look good everywhere.”
“You do, but that spot is particularly good. You could make this work, sweetheart. Here, watch,” he says, going out the front door and out of sight before walking back in fifteen seconds later. There’s a little bell tied to the door that rings when he walks in. Seeing him there in his worn jeans and gray t-shirt from my spot behind theregisterI’m suddenly able to picture what it would be like to moveTurbinehere. From this spot, I could keep an eye on the whole place, but it’s far enough from the door that I wouldn’t get a wash of heat every time someone came in. I have a view of the mountains in the distance and cars going by on the highway.
There would be new faces. New regulars, lots of out-of-towners—which I love. Luke stands a few feet inside the door, hands in his pockets, sly smirk on his face, and it clicks that one of my regularswouldstill come here.Luke. No one else is coming forty-five minutes for coffee, but I bet he would. Could get here in thirty on one of his motorcycles, I bet.
We spend another half hour investigating the place, pondering the possibilities and taking pictures. Luke only speaks up to ask a few questions about safety and security, and when we leave I am truly, honestly encouraged and excited about movingTurbine Caféfor the first time ever.
~
Tapping on Luke’s shoulder to signal he needs to turn right at the next street, I rush to get my hands back around his waist. He cocks his head to the side, in a silent, “Really?” but makes the turn, anyway.
I told him I knew where we should go for lunch, but it was easier if I gave him directions on the way. I’m sure he was confused when we drove away from town, but that’s the beauty of being on a motorcycle. He can’t ask questions. Much easier to keep my little surprise a secret this way. I guide him further into the desert for twenty more minutes, onto side roads and up to a hiking trail.
“We hiking in jeans today, sweetheart?” he asks once our helmets are off.
“Fuck no. There’s a shady spot behind those rocks over there.” The hiking trails within the actual national park are incredible. Stunning. And often crowded. Where we are now is just as beautiful,according to me, and much more private. Luke follows me for the three-minute walk to the shade. It’s 105 out, not a cloud in sight, so that’s all it takes to have both of us breathing heavily with the heat.
Pulling out the cooler bag that’s in my backpack, I toss him a cold water to drink while I lay out the blanket, but he helps me set up our picnic instead. We have turkeys on rye, BBQ chips, and potato salad from the deli with the good mac ‘n’ cheese.
“This is adorable,” he says, settling down onto the blanket and finally taking a big swig of the water.
“You seem to have a thing for surprise picnics. Felt like it was my turn.”
His laugh is rich and full. “I have a thing foryou.”
Chapter 29
Luke
“If you don’t ask for what you want, someone else will get it.” -Grandad Ernie, encouraging seven-year-old Luke to speak up at a family dinner when the mashed potatoes were almost gone.
“It’s too hot. I can’t take it anymore,” Allie says, fanning herself with the leather notebook she uses for notes about new buildings.
“Alright, sweetheart. I’ll get you home.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We’ve barely been here three minutes. I’m just taking off my pants.”
