Page 38 of Common Grounds

“How about photographers who make hot coffee shop owners look good?” Ethan calls from where he’s still peeking over the cubicle wall.

“I got you,” I call, waving the other cup in his direction. “Matcha, right?”

Ethan hums in delight as he glides over to me to take the cup. “You remembered.” He sounds genuinely touched.

“Why are you doing this?” Josie asks, digging through the bag for a muffin. I glance at Emery, who looks as if she’s also very interested in my answer.

“Just trying to drum up some business,” I say as casually as I can. Mike relieves me of the bag I’m carrying and makes his way to a few people sitting in desks off to the side of the office.

“Interesting tactic.” Josie’s mouth is full of muffin, so I can’t tell if she’s being serious or sarcastic. She walks back to her desk before I can ask.

“This place is kind of dead,” I say to no one in particular.

“Yeah, most everyone turns their articles in by noon so they can get out of here early on Thursdays,” Emery explains.

“How are you supposed to write fun pieces for a local lifestyle web magazine with a work environment like his?” I ask.

She gives a loud snort. “I frequently ask myself that question.”

“You frequently ask everyone that question,” Ethan chides as he walks back to his desk. Emery shrugs as if to concede.

A door opens to my right, and an older man walks out. He is easily a few inches shorter than me, with salt-and-pepper hair that’s thinning a bit at the top. He wears a white, short-sleeved button-down and black slacks. By the way everyone hushes at his presence, I assume this is her boss.

He approaches us, his eyebrows raised. “Darlis, what’s this?”

“This is Trevor Kovacic, sir. From Baker’s Blend Coffee Shop.” She speaks without an ounce of trepidation. It’s clear he doesn’t intimidate her like he does some of the other people who slink back to their cubicles. “Trevor, this is Randall Skinner. He runs the magazine.”

I extend my hand, still awkwardly holding the extra cappuccino. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

He shakes my hand gruffly. “What are you doing here?”

“He was dropping off some extra muffins and coffee. For research,” Emery jumps in.

“Cappuccino?” I ask, holding out the drink.

“Hmm. Don’t mind if I do.” He takes it from me and takes a long sip. He lets out a satisfied hum, and Emery raises her eyebrows in surprise. “Good stuff. Thank you.” As he starts to walk away, he calls, “Darlis. Don’t you have an article to submit?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll have it in on time,” she calls back. She looks at me the corners of her mouth pulling down and eyebrows still raised, impressed. When we hear another door close on the other side of the office, she says, “That was the nicest he’s been to anyone in a long time.”

“Coffee will do that for you,” I suggest.

“Hmm, maybe.” She frowns in his direction and stands silent for a while.

“You’re not done writing the article yet?” I break the silence.

I watch as a tug-of-war plays out over Emery’s features. She clearly has an answer to my question and she’s debating whether or not to tell me. Eventually, she lets out a frustrated sigh through her nose.

“I want to get it right this time.” She quickly takes a drink of her latte as if the words tasted bad coming out of her mouth.

I turn to fully face her. From this angle she has to look up to meet my gaze, but only a little. I want to reach out. Run my hands up and down her arms in reassurance. I settle for falling into her dark eyes. “You’re doing the best you can,” I reassure her. “That’s all anyone can ask.”

She looks pained as her gaze falls to the floor. “That’s just it,” she says quietly, almost embarrassed. “I didn’t.” She swallows audibly, then snaps her gaze to mine again. “I know how to write with heart, Trevor. I’m good at this. Or, at least, I used to be before…” she trails off, then shakes her head. “Let’s just say a lot has changed. I’ve been skating by on good enough for a while now. I realized it as you were talking about your dad and that hole in the wall the other day. You have so much passion for that little shop that I didn’t even bother to uncover for that first article, and it showed. People don’t want to read dry articles about local shops. They want to feel the heart of the story. I want to give that to them. And to you. The heart, I mean.” Her eyes widen slightly as if she realized what she said. “The heart of the story,” she clarifies unnecessarily.

I know she meant the heart of the story, but if she felt the need to clarify, maybe she was thinking about her heart, too. At least, my own stupid heart seems to hope so, considering how hard it’s beating. I’m so distracted that I’m nodding without even realizing it, and I don’t notice that she’s stopped talking until it’s been silent for too long. I don’t think she’s ever given me this much of a peek into herself. I want to know more. I want to pry into that heart and see what she’s holding back. I could listen to her talk all day. But she’s stopped talking, and now it’s getting awkward.

“I can show you heart,” I offer, and try not to cringe at how weird that sounds.

But she glances at my chest, as if what she’s looking for literally resides in my ribcage. “I believe you can,” she almost whispers. She shakes her head slightly, as if waking up from a trance. “Anyway,” she says much louder, “I was here working on some edits. I…” She trails off, meeting my eyes. Hers are infused with a fiery commitment that’s so sexy, I have to remind myself to breathe. “I want to do it right this time,” she finishes.

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