Page 40 of Common Grounds

It’s not hard to make Trevor look good. He’s all glowy good looks and sparkly eyes. The man has a jawline that could cut steel and cheekbones that could touch the sky. On top of it all, his smile is easy and would look almost boyish if it weren’t for the stubble gracing his jaw.

But somehow, Ethan has managed to capture Trevor at his absolute best. He’s sitting at the table as he was doing while we were talking on Monday. The surface of the table is blurry, but his forearms are in focus, the shirtsleeves of his plaid shirt rolled up. His black slouchy hat rests atop his head, and his golden-brown hair pokes out of the hem at the front. He looks every inch the neighborhood hipster coffee shop owner.

But none of this is what’s so intoxicating about the photograph. It’s the complexity he exudes. He looks joyful, though his grin carries a tinge of nostalgia. He looks like a man who is completely and utterly at home in the chair he’s sitting in, especially because he knows the history of it. It’s the perfect photo to pair with this week’s article.

But what really catches me off guard are his eyes. Those damn eyes of his are practically glittering as they laser-focus on whatever is across from him, out of the frame.

If I hadn’t been there myself, I would think he was looking at something he adored. Something that piqued his interest, maybe even something he was infatuated with. But it’s me he’s looking at in that picture. I was sitting right there. And warm tingles that rise in my core at the realization.

“Never mind the world,” Josie calls dreamily from her side of the office, having clearly eavesdropped on our earlier conversation. “You’re the best photographer in the universe.”

Ethan chuckles. “You know it.”

I can’t even pretend to protest because he really is. This photograph is stunning. Trevor is stunning. And he’s looking at me like that.

If it were any other woman, I’d consider her one lucky bitch. I’d tell all my friends to find themselves someone who looks at them the way Trever looks at her.

But it’s not any other woman. It’s me. And I am not the relationship type. Not anymore.

I chew on my lip a little more as the picture continues to fill my screen. I should look away, but I can’t. The image is practically intoxicating.

“I hate to say I told you so,” Ethan sings after a few minutes. “But check out some of these comments.”

That snaps me into action. I wheel forward so I’m as close to my desk as I can be and refresh the page again before I scroll quickly to the comment section.

It’s Coffee Hottie Friday, ladies!

Is he serving those forearms along with the muffins?

I’d let him serve me literally anything.

I chew on my lip again as similar comments start rolling in. Who knew posting thirst trap photos would draw in the clicks? Well, Ethan and probably everyone else on the internet knew, but if this continues, my job is about to get a lot easier.

A nagging guilt gnaws at me, though. These commenters are interested enough to look at Trevor’s picture—and I’m going to fully ignore whatever feelings I have about that—but are they interested enough to check out the shop in real life? If I win this bet with Randall but Trevor doesn’t see any increase in business, will it be a hollow victory?

The pit that falls in my stomach feels an awful lot like a resounding yes.

I guarantee these commenters by-and-large mainline iced coffee during these summer months. They’re always posting pictures of themselves with their trendy coffee cups on their social profiles. I lean in further and squint. Two of them even have an iced coffee in their profile picture.

They need a catalyst to get them through the door. Something more familiar to them than the call-to-action at the end of the article. Maybe someone who is just like them, suggesting they should pay Baker’s Blend a visit.

Everyone knows you should never read the comments, but at a lifestyle magazine like this, engagement is what makes or breaks a writer’s success. To that end, everyone here has at least one burner account to spur on a few more clicks. It’s a dirty trick, but it’s unfortunately the nature of the beast.

I log into my latest burner account and type out a few quick replies that I’m planning to stop by the shop on my way home from work to see if Trevor lives up to his photo, and maybe grab an iced coffee while I’m there. I post them before I can think better of it.

A few moments later, Ethan lets out a low, warning hum. “I sure hope you know what you’re doing there, NewsJunkie814,” he says.

Yeah, I think. Me too.

Chapter sixteen

Trevor

It shouldn’t be a surprise that the bell above the door dings at seven-thirty in the morning on Saturday. It should be a normal occurrence that any coffee shop owner might expect.

But this is my coffee shop. And no one ever comes in at seven-thirty in the morning. Or any other time.

So, when the door opens and three twenty-something women wearing leggings and loose-fitting tops and carrying rolled-up yoga mats appear, it takes me a moment before I realize I should probably greet them or something.

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