Page 41 of Common Grounds

James is working today, but he’s no help, either. He takes one look at the women and mumbles an excuse to go to the back office. It’s probably for the best. These women don’t look like the type to order black coffee, which is about all he can handle.

My eyes follow him through the back door. I’m definitely going to have to do something about that sooner rather than later.

Not now, though. Now, three women are slipping me surreptitious glances while pretending to eye the menu, and I need to focus.

“Good morning, ladies.” I flash my most winning smile. The middle one—a blonde woman in floral leggings and a matching sports bra under her gray top—blushes and looks away. The tallest of the three, a brunette with a bobbed haircut, steps forward.

“Hi. You must be Trevor. We read all about you online. This… place… seemed so cute and we had to check it out.” By the way she’s eyeing me up and down, I doubt it’s the place they’re here to check out. I try not to grimace at the almost-blatant objectification. Customers are customers, and I can’t afford to lose any because I can’t handle a little gawking.

“Well, I’m glad you stopped in this morning. Can I get something started for you?” I widen my smile, which makes the third woman giggle.

“I’ll take a skinny iced mocha with oat milk, please,” the short-haired woman says. She eyes the case of baked goods next to the register, then rolls her eyes. “Oh, I might as well get a muffin, too. We’ll burn it off later, right girls?” she asks her counterparts, who both nod enthusiastically.

I bite the inside of my cheek to avoid telling them that they don’t have to earn their food. “Coming right up. Anything else for you today?”

The woman steps to the side and waves at her friends. “Whatever they want, too. It’s on me, girls!” she says excitedly, then winks at me. She actually winks at me. I can’t remember the last time a woman winked at me. I’m not sure how I feel about it. The other women both order muffins, a medium one-third decaf triple mocha with half the mocha, and a medium blended green tea latte with oat milk and three pumps of raspberry.

I’m once again grateful James excused himself to the back room. As it is, I consciously have to stop myself from making judgmental noises as they order.

Just as I start making their drinks, the bell chimes again, and a little thrill runs through me at the thought of more customers. “I’ll be right with you,” I call, my back to the door as I start pouring the half-third-triple mocha concoction into a cup.

I’m definitely going to have to figure out how to train James better if this continues. No, when this continues.

I had read Emery’s article yesterday, of course. She wasn’t kidding when she said she could find the heart of a story. The way she retold the details about my dad patching up the hole in the wall and wove it with details of the space here felt as if she was as personally invested in the story as I was. That story had been told to me a million times, and I’ve told it almost as many, but something about her description made it feel fresh and intimate. It was a nice article. I’m not surprised it drew people in today.

But when I turn around to place two of the drinks on the counter for the women to pick up, there’s no one else standing there. My eyes scan the space as I turn to deposit the third drink next to the other two, knowing the bell would have rung again if whoever walked in had left.

That’s when I see her. Emery. Sitting in the far corner, at the same table she sat the first night she came in the shop. She has her laptop in front of her and is staring at it as if it holds the key to understanding the universe. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was trying to avoid looking at me.

The women take their drinks and muffins and sit at a table on the other side of the shop near the window that faces the street. They start chatting loudly, as if they want to be heard, but I don’t have any energy to focus on them when the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen is sitting in my shop.

I’m distracted for a moment by my phone buzzing in my pocket. I take it out to see a text message from my mom. I unlock the screen and open my messages.

Mom: I read that article about the shop. Your aunt forwarded it to me. I had forgotten that story.

She had forgotten it? That story had been told to me so many times over the years, it’s burned into my brain. I touch that spot every so often on my way into the back room, just to feel my dad’s mark on this place. I guess she didn’t grow up here like I did. She never worked here. She came here a lot, but she might not be as connected to the details as I am.

Another buzz pulls me from my thoughts.

Mom: Anyway, thank that writer girl for me. It was a nice memory. She must be special for you to have shared that with her.

I’m starting to think “special” doesn’t begin to cut it, but I am not ready to have that conversation with my mother. Especially when that writer girl is sitting right here, in my shop.

I laugh lightly to myself and shake my head slightly as she continues to stare at her laptop, clicking at the keys and clearly avoiding my eye contact. I quickly make her an iced hazelnut latte before poking my head into the back room to strongly suggest to James that he comes to the counter for a few minutes. Luckily, he doesn’t need a ton of encouragement. I grab the latte on my way over to her table and slide into the seat across from her. She doesn’t look up right away, so I push the drink across the table to her. She finally drags her eyes from her screen as she begrudgingly raises the straw to her pink lips and takes a sip.

Her features immediately relax. She pulls two earbuds out of her ears and sighs.

“Hi, Emery,” I say, my voice a full octave lower than usual. I certainly didn’t intend to sound so sultry, but it’s out there now. And, if I’m not mistaken, Emery’s cheeks grow rosy as her gaze meets mine.

“I just came in here to get some work done,” she says as if she has to explain her presence in the shop. As if she’s apologizing for being here.

“Yeah, of course.” I can’t take my eyes off her.

Her gaze, however, flicks to the giggling girls by the window. “Don’t let me interrupt,” she grumbles.

I turn in my seat to find all three of them looking at me. They titter when I notice them, then quickly avert their gazes. I face Emery again, shaking my head. “It would seem I woke up this morning and found myself back in high school,” I joke. She huffs a laugh, and even that small sound emboldens me. “That article was good.”

Her brown eyes snap to mine, and she shrugs as if this may or may not be true. “I just told your story.” She eyes the women before meeting my gaze again. “I think you probably have more to do with your new customers than I do.”

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