Page 90 of Common Grounds

He looks up at me over his glasses with a pinched expression, his fingers tapping the notepad. “Yes?”

I swallow hard. I’m pushing my luck here, but I’m a journalist, even if recent events have called my integrity into question. My curiosity has gotten the better of me, and I need to know. “My original pitch was out of left field. It was a desperate attempt to win a bet.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You know I could still pull the last article.”

“Yes, sir. I know. I just…” I trail off and regard him for another moment. Some of his hard edges have softened, and I’m pretty sure his threat is empty. “Why did you accept it in the first place? You couldn’t have known it would work.”

He sets his pen down carefully. He folds his hands in front of his face and presses them into his lips. Then, he drops them to the table. “I’ve been to Baker’s Blend. Years ago. Nice little place.”

I pinch my brows together and squeeze the back of the chair. “Forgive my forwardness, sir, but that can’t be why.”

He huffs. Then he smiles. Actually smiles. I almost can’t believe my eyes.

“My wife and I had our first date there,” he admits. “It felt like a sign.”

I have to fight not to let my jaw drop. All these years here, and I never thought Randall Skinner could possibly be even a little bit of a softie. Yet, here he is, talking about first dates and signs like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

As if reading my mind, he says, “I know you don’t think of me like that. No one does. I have a reputation to keep up here. Don’t go spreading any rumors.”

I try not to chuckle. “I won’t, sir.”

“Turns out trying to keep a local lifestyle magazine afloat in the middle of the collapse of journalism as we know it is tough to do. Makes a man rough around the edges. But you’ve bought us some wiggle room this month, Darlis. I won’t forget it.”

It’s a clear dismissal, so I nod. “Thank you, sir,” I say.

As I leave the room, Randall says to my back, “I can see how you were probably a great reporter at The Gazette.”

The compliment doesn’t go unnoticed, but it does little to assuage the tightness in my chest. “Thank you, sir,” I repeat, quieter this time, without turning around.

I make my way back to my desk, but as I wait for my laptop to power up, those words weigh on me. Randall may have turned rough around the edges, but Trevor has been trying to prop up his shop for years, and he’s remained one of the most hopeful men I know. I loved his optimism, even if I could never match it. It might have even started to rub off on me a bit. Why else would I agree to spend the night? Or bring him waffles?

Against my better judgment, I fish my phone out of my bag and turn it on. I hold my breath as the screen lights up, hoping there’s a message or voicemail from him. I scroll quickly through the pitifully few notifications. There’s only a couple from Cass and Vi. Nothing from Trevor.

I toss the phone back in my bag. Suddenly, my cubicle feels too tight. Too stark. Too constricting. I’ve been spoiled by the warmth of Baker’s Blend, but I know I can’t go there either. If Trevor hasn’t even tried to contact me, he must still be too hurt. I’m not going to bother him.

I send a quick text to Cass and Vi letting them know I’m alive and I need to throw all my energy into this final article, which is probably true, but not for the reasons they think. Once it’s sent, I power down my phone again and throw it back in my bag. “I’m working from home for the rest of the day,” I call to Ethan over the cubicle wall as I pack away my laptop. “Let me know if you need me.”

“Don’t forget your crown,” he calls back.

Chapter thirty-four

Trevor

Monday and Tuesday pass, but I’m not sure how. I don’t know what happens those days, or how to feel about any of it. I know I should be overjoyed that the steady stream of weekend customers seems to transfer into the next few mornings, but I can’t muster up more than a minimum amount of excitement. I am happy, don’t get me wrong, but what is the point of any of it without her here to celebrate?

I know the original goal was to help the shop. We did that, and I don’t want to discount it. But, at the very least, Emery’s success was always woven into it. She wanted to succeed more than anything, it seems. Maybe more than she wanted to be with me, at least at first. Can I continue to hold that against her? I refuse to pretend I wasn’t hurt. Sex might sell, but objectifying me for her own gain was wrong.

But things changed between us. Somewhere between that second and third article. Somewhere between a coffee tasting and me punching her ex in the face. I can’t escape the truth of it now. I miss her. Her laugh, her dark eyes, her cucumber shampoo, the way her skin tasted, how her fingertips felt as they explored my body. Without meaning to, she had become such a giant presence in my life, and then, poof. Vanished.

I’d call her right now if I thought it’d do any good. I wanted to talk it out. She didn’t. I guess that’s that.

The sun is dipping below the taller buildings behind the shop on Tuesday evening when James pulls up to the curb. He had been tasked with collecting items we’ll need for the event this weekend. Mike is close behind him with boxes of more stuff. I told him he wasn’t technically a paid employee, so he doesn’t have to help. He looked at me like I was an idiot, reminded me that I had paid him in lattes for working here Sunday, and snatched the list of things we needed out of my hands.

I’m grateful for the help. And the company.

Mike gets to work unfurling the banner. We hold it up to be sure it’ll fit in the window. It does. We put it away until the weekend, and he starts hanging string lights over the canopy and around the windows. Cass told us it’d add a bit of a festive air, and I’m too afraid not to listen to her. James unloads extra flavor syrups, milks, and pastry ingredients into the back room before setting himself up at a table to video chat with his band mates about Saturday’s event.

I jam my hands in my pockets and walk outside to chat with Mike and give James some privacy. Even though we’re all there, the shop is technically closed, so there isn’t much for me to do. I grab a string of lights and start lining a window.

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