Page 17 of Common Grounds

“Donna’s is closed,” she whines.

“Closed?” I ask, incredulous. That explains the pout. “What do you mean closed? Donna never closes.”

Vi points to a note on the door. “Looks like half the staff came down with the stomach flu, so they can’t open.”

“Oh, darn,” I say, though it’s clear from my tone that I am not all that sad. If Donna and her staff getting sick gets me out of this awkward conversation with my sister and Vi, I’ll take it. Sorry, Donna. “I guess Josie, Ethan, and I will have to go back to my place to work.”

“There’s that coffee place across the street,” Cass offers. We follow her finger to where she is pointing. The shiny, relatively new establishment that’s about the size of a small warehouse stands on the corner, all sleek black edges and mile-high windows. There is also a line around the outside of the building, everyone standing resolutely under their umbrellas.

“How is there a line around the outside of that place in a downpour? Who needs coffee that badly at five-thirty in the evening?” I ask, incredulous.

“Must be coffee hour,” Ethan chimes in. When we all turn to look at him, he shrugs. “You buy a pastry, and they give you a free coffee. I’ve been a few times when I’m on deadline. The pastries are good.”

Cass nods approvingly, and I can see her numbers-loving brain calculating. “That’s genius. Get rid of the old pastries and get people back in the door to spend some money before closing.”

“Ok, sure,” I say, “but that still doesn’t solve our problem. I’m not waiting in that line in this weather. So, I guess we raincheck, Cass, and these two can just come to my place to finish what we were working on.” I all but tug on Ethan’s arm to get him out of there.

But Josie has to open her mouth with another suggestion. “There’s a cute little hipster coffee shop the next street over,” she offers, pointing. I frown at her, and she knits her brows together. “What?”

“What is with everyone and coffee today? I’m not trying to be wired all night,” I protest in one last feeble attempt to break up this little party so we can come up with a winning pitch, and I can avoid talking about sex with my little sister.

Cass loops her arm through mine. “Get a decaf, then. Come on, I want to hear all about”—she looks at Josie, then Ethan— “a lot of things, apparently.”

Thoroughly defeated, I allow Cass to pull me into a run—well, in her case, it’s starting to become more of a run-waddle—down the street where we turn, then turn again at the next block. Josie leads us up to a storefront with floor-to-ceiling windows with a huge logo painted on them indicating this is, indeed, a coffee shop. Josie pulls open the big, heavy, wooden door and holds it for us all to rush inside.

Once safely out of the rain, we all shake off, dripping onto the mat by the door. Cass looks around. “This place is cute,” she says as we all take in the space. There are a couple of tables lining the window with an excellent view of the street outside. The tables are old but loved. Worn wood that looks comfortable and warm. The counter has some bar-height seating, too, and on it is an espresso machine that looks like it could have been made in the 1960s with over-polished chrome and art deco lettering on the side. Tiny, adorable espresso cups sit overturned on top of it in two neat rows. There are also some high-top tables that line the space in front of the other side of the L-shaped counter.

“I must have passed this shop a hundred times on my way from work to Donna’s, and I never knew it was even here.” I’m in awe that this adorable coffee shop has been hiding under my nose since… maybe forever, if that espresso machine is as old as I think it is. Something about that tickles my brain, like it’s a fact I should remember something about, but I can’t put my finger on it.

Looking around, it would seem that I’m not alone in my ignorance. Unlike the line around the corner at the place down the street, there is only one man in here, sitting with his back to us at a table near the window, and a teenage boy in a coffee-stained apron behind the counter.

The man does not turn to look at our group, but the teenager’s eyes just about pop out of his head when he sees us coming toward the counter. “Are you all…” he trails off and swallows audibly. “Do you all want drinks?”

Ethan chuckles. “Uh, yeah, that’s why we’re here.”

The boy nods vigorously. “Cool. Cool cool. Let me go get someone to help, okay?” He shuffles as fast as he can through the back door, leaving us all to stare at each other, wondering how this kid survives working in a coffee shop if making drinks for five people is too much to handle.

A moment later, the door swings open and the boy comes back out, avoiding our eye contact. He’s followed by a man who has his head down as he hastily ties an apron across his midsection. He’s wearing a mustard yellow beanie and a white t-shirt, and when he finally looks up, I can see his golden-brown stubble. His high cheekbones. And that’s when his striking eyes land right on me and his jaw drops in surprise.

Before I can tell myself to play it cool, I gasp loudly, and everyone turns to look at me.

“Trevor.”

Chapter eight

Trevor

“Trevor,” she gasps, and I’m having a hard time not remembering a week and a half ago, when she was gasping my name underneath me in my bed.

I can’t believe it. I stepped into the back room for five minutes to take a call from the bank. Then James came in telling me there was a group of people here, and he needed help making drinks. I couldn’t believe my luck then, and I certainly can’t believe it now because Emery is standing in the center of a group of people, her dark eyes wide with surprise.

But maybe she’s thinking the same thing because her olive complexion is turning a deep pink. Her dark blouse is wet and clinging to her curves in all the right places, and fuck, she’s even more gorgeous than she was at The Tipsy Geezer.

I recognize her friend with the purple hair from that night, and she slowly turns her head to Emery, a shit-eating grin on her face. She chuckles darkly, and the pregnant woman whose shoulders her arm is slung over, looks up in confusion. That must be Emery’s sister, if I’m remembering what she said correctly.

Who am I kidding? Of course, I remember correctly. I ate up every word she said that night and locked it away in my brain for later.

“Uh,” James steps up to my side. “Boss?”

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