Page 3 of Common Grounds

I roll my eyes and sigh. “I’m late one time, and you can’t let it go?”

“Hmm.” Cass pretends to think about it, then drops her chin toward me, her eyes serious. “No.”

I shake my head, then glance at Vi, who only has eyes for Cass again. She’s basically a purple-haired, heart-eye emoji with a lip ring. The way she looks at her is as sickly sweet as the milkshake I’m sipping, even as Cass takes another massive, inelegant bite of her hamburger.

I swirl the whipped cream topping with my straw and lick it off before taking a long draw of vanilla milkshake through it. All conversation has halted while my two companions clearly play footsie under the table. Vi uses her tongue to fidget with her lip ring. Cass’s gaze snags on the movement, and then it’s her turn to blush.

I’m happy for them. I really am. And I’m not jealous. I came to terms with my divorce pretty much as soon as I threw his cheating ass out of our apartment. Their kind of love just isn’t meant for me.

But it might not be a bad idea to charge my vibrator for when I get back from the bar tonight, either.

Chapter two

Trevor

I’ve been over these numbers a hundred times. Maybe even two hundred. The situation never changes. Unless there’s some kind of miracle, we have two months tops before we’re going to have to shut down Baker’s Blend Coffee Shop.

It’s a good thing I believe in miracles. Otherwise, I’d be completely lost.

I’m not one to lose hope, but things look pretty dire as I bend over a worktable in the tiny office-slash-kitchen in the back of the shop, staring at the spreadsheet I have practically memorized. Red numbers line the sheet, getting blurrier the longer I look at them. I know they don’t have to be literally red, but what can I say? I like a little drama.

“Hey, Boss?” James sticks his head between the double doors with an apologetic look on his face.

I pinch the bridge of my nose as I look up at him. “How many times have I told you to call me Trevor?”

“Oh.” He straightens slightly, opening the door wider. “Um, a lot.”

James is a nice kid, but he’s probably—no, definitely—another reason we are losing money. I hired him when his mom begged me to give him a job so he could get out of the house and start making some money. I guess I’m a sucker for a good cause.

Right now, he’s standing there, staring at me. It’s starting to get awkward.

I sigh. “Did you need something, James?”

“Yeah, Boss.” He cringes. “Um, Trevor. Your buddy is here.” He shrugs and leaves the back room, letting the door swing closed.

Very carefully, I snap my ancient laptop shut. One of these days, it’ll probably turn to dust under my fingers, and I don’t need another added expense. I stand and stretch before sighing deeply. Staring at these numbers isn’t going to make a miracle appear, anyway. Might as well walk away for now.

I push the door to the serving area open to see Mike, my best friend, standing on the other side of the laminate, L-shaped counter. He brushes a crumb off one of the empty, well-worn oak tables sitting sad and empty behind him. Despite the emptiness, I grin. Mike and I have known each other since college. He even used to work here on breaks, and he still tries to stop in as much as he can.

“Hey, man. How’s it going? Can I get you anything?”

He smiles back. His eyes flit to James as his expression turns mischievous. I know before he even says it that he’s going to order something complicated as a test. “An oat milk latte would be great.”

Could be worse. Could be the hot flat white with a triple shot of espresso, nonfat milk, and extra foam he ordered a few days ago. We stand there for a moment, then I swivel to James, raising my eyebrows expectantly. Surely, he can handle a simple nondairy latte?

James looks behind him as if there is someone else there to pass the order on to. There’s not. There never was. Once he finally figures it out, he pulls out the whole milk to start making Mike’s latte, showing no small amount of trepidation as he approaches the decades-old espresso machine on the counter. It faces the barstools where patrons used to sit and sip their tiny coffees. I clear my throat, then clear it again louder because James didn’t hear me the first time.

“He said oat milk,” I remind him.

“Oh, shit,” he curses, then covers his mouth, his eyes wide. “I’m sorry, Boss. Wrong milk. No swearing. I got it.”

He does not “got it.” This is how he’s been for the past six months since I hired him. I cock my head then shake it before bumping him out of the way so I can take over.

“Let him, Trev. It’s fine,” Mike says, leaning over the counter and grabbing my arm before I can make it too far. “Seriously.” He reaches for his wallet and pulls out a $100 bill.

I eye him up and down, frowning. “It’s on the house.”

He scowls at me, then glances around the empty shop, letting his gaze linger on several of the empty, wooden chairs that surround the tables. “Can you afford to give away lattes?”

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