Page 56 of Common Grounds

Trevor

For two days after Cass leaves, I wait for word from either her or Emery, though none comes. Cass tasked me with developing a new menu and had said she’d come back with a plan. She had told James to document the process, take pictures of the food and drinks, and post daily videos to grow our follower count. It seems like a good plan, even if I can’t wrap my head around social media in general.

Thankfully, James seems eager to get started, immediately pulling out his phone and setting up for pictures when he’s back in the shop on Wednesday. I start making drinks, and James snaps action shots of me the whole time. I wish I had seen this untapped potential in him earlier. But, I suppose, what’s done is done. Onward.

“Is this really necessary?” I ask, grimacing as he gets the phone too close to my face for my comfort.

He shrugs. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to, but those ladies sure seem to like looking at you.”

I eye him sidelong and press my lips together as I make up another batch of lavender-infused whipped cream. I wish we had some actual lavender flowers to use as props for these photos. I add that to the growing mental list of things to buy. And to add to my budget report for Cass.

James stops taking pictures and backs away from me. “I get it. You don’t want to be the front man.”

“The what?” I ask as I shake up the whipped cream dispenser.

“The front man,” he repeats. “Our lead singer is the perfect front man. He likes being in the spotlight. I prefer being in the background. That’s why I play the bass. No one notices the bass. Until it’s gone, that is.” He pushes some of his curly hair out of his eyes.

“Why haven’t you mentioned your band before?” I swirl the whipped cream on top of the purple mug I selected for this particular picture. A little on the nose, but without lavender flowers, it’ll have to do.

James shrugs. “I don’t really like to mix my two worlds, you know what I mean?”

I do know what he means. I wish I didn’t. Right now, Emery doesn’t want to mix our two worlds, either. She wants to keep our relationship firmly in the work hemisphere, even though I’m having trouble keeping things on this side of strictly professional. With the way she was talking to me the other day, I don’t know how much longer I can stay the course. Never mind that we pretty thoroughly crossed that line before we started this whole scheme.

The thought of Emery has me pondering all I’ve learned about her past relationship. I want to be a part of her life, and this feels like something I need to get right. But I don’t have time to contemplate that further. James is tapping the side of the phone impatiently and holding it up, ready to take pictures.

I slide the mug toward him, and he sets it up so the café is visible in the background. He walks around it, taking a few pictures. I squeeze a bit of whipped cream out on my finger and taste it. It’s pretty good, if I do say so myself, but the sight of it triggers the memory of Emery with the same whipped cream on her finger, and me praying she was going to lick it off.

She didn’t. It was probably for the best, but I can’t say I wasn’t disappointed.

The bell over the door chimes, and I look up to see Mike walking into the shop, his arms spread wide.

“Hey!” he exclaims. “You’ve had customers!”

“We have.” I grin at him. “It was a good weekend, actually.”

“And there has been a rush the past few mornings,” James pipes up from where he’s taking pictures.

“I wouldn’t call that a rush.” I frown. Though, I suppose I can see why James would. Having any kind of line makes him nervous. “But we had maybe ten or twelve people in here yesterday morning.”

“That’s great!” Mike exclaims again, his voice booming throughout the empty space. I’m not sure why he always feels the need to be so loud. “We need to celebrate.”

“Uh,” I start, looking around. “I mean, I guess this weekend—”

“Not this weekend,” he interrupts, his tone suggesting I’m an absolute idiot. “Tonight.”

I screw up my face. This man has lost his mind. “It’s Wednesday,” I explain slowly.

He walks over and claps me on the back. “So what? A drink or two won’t keep you from waking up for the morning rush.” When I continue to frown at him, he grips my shoulder. “You have to celebrate the small wins. It keeps you positive.”

“According to you, I don’t need help staying positive,” I say drily.

“I’ll pick you up at eight.” He claps my shoulder again, effectively shoving me a step backward. “Drinks are on me.”

***

I groan and slam my head against the head reast as Mike pulls his sports car up to the curb near The Tipsy Geezer.

“No,” I say.

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