Page 1 of Designed for Disaster

1

NATASHA

If one more person asked for a cookie croissant, I was going to lose my damn mind. People saw one thing trending on TikTok, and suddenly everyone needed it. Whatever happened to the good old-fashioned combo of coffee and a muffin? It’s not like it was a novel idea anyway. Take a croissant, stuff it with cookie dough, and bake. Big deal. Besides, couldn’t people see The Blend was a coffee shop, not a bakery?

“Okay fine,” the girl huffed. “I’ll just take the chocolate croissant then.”

“Good choice.” I plugged in her order quickly. We were absolutely slammed, and I’d already wasted enough time answering her inane questions. I gestured to the debit machine. “Just tap your card there when you’re ready.”

“Wait!” she said. “Are they fresh?”

“Uh…” I glanced at the small pastry display on the counter. I actually didn’t know. I only worked at The Blend a few shifts a week, so I had no idea if the display had been filled this morning or yesterday. “I think so?”

“How fresh?”

“I…Craig?” I waved the shift manager over to deal with pain au chocolat lady—emphasis onpain. There was nothing he loved more than soothing customers. “This lovely lady would like to know how fresh the croissants are,” I said to him before darting to the sink to wash my hands. I towel-dried, then jumped right back into drink prep.

The Blend was usually busy, but from eleven to one, there was no break in between the customers. Everything wasgo go goas the New York City coffee fiends claimed their midday fix. Hence why I didn’t have time to be directing these wannabe influencers to bakeries all over the city. I was here to serve coffee, not hand out travel advice. But the way I was being solicited today, I was starting to wonder if I had the wordsGoogle Mapstattooed across my forehead.

“Excuse me?”

I looked over my shoulder from my place in front of the espresso machine. A woman hovered at the end of the counter, cutting through a line of customers waiting on orders.

“You’re out of cinnamon,” she said. “Over on the self-serve bar.”

“One second,” I called out as I frothed milk for the top of a chai latte. I topped up the to-go chai cup with milky foam and slammed a lid on. No time for fancy latte art today.

I turned around and handed the order to a balding man that didn’t bother to take his eyes off his phone as he thrust his hand in my direction. “Have a good one,” I muttered, too tired to muster up any enthusiasm. I yawned for what felt like the hundredth time since starting my shift.

“Up late last night, Tash?” Eddie asked as he passed me, his brow piercings reflecting the lights overhead.

“The past couple of nights,” I admitted, putting a small to-go cup down on the counter. “Small Earl Grey with oat milk,” I called.

Eddie waggled his brows in my direction. “Oh yeah?”

“Not like that,” I corrected him. I wished that was the reason, but I barely had enough time to fit in my multiple part-time jobs right now. Romantic entanglements were not on the agenda. “I’m working on a commissioned furniture piece, and it’s taking forever.” Mostly because I was waiting for backordered materials that put me behind schedule.

“Oh, nice—the commission part, I mean.”

“Itisnice. Or it will be. When the piece is done and delivered.”

“And you get that sweet,sweetpaycheck?”

I laughed. “You know I’m in it for more than the money, right?” Designing furniture was my passion.

“Babe, we’reallin it for the money.”

“Yeah, okay. True.” Itwouldbe nice to make enough off my furniture to not need these side hustles anymore. But that dream was still a long way off. And for now, evenwiththe side hustles, I was barely making ends meet. I could really use this payment to help with rent, which meant I couldn’t deliver late.

“The cinnamon?” came a frustrated voice.

“Right!” I said, darting for a new shaker under the counter. I handed it off to the woman still standing at the end of the counter. “Here. Sorry about the wait.”

She moved to the side, to the tall café table that had the big DO NOT USE sign on it.

“No, not there!” I called, leaning across the counter. I gestured to the sign. It had big bold letters and everything. Why did people keep missing it?

The table legs were bolted to the ground, so we couldn’t just move it, but the screw that held the top fixed in place had popped out, and we’d yet to find a replacement. That meant any weight put on the top, especially near the edge, made the whole top tilt.

---