Page 41 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

The room goes quiet. Even the espresso machine seems to hold its breath.

"Financials?" Rosalind echoes.

I pull up the spreadsheets I definitely haven't been obsessing over. "Based on current market trends and projected revenue streams?—"

"Oh Lord," Connor mutters from somewhere behind me. "He's going to spreadsheet the romance right out of it."

"—I estimate Meet Cute needs approximately two hundred thousand dollars in immediate capital investment, plus updated equipment and marketing strategies, to remain competitive in Seattle's current coffee landscape."

More silence. Then:

"Two hundred thousand dollars?" Rosalind's voice carries a dangerous edge. "That's your solution? Just throw money at it?"

"Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of a strategic investment partnership." I gesture to my carefully organized projections. "With proper optimization of resources and implementation of modern business practices?—"

"Modern business practices?" She takes a step closer. "You mean like replacing all this—" she waves at Meet Cute's deliberatelymismatched furniture and vintage decor, "—with something more 'efficient'?"

"The aesthetic would remain intact," I assure her. "Just with better profit margins."

"Profit margins? This place isn't about profit margins! It's about?—"

"Young love?" Mrs. Rodriguez's voice carries from the doorway. "Second chances? The kind of connections your fancy algorithms can't calculate?"

We all turn. The café owner stands there looking amused, coffee-stained apron and all.

"Mrs. R," Rosalind starts, "we were just?—"

"Trying to save my shop?" She smiles. "By arguing like an old married couple?"

"We're not—" we both begin.

“No need to lie. I’ve been watching people fall in love in this café for thirty years. You think I can't spot the real thing when I see it?"

Before either of us can protest, my phone buzzes. Alex's name lights up the screen.

"Update on the bee situation," he announces without hesitating. "Good news: Sir Gala-What’s-It has volunteered his services as 'ye olde bee whisperer.' Bad news: turns out medieval armor isn't actually bee-proof."

I put him on speaker just as Rosalind's phone chimes.

"Dani says the honey farmer is crying about his hive's betrayal," she reports. "Also, William's baking has reached new heights. Apparently, he's trying to create some kind of honey-based pastry to 'soothe the savage bees.'"

"That's not how bees work," I point out.

"Thank you, Mr. Science." But there's no real heat in her voice. "Should we..."

“Try to help them out?”

“Yeah, well, it would be ‘professional’ of us."

Mrs. Rodriguez watches this exchange with knowing eyes. "You know what else is professional? Letting someone help you because they care, not just because of some business arrangement."

We both stop short.

"I don't—" Rosalind begins.

"Know what you're talking about," I finish.

“Of course not.” Mrs. Rodriguez starts gathering empty cups. "Just like I don't know anything about running a successful business for thirty years. Or spotting real chemistry when I see it."

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