Page 12 of By Any Beans Necessary

Michelle turned to craft his signature drink, a concoction of caramel infused courage with a dash of secret spices, adding little touches like swirls of syrup on top and extra sprinkles of cinnamon. As she crafted her final touch of a healthy helping of homemade whipped cream, she imagined him savoring each sip, perhaps thinking of her when the sweetness hit his tongue.

"Here you go—the 'Parker Pick-Me-Up,'" she said, sliding the cup across the counter. Her special creations had become the stuff of local legend, whispered about in the same breath as juicy town gossip and magical snow on Valentine's Day.

"Ah, Michelle," Jeff sighed after his first taste, eyes closing in appreciation. "You sure know how to make a cup of joe feel loved."

She watched his Adam's apple bob with each gulp, her heart twinging a bit when she saw the bottom of the empty cup. "So, it passed the test again?"

"Passed? It sets the bar," he chuckled, locking eyes with her. "Seriously, nobody does coffee like you do."

"Thanks, Jeff," she replied, feeling a blush warm her cheeks. Her thoughts raced—was it just the coffee he liked, or was there something more? Was he coming back to spend time with her? She sure hoped so.

"Anyway, I better head out. Big day ahead," Jeff said, standing to leave. "Thanks for the fuel."

"Anytime," she murmured, disappointment clouding her gaze as she watched his retreating figure. He pushed open the door, sunlight framing him for a fleeting moment before he vanished into the day. Was he ever going to ask her out on an official date?

"See you this afternoon?" Michelle called after him, a hopeful lilt in her voice.

"Wouldn't miss it," Jeff's response floated back, lifting her spirits as the door fell shut.

She let out a sigh, her fingers absently tracing the rim of his empty cup. The shop felt emptier without his presence. The afternoon couldn't come soon enough.

As her day continued, the Coffee Loft buzzed with the mid-week rush. Amid the clink of cups and hiss of the espresso machine, a distinct chatter rose above the din.

"Harold Bernstein's back in town," cackled one of the gossiping grandmas, her voice at an unintentional shout due to a malfunctioning hearing aid. "And did you hear about his wife?"

"Cheated on him, the poor dear," another added, the volume of her own aid betraying her attempt at discretion.

Michelle stifled a chuckle as she wiped down the counter, the grandmas' conversation not as private as they believed. Harold Bernstein, high school valedictorian turned heartbroken divorcé, was back. That would stir the pot.

"Such a scandal," the first grandma boomed. "In our little town."

"Scandalous indeed," Michelle muttered under her breath with a shake of her head.

"Can you believe it?" a third grandma interjected, loudly stirring her coffee. "With the yoga instructor, of all people."

The circle of grandmas gasped collectively, sending ripples through their caffeinated beverages. In their animated state, however, disaster struck. A wayward elbow sent a latte flying across the room, splattering over the leather-clad arm of a burly biker sitting nearby.

"Hey," the biker stood, his voice deep and thunderous, dark eyes drilling into the horrified grandmas. "This jacket was a gift from my mother."

"Oopsie," one granny squeaked, her hands fluttering to her mouth.

"Sorry, dear," another added, frantically patting her pink-tinged gray hair as though that could undo the damage.

Michelle sprang into action, grabbing a clean towel. "I'm so sorry, sir," she said, approaching the fuming man, who must be just passing through town since she'd never seen him before. "Let me help you with that."

His scowl softened slightly at her earnest approach. "This better come out," he grumbled, arms crossed as he watched her dab at the brown liquid.

"Trust me, I've got this," Michelle assured him, her movements gentle yet efficient. "And your next coffee is on the house. Or a scone, if that'll help ease the pain."

The biker huffed a laugh, a smile tugging at the edge of his lips. "Make it a bear claw, and we're square."

"Deal," Michelle replied with a grin, her heart rate decelerating. She turned to the grandmas, who were now whispering apologies at a much more reasonable decibel.

"Maybe keep the Harold Bernstein commentary to a low roar, ladies?" Michelle suggested good-naturedly.

"Of course, dear," they chimed, nodding vigorously, their embarrassment evident.

"Besides," she continued, leaning in conspiratorially, "I heard the yoga instructor's side of the story, and let's just say—it takes two to tango."

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