Page 20 of Not That Ridiculous

“This is latte art, not flat white art.” I moved off, striding confidently for the main carpark. He put a commanding hand on my waist, making me miss a step along with a heartbeat, and turned me ninety degrees.

“My car’s over here,” he said.

We really had advanced to manhandling, hadn’t we? He could have pointed.

We headed for a neon-blue Land Cruiser hulking in the far corner of the small carpark. It was lifted high on enormous wheels and had a bull bar, a snorkel, and a surprising decal on the side. “Company car, is it? Work must be going well.”

“No?” Kevin said.

I stopped at the passenger door and gestured at the giant sign that took up a serious amount of real estate.Henderson’s Handymen: No Job Too Small!

“Craig reckons we’ve got to hustle 24/7 to make bank. Those were his words, anyway. To be honest, I was a bit miffed when he told me I had to put it up. I saved up for years for my baby and all the mods. The sign’s crap, but what can you do?”

“Tell Craig to stick it on the side of his own fucking car?”

Kevin beeped the locks and we climbed in. Tension flickered in his jaw. “Yeah, well. I can’t. He’d fire me.”

“You know he also can’t make you give him free advertising, don’t you? Legally speaking?”

“Yeah. He banged on and on about it, though. He’s a demanding boss, is Craig.” His hands gripped the wheel. It creaked. “He didn’t used to be, back when I started working with him. Now he’s always going to these seminars and workshops and conferences, all about how to hustle. Things are different.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to hit a sore spot.”

He buckled up and started the car. “S’all right, Charlie,” he said, and slid me a sly look. “You can make it up to me.”

I eyed him suspiciously as he put the car into gear, flipped the indicator on and pulled out. I wasn’t stupid enough to ask him what he meant by that. He told me anyway.

“You can make me a latte.”

I waved it off. “You wouldn’t like it.”

“Don’t see why not. Isn’t a latte just a flat white anyway?”

I sucked in a sharp breath, and hissed it out angrily. “No it is not.”

He laughed. “Oops. My turn to hit a sore spot?”

“They arecompletelydifferent drinks.”

“Right. How’s a flat white different from a latte, then?”

I gritted my teeth. “It doesn’t matter.”

Not one single person in the whole of Chipping Fairford took coffee seriously enough.

“I want to know, though,” Kevin said. “It seems like it matters a lot to you.”

It did. “Fine.” I twisted in my seat to face him as he drove us to my house. “Wait, do you need directions?”

“Nah, I know where you live.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.” His jaw tightened again. “Craig likes to keep track of the local housing market. Who’s selling, who’s buying. Who’s moving. He likes to make sure that when they come to do the reno, he’s ready to get the job.”

Craig Henderson was a grifter. I knew it.

“If you was a lady, or older, or a nice guy like Ray Underwood, he’d have ‘bumped into you’ at the Co-op on accident, like, or tried chatting you up at the coffee shop.”

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