REED

Eighteen months ago…

“I’d like a vanilla latte, but I want the ingredients separate.”

I stare at the man across the counter from me for a full five seconds, trying to make sense of that order. “Do you mean you want the drink layered?”

Pretty sure that wouldn’t work, but what do I know?

He gives me an indulgent smile that only sinks my own frown lower. “No. I want the ingredients in separate containers. I prefer lattes when I make them myself.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

The guy’s mouth drops open, but before he comes up with a retort, Troy puts himself between us like a human shield.

“What my friend means to say is that we’ll be happy to serve you the ingredients separately. No problem.” He gives me a significant look as if I’m the problem, and picks up three cups for the guy’s drink.

I move to the side, letting Troy do his thing. I’m not skilled at coddling customers, but I maintain that’s an absurd way to order. Should I go to Mario’s and ask him to give me the crust, cheese, and pepperoni separate so I can make the pizza myself? I’d probably get thrown out if I did that.

I never knew how mystifying and infuriating customer service could be before I started working at Perk Me Up. From complicated orders to bizarre substitutions to unjustified attitude, I’ve seen it all in the last six months.

To be clear, customers are the ones who need attitude adjustments. My annoyed attitude is completely deserved.

A few minutes later, the guy elbows his way out the door into the gently falling snow, balancing three cups in his hands. Troy sidles closer, his mouth twisted into a grimace. He looks like Luke does when Jovie’s done something especially egregious in public.

I toss a hand toward the door, gesturing at the long-gone customer. “You can’t tell me that’s normal.”

“Nope. But the customer’s always right. No matter how stupid the request.”

I roll my eyes. If requests can get any stupider than asking for separate ingredients, I don’t want to know about it.

“Hey, if your interview today goes better than yesterday’s, you won’t have to worry about customers anymore,” he says.

“Can’t get much worse than yesterday.” A self-labeled night owl, once the guy found out he’d have to be available to work all our scheduled shifts, he graciously took himself out of the running. Applying to work at a coffee shop thinking you’ll never have to work mornings or weekends goes on the stupid request list.

“Just try to…you know.” Troy flicks his fingers at the edges of his mouth. “Smile a little this time.”

“It’s not my fault that guy didn’t want to come in before ten in the morning.”

“No. But it wouldn’t hurt to be more welcoming to potential employees.”

I cross my arms, making a dismissive sound in the back of my throat.

“Wow. Perfect. You’ve got it.” Troy slow-claps. “You’re ready for the interview.”

I stare him down. He might not have all the details, but he knows me well enough to be aware I’m flying blind here. This coffee shop fell into my lap, and for the last few months, I’ve stumbled my way through learning how to be a manager. I’ve never been called a people person, and retail falls dead last on my social skills.

But I have to give it a shot. For Harry’s sake.

Troy launches into a story about a band he heard last weekend at a bar in Bend. He tends to fill silences with chatter, but at least he works while he talks. He sanitizes the espresso machine and wipes down the countertop, never missing a beat in telling me about the folk band with the talented fiddle player.

“His name is Brendan,” he says. “I might have to drive over again the next time they play.”

The bell over the door chimes. I look up, and the air gusts out of my lungs like I just had the wind knocked out of me.

The woman who walked in shakes snowflakes from her long wool coat, gently stomping her boots on the doormat. She slides off her yellow knit hat and tucks it in her coat pocket, pulling her fingers through her dark brown hair to smooth it. Her gaze collides with mine, and she smiles so wide, I forget how to breathe.

She crosses to the counter, grinning the whole time, her attention floating from me to Troy and back. Troy asks to take her order, but she just manages to smile wider.

“I’m Rose Rainey,” she says. “I have an interview.” Her focus finally sticks on me, and her hand comes out between us. “Are you Reed?”

My brain needs a second to double-check. Am I?

“Yeah. Yes. That’s me.” I lift a hand to shake hers but snag it on my apron. “One second.”

I duck into the office, furiously working to untie my apron strings, but I only tug the knot tighter. I wrench the upper loop from my neck and slide the stupid thing over my hips and down my thighs, kicking it into the corner. I run my hands over my flannel as if I’ll look any neater for the effort. Snatching the folder where I have Rose’s printed resume and nothing else, I take a deep breath.

Just interviewing the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. No problem.

Lock in, Bridger.

When I go out front again, the woman—Rose—is chatting with Troy, and, more importantly, I’m breathing normally again.

“We can go over here.” I lead her to a table in the back corner, away from the customers who usually beeline for the window seats. I sit facing the room. There’s probably some psychology behind having her face the room to see if she’s distracted, but I can’t be bothered with all that.

She pulls off her coat, revealing an oversized turquoise sweater that hits mid-thigh on her form-fitting jeans. Neither of which I should be noticing, and escort the thought right out of my brain.

She sits, flashing me a brilliant grin. “This place is really cute.”

I glance around the space behind her. “I guess.”

“A little color on the walls would really bring it to life.”

“It’s got a lot of life already.” During busy times, that life gives me a splitting headache.

She grins wider. Her interview smile is aiming for maximum wattage, as if nothing could bring her more joy than the chance to work retail. Might as well go straight for the kill. “Why do you want to work here?”

“I miss working with people. My last job didn’t offer much of that.” She nods at the folder on the table between us, correctly guessing I’ve got her resume there. She’s worked retail before, but she had some corporate job in Bend for the last couple of years. “I like the idea of bringing a little bit of light to someone’s day.”

The way she just did mine.

No. I can’t think that way. She’s here for a job interview, not to socialize. Which isn’t even something I enjoy on my best day.

“It’s just serving coffee.”

“Yeah, but that might be the only time someone treats themself all week.” She wields her bright smile like a mallet, smacking me square in the chest. “That makes it kind of special, don’t you think?”

No. I don’t. Half the people who come in here are in poor moods to rival mine. The ones who aren’t, want to talk. Like Mrs. Jackson, who tells me about her husband every time she comes in for her sugary coffee. But looking Rose over, I suspect she’d like every part of that scenario.

“It’s tedious work.”

Rose lifts a shoulder. “That means it’s easy to learn, right?”

Probably shouldn’t tell her I’ve been here for months and I’m still using a cheat sheet when I make drinks. That might be a me problem.

I go through a few of the questions I got off the internet: I ask about her relevant job experience, whether she’s a team player, if she enjoys making small talk with strangers, how she might handle an upset customer. Mostly, I’m trying to ask enough questions it won’t seem weird when I offer her the job. I haven’t been at this long, but I’ve learned that a sunny disposition is more important than her actual barista skills.

This woman is a walking ray of sunshine. I’ve been talking with her for fifteen minutes, and the low-level tension coiling through me on any given day is already easing up in my chest. If she can do that for me, she can handle anybody who walks through those doors.

“Do you have any questions for me?” I ask.

She tilts her head, looking around the space. “What are the people I’d be working with like? It’s important to me that we get along.”

“That’s Troy at the counter now. He’s a few years younger than you.”

She lifts an eyebrow.

“I’m not calling you old,” I quickly add. “It’s just that he’s barely twenty-one, and you’re—”

Nope. That’s worse.

“You’re not old.” My attempt at course-correction isn’t going so hot.

“But I’m old for a barista?” Of course, my asinine comments haven’t dimmed her light.

“You’re a fine age. If anything, you’re perfect—” I make a brusque gesture, knocking the folder to the floor. I slide my chair back and drop into a catcher’s squat, but Rose has done the same. We both reach for the folder at the same time, my thumb landing over hers on the green card stock between us.

Our gazes meet, her blue eyes crinkling at the edges with her good nature. Something in my gut twists. I can’t tell if it’s a warning or a request.

“Sorry,” she breathes.

“Not a problem.”

I clear my throat, and we both retake our seats. I need to steer this interview back to some sense of normalcy before it goes completely off the rails.

“Troy’s a good guy. Sociable. He steps up to help where he can. Our customers probably call him charming.”

Rose nods along. “What about you?”

“I’m…” At a total loss for words. Wondering if I’ve ever seen eyes that exact shade of cornflower blue before. In deep trouble. “I’m not as sociable.”

Rose makes a soft sound as if she’s considering that. “Do customers find you charming, too?”

The sly tilt to her mouth makes me want to laugh for how easily she sees right through me. But I have a feeling relinquishing any ground with her would be a slippery slope. A few more smiles like that, and I’d give up anything she asked for. This is supposed to be a job interview, not…

Yeah. Nothing else.

“Charming isn’t usually how people describe me,” I admit. “But I do my best to be a fair boss, and make our work environment as supportive as possible.”

Her soft smile has me half-convinced I charmed her after all.

“I like the sound of a supportive work environment,” she says.

I tell her the starting wage and number of hours she can expect. After a few seconds, her eyebrows tick up.

“Wait. Are you offering me the job?”

“Yes. I don’t have any more questions for you.” Nothing I should be asking in a job interview, anyway. If I’d met her in The Stumpjumper, a few other questions would have come to mind. But here, I know everything I need to. “You can take a few days to think about it—”

“I don’t have to think about it. I want the job.” Her bright enthusiasm reveals a dimple at the corner of her mouth.

My attention snags on the small indentation. I put that appealing dimple on the list of things I need to forget about Rose Rainey. I just met her, and that list’s already a mile long.

“Great. I’ll email you the paperwork, and we’ll figure out a start date from there.”

We both stand, and she slips her coat back on.

“Thank you for the opportunity, Reed.” She holds her hand out, and I realize I never shook it when she offered before.

I take it now.

It’s a mistake. I feel it immediately. Her skin is softer than I could have imagined. It’s all I can do not to run my thumb over the back of her hand. The crazy urge to tug her to me ignites in my brain, but I douse it as quickly as I can.

Job interview, idiot. Nothing more.

She beams up at me, shaking my hand. “You won’t regret this.”

I already do. But I’m going to be her boss. I can be professional.

I just have to shove aside everything I want or think about Rose Rainey.

Easy.