Grumpfather sighs and pounds the cup back on the counter. “It’s passable. Barely. It’s just not what we’re looking for going forward. It’s remarkably ordinary at best.”
I swallow hard, averting my eyes when Wayne glances over.
It’s basically impossible to concentrate on these notes when his boss sounds as outrageous as he looks.
Also, I’m no fan of rudeness, but this guy is going the extra mile to piss me off.
It’s a chain shop. What does he expect? A handcrafted slow brew pulled from a small batch of hand-roasted beans?
“Ordinary, my ass,” I whisper under my breath, rolling my eyes.
I forget that the girl is still in earshot until I hear her muffled snicker.
“Well, yeah. You’re right, Mr. Lancaster, but—” Wayne pauses. “I can do better. I’m excited for the new drinks, wherever you’re taking us.”
His delivery is so deliciously numb I try not to laugh.
Come to think of it, Wired Cup is where I got my first cup of coffee when I first moved to Seattle. Wayne made it. Coffee shops have more staff turnovers than burger joints sometimes, but Wayne has been here every day for years slinging coffee with a friendly joke or a kind ear, rain or shine or—well, more rain because this is Seattle.
If there was ever a reliable barista grunt, it’s him.
He does not deserve what he’s getting.
Just who the hell does this jackass think he is? By the looks of it, he sits in some office and stares at a screen all day. He wouldn’t know the first thing about making good coffee if it splashed him in his stupidly handsome, growly, grump-face.
He grabs the cup again and sniffs it before passing it to the woman beside him. “Katelyn, have R & D dig up their files on this drink. I want to see what else they were doing in development, if they ever pinged on anything to spice it up.”
Oh, lovely.
So he’s one of those guys. All corporate paperwork and prone to getting pissy when reality won’t conform to models on a screen.
Or maybe he’s just some district manager douchebag.
I’ve known plenty in my odd jobs over the years. I’ve dated them.
They think they poop diamonds, and that gives them the right to order around the underlings.
It makes me a little sick. It also reminds me why I’ll never take a job answering to any sanctimonious jerkwad ever again. They’re too delusional for life.
In the grand scheme of things, what’s a district manager of a second-rate coffee company?
He can’t hear me thinking out loud, though.
He just slurps the coffee again and says, “Goddammit. If our summer depends on this, the Mermaid will eat us alive.”
No joke. The big green mermaid is an international chain.
Wired Cup still owns its slice of the West Coast coffee pie, mostly because the Pacific Northwest doesn’t worship international chains.
“For the record, I followed the exact recipe,” Wayne says, showing some grit.
I smile across the space at him.
That’s the style, buddy. Throw it right back.
“Did you?” Grumpfather frowns.
“Like I said, I can do better,” Wayne starts. “If you want me to throw together a new one with the customizations we like in the shop, I’ll just—”
“To hell with your customizations.” Asshat doesn’t even let him finish. “You’re one barista in one store in Seattle. The Sumatra roast itself is the backbone, and you can’t improve on boring, no matter how well you craft drinks. This bean has already been bulk shipped as far as Boise. I doubt it would taste much better anywhere else. Shit is still shit.”
Yikes! The coffee isn’t that bad.
Squeaky teenager makes a sad hissing sound and shakes her head, flipping her long dirty-blond hair over her face to hide. She drops her book on the table and pulls a phone from her stylish pink purse.
I take that as a cue to grab my own bag and stand.
We’re done here.
There’s no way I can focus with this drama flying around, but before I head out, I march up to Coffee Lucifer himself.
“Hey, can I ask you something?” I wait until blue-eyed death sees me. “What the hell is your problem?”
Wayne’s jaw drops.
I smile at him. Don’t worry, buddy. I’ve got your back.
Grumpfather cocks his head, staring down at me like he wishes I’d drop through the floor.
“Depends. Who the hell’s asking?”
I snort. “I’d like to ask you the same question. I’m just wondering what kind of rich ass-clown gets off on starting his mornings by verbally torturing a barista?”
“The kind who owns the place,” he bites off.
“Oh. Right, right, right.” I laugh harshly. This guy thinks he’s something else, doesn’t he? Talk about exaggerating your title.
Like the owner of the entire Wired Cup franchise—a multi-billion-dollar corporation—shows up in random stores just to grump at people making minimum wage plus tips.
No way.
I’m sure Mr. CEO has flawlessly pressed espresso served on silver platters, all while lying poolside at some exotic villa, somewhere far, far away from here.