“See? You’re turning green.” I point at her. “If I ever dated long enough to give you a little brother or sister, the kissing would traumatize you for life.”
“Ugh, I’d get over it. Can’t be worse than talking about contracts and hiring proposals for as long as I live, right?” She gives me a sour look.
“There comes a point in your life when it’s not so boring anymore.”
She stares at me like I’ve sprouted a second head.
“Umm—no. Shoot me now?”
“Nah, but I’ll help you take the edge off, and since you’re too young to drink...” I spin around to the mini fridge again, fetching a can of root beer I know she loves and two cold glasses. While I pour the sodas, I look at her. “If you seriously don’t want to waste your life on contracts, what do you want to do for a living, Destiny?”
I’m genuinely curious.
She was thirteen the last time I asked that question. She told me she wanted to run a petting zoo on a superyacht to Antarctica—if only she could stand the water.
“Eh, I don’t know. Maybe I could be a YouTuber or big influencer for fashion or something?”
My grip tightens on my root beer as I take a swig.
“You’d better start liking the coffee biz. There’s no way I’m letting you show off skimpy dresses for strangers. Don’t care how old you are.”
“Oh, Dad.” She huffs a breath loudly. “That’s another reason you should’ve had a bigger family. Even with, um, everything that happened when I was a kid—I’d be an excellent babysitter. And you’d finally have someone else to throw crap at instead of piling it on me.”
She may be right, but we need our funny moments.
God help her if she thinks I’m about to stop anytime soon.
I just hope I haven’t bitten off too much with that brown-eyed hellion who seems to hold the key to our next big innovation—and possibly my own madness.
3
Brew-tiful Idea (Eliza)
The next day, I load up a couple canisters full of my latest roast and head over to the homeless camp in the park just a few blocks from my apartment.
I promised Wyatt—the original genius behind the campfire brew I’ve refined—and his girlfriend Meadow that I’d help pass out breakfast today. It’s also an awesome chance to test my latest efforts with a sample audience.
When I get there, they have a table set up, piled high with donuts and breakfast sandwiches. I unload my canisters, disposable cups, and rating cards on the table before I turn to Wyatt.
“Here, try this. I need your thoughts,” I tell him.
With a big grin showing through his now nicely trimmed beard, he fills a paper cup with the velvety black liquid. I watch him hold it up, sniff, and throw back the drink—right before he covers his mouth and coughs.
“Shit, that’s hot. Think I burned my idiot tongue. Not sure my tastebuds are much use now—”
Meadow laughs and elbows him gently. “It’s coffee! What did you expect?”
“Not third-degree mouth burns,” he grumbles.
I smile. “I hardly ever brew past one eighty-five. It’s too easy for the coffee blooms to go wrong and start messing with the flavor.”
He squints at me, blowing on the coffee and taking another sip. “The temp’s that important?”
“Totally. The more original oils left intact, the better...”
“It’s good stuff. You took my pig iron idea and turned it into gold,” he says with a wink that makes Meadow roll her eyes. “What’s the new spin on this one? You named it yet?”
I grin. “I’m tentatively calling it West Coast Day Trip. I used avocado wood to roast the beans—”
“Right. Because of the oil.” Wyatt smiles, stroking his beard while Meadow leans on his shoulder.
God, it’s so good to see him well again.
It seems like only yesterday when he was laid up in the hospital at death’s door, and if it wasn’t for the bosshole who married my bestie—I shudder to think what would’ve happened to him next.
“It’s a super slow roast,” I say. “I spent half the night working on it. I threw in a few watermelon seeds with the beans on a whim for some extra depth.”
“Ah, that’s why it’s sweeter than your usual brew,” Meadow chimes in after stealing a sip from his cup. “Wow, you’ve got a brain for this.”
“I just wanted the West Coast in a cup. With every sip, you’re experiencing SoCal, moving up the Pacific highway, all the way through Oregon and Washington.”
“Wow,” Meadow whispers again.
I grab her a fresh cup, but she stops me before I can pour very much coffee.
“Take more,” I urge.
“Oh, no. There are so many people here. It’s easier for me to get good coffee anytime. They can’t.”
She’s such a sweetheart. And still so terrified of wasting anything after living a hard life on the streets. I take her cup and top it off generously.