One Bossy Dare

She looks at Destiny with a fondness shining in her eyes. “Don’t piss your dad off, young lady. It doesn’t get any easier than this. You’ll be back in school soon and the rest of us still have to deal with him.”

“Sorry,” Dess says.

My eyes flick from the crazy badger lady to my daughter.

“Hold on. You don’t know her besides watching her tear me apart in my store and you’re being this nice?” I snort.

Destiny nods, her lips turning up in a lopsided smile.

“She gets an apology and I get lip? Dess, I’ve taken care of you your whole life. Tell me how the hell that works?”

“Dad, I—”

“Guys.” Miss Angelo claps her hands together softly. “I hate to interrupt whatever weird family thing is happening, but I was up all night working on this and...and someone’s drinking it today. So, what are we trying first? Latte or mocha?”

I hate that I’m impressed.

Her desire to cut the crap and get down to business fires a missile at my own heart.

“You managed a latte and a mocha? Did you forget I just wanted one good specialty drink?” Apparently, my body forgot it’s not supposed to have an electric current in her presence.

She grins. “They’re prototypes, right? I wanted to offer you two drinks so I can cross compare, knowing one will turn out better than the other. That way, I can keep refining the weaker drink.”

Or she’s that terrified of me hating her efforts and demanding better. I don’t say it, of course.

Time will tell.

Either the drinks are shit, or she’s more talented than I dreamed.

“Bold choice. How did you come up with two distinct beverages in such a short time?” I ask.

“The latte is something I was already thinking about and the mocha is just a variation with chocolate. So are we ready?” Her eyes are damn near gleaming with excitement.

Maybe she’s not nervous. I should be happy about that—if only a small, buried part of me didn’t want her to find me intimidating.

“I want the mocha!” Dess meets my eyes. “You made one good decision this week, Dad. You hired Badger Lady.”

“Miss Angelo,” I correct, even as my daughter rolls her eyes.

“I actually prefer Eliza,” she says.

“Eliza! I love that name.” Destiny beams at her like she’s offering a tall glass of Bailey’s rather than a frigging burned mocha. She holds out her fist.

Eliza stares back, confused for a moment, then bumps her fist with a soft laugh.

“Fine, we’ll start with the mocha. Don’t give Destiny too much,” I say, holding in a smile while Dess glares at me.

I duck behind my desk to fetch a few cups.

Eliza sets both hulking Yetis on my desk. She opens the pink one first and pours a muddy dark liquid with a strong cocoa scent into the cup I set out.

“I can smell the chocolate. Miss Angelo, it better be dark and delicious and the bane of Destiny’s sweet tooth. We do not want any sugar-lick frou-frou drinks,” I say.

She stops, swinging the cup she was about to hand to me over to Destiny.

“I’m the CEO,” I warn.

“Yeah, but she’s nicer.”

Destiny doesn’t hesitate, taking a long pull from her cup.

“Whoa. It’s like tasting a bakery. So good! Dad, you don’t even know you’re drinking coffee until you swallow it and—bam!—mule kick.”

I wonder if my baby girl will ever come up with an analogy that doesn’t make me think of hooves to the face.

“Let me try it,” I grind out, reaching for the cup.

Dess passes it over.

I drink deeply and settle back in my chair, swishing it from one cheek to the next like I was taught to do at five different wineries.

Even for me, the sweetness is tolerable. Present, but not overwhelming, which is key for letting the other flavors come through.

Roasted marshmallow.

Dark chocolate.

Smoky undertones.

That bourbon taste that isn’t really bourbon.

Yeah, it’s interesting, all right.

The only thing keeping this from being liquified s’mores in a cup is the missing graham cracker. I swallow and look at my lab girl.

Goddamn, has she been watching me this whole time?

I decide to ignore it.

I need to make sure this wasn’t a happy accident born from Eliza working herself sleepless and stirring together whatever she thought would taste good in just the right ratios.

“What are we going for with this, Miss Angelo? Explain.”

“S’mores,” she says with a smile that hooks my gaze.

“It mirrors the flavor well,” I agree. “However, you’re still missing the graham cracker.”

Her smile fades. That sour look I’ve come to know so well returns.

“Good job, Miss Angelo! No one else could have come up with roasted marshmallows perfectly folded in chocolate in less than three days. We just need graham crackers and it’s all gravy,” she mimics me, her voice lowered an octave or two. “Thanks, boss. Glad you like it so much.”

The thumbs-up she aims my way feels like a loaded gun. It’s pure hell not laughing.