Page 19 of Nine-Tenths
"Hadhirah Bakush, your boss," he starts, then stops and makes the sour-lemon face again. "As you're already aware she is…"
I cover my mouth as I chuckle, afraid he'll think I'm laughing at him. "Yeah?"
"She has spoken to her supplier and the bean roaster can't be shipped for at least a month. She's checked all the other national suppliers at my behest, and it seems that anything large enough to be worth her while are all similarly unavailable."
"Like there's some sort of global shortage crisis?" I ask.
"Evidently," he sneers at his phone. "How inconvenient."
"Bad news," I agree, slumping back in my seat and imagining how blue the air around Hadi must be. "We have an ancient manual, but it'stiny. There's no way to make the quantities we need on a daily basis."
"Surely you can buy pre-roasted beans?"
I make a show of clutching my non-existent pearls.
"I'll take that as a no, then, shall I?" Dav says, arching his fussily shaped eyebrow with sardonic nonchalance.
My heart goes pitter-patter.
Fuck.
What, I like the dry-humored straight-men types, okay? I am a smol bi disaster bebe and sass is my domain; my partner has to be someone I can springboard off.
Not a date!
God, I need sleep. And food. And sleep. And water. And sleep. And to text Hadi to tell her the doc said I had to be off for at least a week. And sleep.
"Is the only issue with the manual roaster the quantity?" Dav asks as the car pulls onto my street.
"We'd need two people on shift to use it. Except this time of year, without the students at the university, Hadi can only afford one opener."
Dav pets his floppy hair back again irritably. Then he says, slowly, "What if I were to, ah, volunteer my services?"
"You?" I squint, trying to gauge his expression in the passing pools of lamplight.
"I am usually in the café all morning, anyway. How difficult would it be for you to show me how to make the beverages, and work the till so you could be in the kitchen?"
"Oh, the till?" I say, as the car slows to a stop. "That's not what I thought you were going to say."
Dav's shoulders jump up to his ears, defensive. "What did you think I was going to say?" he asks softly.
A sound that’s closer to a giggle than I would like to admit flitters out of my mouth as I unbuckle. "Maybe it's the meds talking, but I just had this sudden, stupid vision of you, I don't know, doing your fire spitting thing and roasting the beans yourself."
Dav smiles at my glee, the deep-cheeked sweet one that turns his furrows into full-blown dimples. "If you had a stockpot sturdy enough, I could likely do so."
I pause halfway out of the car. "What, really?"
"Really," he says, holding out the dog-eared romance novel.
"Keep that. You can read me the rest during the next time it’s slow at work," I say, before my brain can catch up to my mouth.
Oh brilliant, Colin.
Idiot.
"Oh. Well." He retracts the book awkwardly. "Yes."
"Uh. I'll, um, check in with Hadi, and let you know."
