MAXIME
Istepped up to the bar, dragging the back of my hand across my shorts. My fingers were raw from over an hour spent digging through the industrial freezer in the kitchen. A rogue piece of packaging had wedged itself in the fan, threatening to spoil the food. Not exactly the glamorous side of beach bar ownership, but someone had to do it.
Preferably someone with an adequate dose of caffeine coursing through their veins.
I ran my fingers over the weathered wood countertop. My coffee—ordered before I entered the freezer—sat abandoned.
Clearing my throat, I leaned over, trying to attract the barista’s attention, buta waitress popped into view from behind the bar like an old-fashioned jack-in-the-box. She clutched a stack of menus and wore an expression like I’d just caught her stealing.
She stared at me. Blanched. Then blinked.
I tightened my lips. I didn’t recognise her, but Fifi had been doing the hiring lately. Normally, I trusted my manager’s judgment, but this woman’s wide-eyed stare verged on maniacal.
“Is this my coffee?” My voice was a little harsher than I intended.
She nodded, wedged the menus under one arm and shoved the cup towards me. As she pushed, the saucer scraped over the uneven wood, sending its contents spilling over the sides. The liquid formed a dark puddle in front of me.
“Zut!” Snatching up a napkin, the waitress lunged forward. She dabbed at the liquid three times before bringing the napkin to my chest, like she was about to polish furniture.
I stepped back, pulling my brows tight. “I’m fine but please clean up the bar top.”
Her eyes widened to twice their normal size and her face bloomed a deep crimson. “Oh, right, yes, of course. The bar. Definitely.”
She yanked the saucer back, sloshing more coffee onto the wood. “Merde,” she muttered—then went stiff, as if she just remembered who she was serving and who she was swearing in front of.
She mouthed an apology, but I waved a hand. “It’s okay. You clear up. I’ll order another.”
Leaving her to her menus, I moved to the end of the bar. I peered around the fancy blue coffee machine Fifi bought last month. Along with the purchase, she’d hired a young German Barista with a large social media following. Gustav also came with a massive ego and questionable coffee-making skills.
Right now, he was waving his phone above his head, craning to get a view of the beach in his shot. With an exaggerated grin, he stretched his fingers into a “V” as he postured for the camera.
I cleared my throat. He spun to face me, blinking fast.
I huffed. Why was everyone here so jumpy?
The barista slammed his phone on the countertop and grinned at me like he hadn’t just been wasting my time and money findinghis best angles. But as Fifi reminded me, almost daily, we needed to widen our reach. Spread the word about the restaurant. If it meant employing someone young enough to be my son, so be it.
I swallowed, glancing around at the almost empty tables. It was safe to say that Méduse, the only business I’d ever owned, was far from thriving.
“I’ll have another,” I growled at the barista. “And make this one extra hot, and extra strong.”
He nodded like one of those bobbleheads people put in their cars. “I’ll bring it right over.”
Giving one last pointed stare at his phone, I turned and crossed the restaurant floor.
Threading through tables draped with crisp white linen, a calm settled over me. Fifi had chosen every detail to showcase our prime spot at the edge of one of the prettiest beaches in France.
Each table had a driftwood centrepiece gathered from the local coves, woven with shells and sea glass. The chairs were large, wicker and painted white, their cushions matching the blue sea.
I glanced through the open front of the restaurant, straight out to the bay. Like most beach bars on the coast, neat lines of sun loungers spread like fingers down to the water, topped with beach umbrellas to match the cushions.
My gut rolled. The club was beautiful. So why were the tables empty?
A sea breeze blew through the restaurant, rustling the papers currently wedged under Fifi’s laptop. I sat down at her table, running my eyes over the screen. On it was one of her famous spreadsheets. She’d run Méduse since we opened. But we’d been friends for way longer.Never anything more. She was like a sister.
Her red painted lips moved as she drew a long nail downthe monitor, as if she were counting. She gave a sigh, then closed the lid.
I nodded towards the machine. “Are we still afloat?”
