After tucking away a few bars for my boss to try, I clean up for my shift at the Rise ’N Grind.
On the way to my barista gig, my day gets better—I get the call from Archer Academy.
I got the job!
Even though it’s only an entry-level administrative assistant position and I still have to pass the background check, I know I can turn this opportunity into more down the road.
Archer is an elite private school. If I have any hope of getting a teaching position there after I graduate, I need an edge over other candidates. At least this way they’ll know firsthand I’m a hard worker and a solid employee.
My mom used to tell me she hoped she’d have enough money to send me and Benny there. Now that I know what tuition costs, I realize that was a pipe dream, but it’s the thought that counts. I think she’d be proud of me if I could get a job there, though.
I blend into the crowd of students and townies, bustling across Charming’s quaint downtown in the mid-afternoon sun. Whiskey Row is teeming with patrons, and old-school rock echoes down the street from the breweries. I head toward the rustic brick facade of the best coffee shop in town.
Glancing around, I smile. It’s hard not to. Everything in this town belongs on a postcard.
From the absurdity of Longfellow’s, which sells foot-long hot dogs and those ridiculous weiner dog warmers, to the Buck ’Em Brewhouse, where all the patrons yell “Buck ’em!” at the top of their lungs at midnight, or the Crazy Horse Saloon that hosts Wild West shootout reenactments—it’s hard not to be enchanted with this place. Now that I’m not brimming with animosity for the idiots across the street, I can admit the football team is a good draw for the town too.
I’ve been trying my best to brush off that awkward interaction with my brother all week. The fact that he lives with Rider is annoying, but it’s not like Ben knows our sad little history. And when I say little, that’s likely an exaggeration. More like a blip on Rider’s radar. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.
When I push open the door to Rise ’N Grind, the rich scent of coffee hits me.
“Hey, Fanny.” I wave to my boss, who inherited this place from her father, who inherited it from his. Half-coffee house, half-book shop, its homey retro vibe makes it the perfect crash pad for students between classes.
She gives me a smile and a nod as she pours a drink. “Thanks for coming in today, doll!”
An hour ago, I got her frantic call that two of her staff had called in sick, so I booked it down here.
“Coffee or books?” I ask, waving between the two parts of the shop.
“Coffee!”
The place is packed, so I give her a thumbs up as I rush into the back where I wash my hands and grab an apron. Sixty seconds later, I hand Fanny the container of pumpkin sopapilla bars before I start ringing up customers. I don’t mind being slammed. It makes the day go by quicker.
“Do ya have any of thoseempanadas?” a gravelly voice asks, his words slow and rhythmic.
I’m used to that drawl because I was born in Texas, but here in Charming, it’s even stronger. As expected, I look up to see one of the locals.
“Sorry, Mr. Pearson. We usually just have those on the weekend.”
“But I promised Essie.” Brow furrowed, he hooks his thumb over his shoulder. I try not to laugh when I see the goat, his beloved Essie, nibbling some kid’s backpack on the sidewalk.
“Maybe she’d like a scone or bagel?”
“Nah. Those are too processed. I hear you girls make them empanadas from scratch.” His voice lowers to a whisper as he leans over the glass counter. “And I know for a fact that Fanny sometimes keeps one or two back there for emergencies.”
No doubt his promise to Essie counts as an emergency. Deep down, I’m unreasonably flattered to know his farm animal is enchanted with my sweet bread.
Ironically, I don’t cook much, but I love to bake, and after Fanny tasted one of my creations at the St. Patrick’s bake sale, she hired me to makepan dulce,sopapillas, and other sweet treats on the weekends.
I hold up a finger as I dart into the kitchen where I find one apple empanada. It’s probably a little stale, but maybe the goat won’t care. I wrap it in a box before I return to the counter. “Let’s keep this between us, okay?” I whisper conspiratorially.
Mr. Pearson closes his eyes and places his hand over his heart. “Always and forever.”
I chuckle as I watch him tuck that box into his overalls like he’s protecting Pentagon secrets.
As he ambles away, someone says, “No playing favorites, missy.”
“Adele!” I come around the counter to hug the older woman. She reminds me of Betty White inThe Golden Girls, an old show one of my foster mothers used to watch. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”
