“Are you actually telling me you can’t make my signature drink?” she practically shouts.
Every person in the cafe stops what they’re doing to watch our little drama unfold, and I’m pretty sure I’ve never wanted to disappear more in my entire life. Instead of trying to understand my situation or showing a little compassion, she’s faulting me for a broken machine.
“I’m happy to make you an alternative and give you a refund,” I say calmly.
She heaves a long sigh like I’ve ruined her entire day. “What kind of cafe is this without a working espresso machine?”
Something cracks inside me—the machine, my composure, maybe both. I try not to let the frustration seep into my tone. “Brittany, I’d be happy to give you a free cupcake to make up for the inconvenience.”
“But I don’t eat sugar. And I’m off gluten too.”
That’s a bald-faced lie, considering she’s posted three selfies this week holding treats from our competitor, the Maple Grounds Bakery.
I give her a tight smile. “Of course you are.”
She rolls her eyes so hard I think they might pop out. “This place has gone downhill. I only came because Nate said we should supportEmmy’sbookstore.” Emphasis on my friend’s ownership and notmine.
Even the mention of my ex’s name is like pressing on a bruise that’s still sore. The reminder that he was with both of us for months—me thinking we had a future, her knowing she was the real choice—confirms my deepest fear that I’m forgettable.Replaceable.
“Forget it.” She waves a hand dismissively. “I’ll go to Maple Grounds, where theyknow what they’re doing.”
She whips around and storms out, marching straight into traffic without looking. A beat-up pickup truck slams on its brakes, narrowly avoiding a Brittany-shaped dent in his bumper.
I sigh. Some people have all the luck.
“Ignore her,” Mrs. Nelson murmurs, setting her cup down and giving me a look of understanding. “Anyone who turns down your cupcakes has questionable judgment, at best. We understand you can’t help the espresso machine breaking.”
“Thanks,” I say, the humiliation rising in my throat. I hate that I let Brittany affect me after I promised Emmy I could handle her myself.
Mrs. Nelson gives my hand a pat before she and Mary-Ellen hurry out the door. I assist the remaining customers, but the stranger keeps his distance, browsing the bookshelves as the cafe gradually empties.
When the last customer leaves, I let out a breath and turn toward the silent machine. Everything’s falling apart, which would be fine if I were the kind of person who had backup plans or money to fix it. But I’m more of a “wing it and hope for the best” type, which works great until your espresso machine decides to die on the same day your ex’s girlfriend shows up to remind you why you have trust issues with men.
The espresso machine was supposed to be my investment in the future, something I could take with me to Seattle when I finally open my bakery. Emmy let me buy it myself for exactly that reason.
But now it’s broken, I don’t know how it works, and I definitely can’t afford a repair guy, not when I’m already eating ramen for dinner so I can save for Seattle. My bank account has seen better days—specifically, days when it had more than $47 in it.
“I didn’t know Regina George had a twin,” a voice says behind me.
I whip around to see the cute stranger standing on the other side of the counter. “Regina George?”
“The blonde who hassled you. Giving off major influencer-who-thinks-service-workers-are-invisible vibes.” His eyes are kind, not mocking, which somehow makes me feel a little better.
“Oh, that’s just Brittany,” I say. “She’s had lots of practicetreating people like furniture. Do you want some coffee or a cupcake? Both are guaranteed to be less toxic than her personality.”
He smiles, then nods toward the espresso machine. “Do you need help with that first?”
“You’re an espresso-machine repair man?” I ask, frowning. That would be way too coincidental right now.
“No, but I’ve been told I have a talent for fixing things. I’d be willing to take a look.”
“Let me guess,” I say, looking him over. I know the type—the good-looking ones who pretend to want to help. “You’re one of those guys who thinks a broken machine and a damsel in distress equals special treatment?”
His smile deepens, which only makes him more attractive. I’ve always had a weakness for competent men with nice hands—the kind who can actually solve problems instead of just mansplaining why the problem exists.
“No special treatment expected,” he says. “But I figure if you can create something that draws a crowd like this every day, theremustbe something special about this place. Judging by the line this morning, it seems like a safe bet.”
I study him, lifting an eyebrow warily. “And what’s this going to cost me?”
