He said it like it was simple. Like rewiring my future was just another Tuesday.
Because my throat had that I-might-cry tickle again, I cleared it. “Meatball?”
Powell grinned. “Daniel Costello. There was a tripping incident that landed him face-first in a vat of spaghetti.”
“Y’all take your nicknames seriously.” I didn’t want to know what mine might be. I had way too many embarrassing moments in my past.
“Part of the gig. You ready to talk layout?”
I dropped my messenger bag on the nearest clear spot.
“Bossy coffee lady reporting for duty.”
“There she is,” he murmured, and I chose to pretend I didn’t hear the relief in it.
The step up into the truck felt higher without my usual stool. Being inside again made my chest squeeze, but it wasn’t the hard panic I’d imagined thinking about this last night. The bare walls gleamed under the work lights. It still hurt, but now there was scaffolding over the hurt. Lines. Plans. Possibility.
Powell hopped up after me with irritating, athletic ease. The space shrank by half.
“Here.” He handed me a tape measure, the metal already warm from his hand. “You mark where you want everything. I’ll make it happen.”
The words landed deeper than they should have.
I flicked the tape out toward the back wall. “You say that now, but you’ve never seen me in full layout goblin mode.”
“Hit me with it. Worst-case scenario, we have to undo a few screws.”
Worst-case scenario, I let down every wall I’d built between us and drowned in what I’d once almost felt for him.
I focused on numbers instead.
We started at the back corner where the espresso machine would live. I measured, he marked pencil lines. We argued over inches. He wanted outlets higher “so you’re not bending over a live plug right next to a water line, Donnegan,” and I wanted them where muscle memory would reach for them at five-thirty in the morning.
“You always lean on this section.” He braced his hand where my old counter edge had been. “You don’t want cords where your hip ends up.”
“You’ve been watching my hip placement?” The question flustered me in ways I didn’t want to think about.
Color climbed into his cheeks. “I’ve been watching your workflow.”
“Uh-huh.” Because it was more comfortable, I smirked and made a note. “We’ll revisit the cords.”
He huffed, but his mouth twitched at the corners.
We moved up the wall, talking through equipment. Grinder here, water filtration there, another plug for the pastry warmer I’d always wanted to add.
“The way it was set up before,” he said, “you always looked like you were one step away from tripping over something.”
“I did not.”
“You did,” he insisted. “You made it look graceful, but I’ve stood at that window enough to know you were dodging landmines back there.”
I shouldn’t have liked that he’d noticed. Not just that he’d been there, but that he’d paid attention.
“It’s controlled chaos. Barista ballet.”
“Then we’re upgrading your stage.” The sincerity in his voice loosened something in me.
I moved down to the service window and snapped the tape out along the lower framing. It slid, metal skidding over metal, and snapped back hard enough to sting.
