Page 6 of Under Pressure

With a wave in Asher’s direction that goes unnoticed, I leave the gym without waiting for Kellan to respond. He doesn’t even like coffee, let alone the overly sweet type he mentioned.

No, my teammate is giving me a hard time because he knows I don’t like it, either.

Yet I’ve been forcing myself to have a cup every single day, all so that I can see her and, if I’m lucky, have her be the one to take my order and speak with me.

The owner of Blank Page is the reason I’m picking back up into a jog and rushing out of the stadium rather than taking a shower and settling into the clubhouse until game time.

And I can’t wait to see how annoyed she’ll be to see me today.

3

“Dowe have any more caramel pies?” Callie asks mid-stride.

I flick my eyes to the pastry case, then to the kitchen door, before swallowing a frustrated huff. It’s only just past nine, but we’re almost cleared out already. Some days are like this, and I’ve come to expect it after so many years in business. Still, it’s rare that we’re so barren this early on a Tuesday of all days.

I pop my head into the kitchen while wiping my damp palms down my apron. The short hairs at my nape have already fallen from the bobby pins I used to hold them up this morning, and I can feel them tickling my skin. With a frazzled movement, I’m slicking them back into place.

The kitchen’s spotless, without so much as a fleck of flour on the counter. Ruthie clocked out over an hour ago, and while a few metal racks hold extra croissants and cookies, the pies are nowhere to be found.

“Nope,” I tell her a beat later.

“Maybe we should add them to Ruthie’s list for tomorrow. We’ve sold more of those than the raspberry croissants this week.”

“She could use your help for a few days, actually,” I say before reaching for the freshly brewed espresso.

Pouring it into the biodegradable cup with the Blank Page logo on it, I watch as the double shot flows over the milk and ice, lightening in colour. In a blink, I’ve got the lid popped on and a straw tucked in my palm against the side of the cup.

Once I’ve slid it onto the end of the counter and called the name on the order, I twist to face my sister, waiting for her answer. She slides a croissant into a brown baggie and hands it to the person on the other side of the till with a perfect, white-toothed smile.

“When? I’m at the hospital Wednesday to Saturday next week.”

“We’ll figure it out. I can ask her in the morning, but Sunday for sure. She’s got a thing for weekend prep.”

Callie laughs, and it sounds the same as it used to when we were kids. Free, wild, and so damn happy that it almost hurts to hear. She’s always been the one with the glass-half-full view. The sibling who can see the light in any situation, even when it should be impossible to break through the darkness. And there was plenty of that.

I’ve envied her for that as much as I’ve been frustrated by it. Sometimes, I’d love for my sister to hate someone as much as I do and feed my despair instead of offering words of encouragement. There has to be something evil beneath all that good . . . even if it’s only as bad as wishing someone who’s pissed me off could stub their toe or step on a LEGO.

Callie makes that twinkling sound again before rubbing my arm and beginning to take another order at the register. I let the topic drop and slide up beside Eli. He’s snapping a lid onto a strawberry banana smoothie while simultaneously flicking on the second blender. The loud whirring noise engulfs the chatting voices around us.

“You’re hovering,” he chides lightly, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. “The whole point of having employees is that you don’t need to work as hard.”

Heat creeps up my throat. “There was just a rush.”

Eli’s a few years younger than me at twenty-three, but he’s mature enough to pass for twenty-five at least. Well, if it weren’t for his slop of a head of hair, maybe. The deep blue streaks through it aren’t the problem, but the mullet itself.

Now, I’m not against longer hair at all. I don’t mind the whole messy thing. Actually, I think I prefer it over the whole “clean and styled” thing that most men who come in here have going on. It’s the way he’s cut the mullet to look like he took a pair of scissors to it after one too many drinks that ruins it.

“Well, the rush is over,” he counters, grabbing another cup for the frappe.

“Are you trying to tell me to leave my café?”

“You said it, not me.”

I let loose a deep noise from the back of my throat and leave him be. The last thing I’m going to do is disappear, though. I’m not the type who can hide away in a back room while others do everything for me. They may be my employees, and yes, I do trust them to run things on their own, but I’m incapable of sitting back on my hands.

It just won’t ever happen.

So, I let the two of them take care of the orders while grabbing all the dirty dishes and bringing them to the back. They sink to the bottom of the steel basin, hiding beneath the soapy water. My hot pink rubber gloves are folded over the edge of the sink, exactly where I left them last.