Page 19 of Between the Lines

Then there’s the fact that Good Grinds made a prestigious list, and as much as I loathe the attention, I also know it’s a public fuck you to my father who laughed in my face when I bought the place.

I’m not letting that slip away from me now.

So now I’m here, parked on the street in front of her house, holding a cup of coffee that’s gone cold. I need to go in there and break the news that I called the company for her, and they are on their way.

“Shit,” I mutter as a white work van with the blue logo I grew up seeing turns the corner, pulling up behind me.

Eddie is never early to a job. Is this karma for being a bulldozer over Fia’s life?

“Hey, man.” I jump out of my Jeep, jogging over to greet him as he rolls down the driver’s side window.

“Since when do you own a Victorian in the historic district?” he grumbles, cigarette teetering on his lips, a gas station cup of coffee balanced in the other hand. Eddie is a bit rough around the edges, old enough to be my father, but a good honest guy. He does what he says he’ll do, and that’s all I can ask for.

“It’s not mine, but I am responsible for this house.” The less detail the better, I don’t need Eddie’s crew reporting back to my father. He’d be up my ass on this.

Eddie continues to stare, his eyes boring into me, and I shrug nonchalantly.

“The owner is the manager of Good Grinds, and she’s in a bit of a situation.”

He laughs and shakes his head. I know what the bastard’s thinking.

“You said it was an emergency.” He ashes his cigarette out the window.

I blow out a sharp breath, gripping my car keys in my fist. “Let’s just say without her, my business would crumble, so yeah, this is an emergency.”

“Uh-huh.” Eddie smirks and I give no response. “You want us to start now?” He taps the side of the work van.

“Give me a few minutes actually.” I glance at the front door. “I need to let her know you’re here.”

Eddie sucks in a lungful of smoke. “Why do I get the feeling she has no idea we were coming?”

I turn away, unable to answer that because how do I explain my short fuse right now, my irritation that Fia’s pretending everything is fine when it’s not. That I lost sleep over this. That I want to shake her because she’s not thinking straight.

I can’t.

So I walk to the porch instead of explaining.

The door swings open before I can knock, and I’m met with Fia’s doe-eyed stare.

She’s in tiny cotton shorts and a thin tank top, hair thrown into a messy bun, no makeup on her face. A mug of coffee steams from her grip.

“What the heck are you doing here?” she rasps, peering past me at the quiet residential street.

“You never reached out to my guy,” I state.

Fia bats her long eyelashes. “I’m sorry, it’s a bit early and my boss is standing on my porch. I didn’t reach out to him . . . so you’re here?”

I bite my lip and lean on the open door. “Can I come in?”

She looks even more stunned, but moves aside.

It smells like oatmeal and coffee inside. Morning light shines through the front windows onto the oak wood floors that creak as I settle into the foyer.

Fia spins to face me, taking an exaggerated sip of her coffee. “I didn’t sleep much last night—can you just tell me what this is about?” She pops her hip as she stands awkwardly in front of me.

“I’m assuming you still have the leaks.” My voice comes out harsher than intended.

Fia rolls her eyes, so that’s a yes.