Page 5 of Between the Lines

“I’m here! I’m sorry, Cad—”

I lift my hand to silence her.

Fia’s wearing those jean shorts with daisies embroidered on them, hair impossibly long and the color of a fiery sunset. Staring at me with those emerald-green doe eyes.

She’s also glistening with sweat, catching her breath.

I drop my eyes, blinking, clearing my throat.

“Let’s not waste any more time,” I say, even toned, despite my clenched jaw. I stand to get the attention of the college-aged employees, who stare at me blankly, sprawled out in the cafe chairs.

Fia’s face glows bright red as she drops her bag on the floor and plops into the chair at the head of the table across from me.

“Right. Like I was saying,” I say, holding back a sigh. “We have a new summer menu, Fia will teach you the recipes. Payroll will also be switching to a new app, she’ll show you that too.” I wave a paper packet in the air and looked to Fia. “I need to go make some calls, can you take it from here?”

She nods a bit maniacally.

“Yes, of course.” Fia stands, huffing out a breath.

For a moment I hesitate. Maybe I should ask her if she is okay, but she claps loudly and smiles at everyone.

I puff out a sigh of relief.

This is what I hired her for—she can handle this.

I tread out the back door into the brick courtyard I spent a fortune to renovate and even more to furnish so teenagers can drink their iced matchas and take photos for social media.

There’s no one I actually needed to call, but I did need a moment alone. I drop down into a chair under an umbrella, spread my legs and lean back, running my hands over my stubble. I tap the soles of my shoes on the ground, removing the last clinging sand from this morning's surf—which I had to cut short for this meeting.

Just as I’m decompressing, the back door opens with a bang.

“Hey, I’m sorry to bother you, but—” Fia’s voice cuts through the chirping birds.

I look up and don’t bother forcing a smile. “What’s up?”

She’s standing in the doorway, pointing over her shoulder. “There’s a huge delivery up front, and they won’t let me sign for it.” She pauses, catching her breath. “Usually it’s not an issue but—”

“I’ll handle it,” I cut her off gruffly, and without meeting my eyes, Fia turns to go back inside.

I follow. And grimace when I see the delivery man standing at the front door. The sidewalk is already filling with people meandering downtown, the air more humid than normal from the recent storms.

“Need a hand?” he asks, easing an enormous box towards me, but I shake my head.

“No, I got it, thanks,” I mutter, scrawling my name across the screen before gripping the plastic straps on the box.

This is what happens when you spend your Friday nights alone with expensive bourbon, falling down rabbit holes on surf forums. You end up with a $2,000 custom surfboard from Bali when you already have four perfectly good boards home. And I definitely didn’t mean to have it delivered here.

As I walk past, Fia pauses her presentation and glances up, eyes lingering on my arm flexed around the box. “Is that a new door for the bathroom?”

“Nope,” I reply dryly, then mumble to myself, “It’s another poor decision.”

I offload the board in my office and walk back out into the cafe. I’ll deal with my pointless purchase later.

Everyone is standing, chairs scraping as they reset the cafe floor. No one is looking at me.

“There’s a shit-ton of foot traffic, so let’s wrap this up and open the doors in ten minutes. You ready, Fia?”

Crickets.