Page 51 of Between the Lines

I leave the safety of my office to join them in front of the barista counter.

The journalist plops into a chair and immediately starts firing off questions.

“So what prompted you to open this shop? Why here? Correct me if I’m wrong, but you used to compete in surfing when you were younger, no? Why didn’t you open a surf-related business? And then you were in residential repair with Brooks & Sons, is that correct?”

Holy shit. How did Fia deal with this?

I shift my weight and run a hand through my hair, my breathing restricted.

Fia leans against the counter behind her, watching me quietly. Her presence offers a bit of calm as I try to remember everything the journalist asked.

“I love Wilmington, and I wanted to open a business that brought the community together. Coffee seemed like a pretty obvious choice for that,” I reply, hoping that’s good enough, even though my tone is less than enthused.

But the journalist looks up from her laptop, waiting for more.

I shrug, racking my brain. “As far as surfing goes, yes, I used to compete, but those days are behind me. Surfing is my outlet now.”

The journalist’s smile falters for a split second, but I look away, signaling I’d like to wrap this up. I’m sure as hell not diving into why I left Brooks & Sons.

“Okay,” she replies hesitantly, closing her laptop slowly. “I think we are covered as far as the Q and A goes.”

She stands, clapping her hands together, her eyes darting between Fia and me. “We just need a few photos of you.”

I nod, but Fia’s eyes widen at me.

“Oh, me?” I ask, and the photographer and journalist both chuckle, like I’m endearing.

“Uhm . . .” I scratch my head but see no way out of this. They aren’t going to print a spread about Good Grinds without a photo of the owner.

Gesturing towards the espresso machine behind me, the photographer hangs her camera around her neck. “It would be great if you could stand over there and pretend to make a drink. An action shot if you will.” She chuckles to herself.

I haven’t actually made a drink since the first year we were open.

Sensing my hesitancy, Fia steps towards me, offering a soft smile. “Come on, it will be good for the brand.”

I don’t want to appear like a total dick, so I step behind the counter as suggested. But instantly, I feel out of place, and I know it shows.

“Just act natural. Why don’t you make your typical drink, and I’ll snap some lifestyle shots,” the photographer offers, and I blink rapidly.

I grab a cup, like a fucking monkey in a circus, and tamp down ground espresso beans, locking the portafilter into place before hitting the brew button.

Nothing happens. I hit it again.

“Okay, Caden, just remember to smile.” The journalist points to her lips like I’m a child getting Christmas photos done. She waves her hands in the air. “You’re loving this, this is your dream!”

I grumble, suddenly feeling like the Edison bulbs above the counter are glaring into my eyes.

I hit the button again, but nothing happens, and the photographer lowers her camera.

Fia rounds the counter with her head tucked, saddling up next to me, just out of shot.

“Here,” she whispers, quickly hitting different switches, taking control. “You’ve got to enter the quantity first.”

The espresso machine whirls to life in moments, and my chest untightens a smidge.

Hot espresso begins to spew into the shot glass, but my eyes stay locked on Fia, who remains by my side. Her lip gloss is the color of strawberries, and she smells sweet, and for a second I forget what the fuck I’m supposed to be doing.

“This is great actually!” The journalist snaps her fingers, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Let’s feature both of you, together. Fia, why don’t you smile or laugh, like he just said something funny.”