Page 6 of Between the Lines

I look around, only to see her wiping the same two inches of counter over and over, lips pressed into a tight line, forehead scrunched.

I wave slowly. “You good there, Hanson?”

She jerks her head up, green eyes finding my gray ones.

“Yes! All good!” She smiles but it’s not convincing.

“Great,” I respond curtly, returning to my office to check my emails.

Congratulations, you’re a Wilmington Top 10!

“What the hell is this?” I grumble, clicking on the email.

My chest flutters as I read it.

Good Grinds was named Wilmington’s number one coffee shop in the most prestigious magazine in the city—Wilmington Life. I typically shy away from publicity and don’t give two shits about titles, but I’d be an idiot to deny the fact that this is a big deal. Businesses in the area compete to make this annual list.

I read the fine print . . . We'll get a plaque outside the building and a trophy to display, and they will send a journalist and photographer to interview me and get photos for the two-page spread. There is an honorary awards dinner at a fancy venue, all business owners are invited with a plus-one . . .

Yeah, no thanks.

A knock sounds at my door, and I shut my laptop. I’ll respond to the email later.

“Come in.” I push back, legs too long to fit comfortably under this desk.

It’s Fia again—she’s everywhere today.

Her lips are extra pink, like she's been biting them nervously or something.

“I’m going to head to the bank. Apparently today is the day that people decided to start carrying cash, and we already ran out of change.” She sighs, hands on hips.

“Not necessary, I’m on my way out.” I stand, shoving my keys and phone into my pockets. “They need you here.”

“No, I can do it. It’s my job.” She crosses her arms and I concede. I have done enough socializing as it is today. Before Fia turns to leave, I hold up my hand.

“One more thing, if parking is an issue and causing you to be late, please park in the alleyway in my spot.”

“Oh.” Fia’s brows knit together. “No, I walk every day. I don’t live that far.”

“You walk here, in the summer? That’s completely unreasonable.”

She scowls in response. “It’s really not a big deal.”

“Don’t you have a car?” I ask, peering down at her.

“Yes, but it’s—” Fia stops herself. “Never mind. It’s fine. I promise I will not be late again. Today was a fluke.”

Before I can get clarity on whatever the hell is going on with my manager, another interruption creeps into my morning in the form of a phone call. I glance down; it’s my coffee supplier out of Raleigh.

“Shit, I should take this.”

“Like I said, I’ll be back in a few.” She turns to leave in a hurry, and a paper falls from her back pocket. She doesn’t notice.

On the third ring, I finally answer the phone. As I make my least favorite form of communication—small talk about how I’m doing—I round my desk and pick up the paper Fia dropped.

The conversation drones on, but once I’m off the phone, I place the crinkled paper on my desk and smooth it out.I shouldn’t read it. But I do.

An estimate from a roofing company, dated from today.