Page 7 of Holiday Crush
A word about Elmwood’s celebrated chef: Jean-Claude—or JC, as most of us called him—was a brusque French-Canadian bear of a man in his early forties with a broad Quebecois accent, reddish hair, bushy brows, a bit of belly, and an occasionally acerbic tongue. He was the kind of guy who said what everyone else was thinking…usually without apologizing. That was why I liked him.
He’d mellowed out a bit in the two years since he’d met his boyfriend, former NHL star Riley Thoreau, but he was still JC…a sometimes grumpy yet surprisingly thoughtful friend.
I jingled my keys and stepped toward the front door. “You coming in for a latte?”
“Not today. I’ll have coffee at the diner. We’re hiring for the holidays at both restaurants, and Nolan scheduled early interviews. Penny promised me fresh croissants and as I have very little time this morning, I had to choose…croissants or a latte? She won. No hard feelings.” JC held up a second bakery bag and slipped his free hand into his jacket pocket when the crisp autumn breeze rustled the leaves lining the curb on Main Street.
“None taken.Mmm, these are the bomb.” I bit my bottom lip and crossed my fingers. “Did you get me the chocolate one?”
“Mais oui.”
“You have no idea how happy I am. I could bathe in a tub filled with chocolate croissants.” I sighed happily as I fit my key in the lock.
“That is a disturbing image, Ivan,” he deadpanned.
“I know, right? Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” JC inclined his head, frowning as he tipped his chin toward the bakery next door. “By the way, you should talk to Penny and Frank about selling their baked goods here. Maybe expand or go into business together. And before you say it’s a bad idea, I will point out the obvious—they serve terrible coffee and you have no pastries here. Worth thinking about, yes?Au revoir.”
It wasn’t the first time someone had pointed out that we might benefit from a merger of sorts with the bakery. However, the Hendersons had been a staple in town for decades, and they really didn’t have anything to gain by giving us a few of their pastries to sell. At least that was how they’d felt four years ago.
Maybe they’d reconsider now that we’d proved ourselves in the community.
Rise and Grind’s streamlined menu offered the highest quality products possible—the freshest coffee beans, an eclectic variety of loose-leaf teas, and yes…we carried soy milk, almond milk, oat milk, and even coconut milk. In a way, we were a pioneer enterprise connecting Elmwood with the rest of the world. I was proud of our efforts, but we could do more.
“Are you okay? You’ve been distracted all morning,” Stacy commented, fitting the slew of lattes I’d just made into a paper tray.
“I’m just engrossed in my job,” I replied, adding, “You know…we should think about selling real pastries here. Not just prepackaged chocolate wafers. Maybe we should talk to the Hendersons.”
She frowned. “We did. If you remember correctly, they wanted to take over our business. Are we ready to sell or—”
“No way, but maybe it’s time to draw up a new plan. Or…maybe I’m just restless.” I pointed at the tray of drinks in an attempt to change the subject. I wanted to do a little research before we discussed this in depth. “Who are those for?”
“Ronnie, Vinnie and Riley, and a couple of coaches at the rink. Nolan was going to pick them up, but he must be running late. They’re going to go cold if he doesn’t hurry. You could deliver them,” she suggested around a yawn. “We’re slow at the moment anyway.”
I narrowed my gaze at her pinched expression. “Areyouokay, honey?”
Stacy waved off my concern as she perched on the stool behind the counter. “I’m fine. Just tired. I used up all my preholiday energy this morning, and I need more time to regroup.”
Actually, she looked beyond tired. She had circles under her eyes, and her skin was paler than normal.
“Good thing I have enough for both of us,” I replied, infusing extra lightness into my tone so she wouldn’t catch on that I was low-key worried about her. “Is it too early to hang our snowflakes?”
Stacy smiled wanly. “Yes, it is. Take the drinks, Ive.”
“Okay, but only because I know Mazie is on her way here. The second she walks in the door, go home and rest.”
“Maybe I will.”
I drovelike a snail across town to Elmwood Rink in an effort not to upset the tray on the floor of the passenger seat and arrived in less than three minutes.
Hustling into the darkened lobby, I strode purposefully toward the empty reception desk. It had a “not quite open” vibe, but I could hear music and laughter from somewhere nearby.
I paused outside the rink entrance, balanced the tray in one hand, pushed the door open and—ran into a brick wall of man.
Not just any man.
It was Court.