Page 8 of Next Season
“Me too.” He smiled kindly, adding, “Um…hey, can I get a Diet Coke too, please?”
Oh.
Right.
Why was I still standing here? Was I accidentally flirting again?
I salvaged my potentially awkward episode with a curt nod and a promise to have his lunch delivered ASAP.
I stayed in the kitchen after that. I didn’t trust myself not to turn into a fawning, ridiculous fan with a super-crush around the hockey player. I know, I know. It was an illogical diagnosis, but I exhibited telling signs—butterflies in my stomach, irrational irritation, and ultra-awareness. It was…disturbing.
The only remedy was to steer clear and hope he’d heal quickly.
Should have been simple,oui?
No, Riley Thoreau was everywhere—the diner, the coffee shop, the bakery.
I spotted him on Sunday, signing autographs in front of the rink; on Monday morning, jogging down Magnolia Street; on my way to work that afternoon, chatting with Vin and Nolan in the parking lot of the newly constructed sport facility he’d built adjacent to St. Finbarr’s; and on Tuesday morning, through the window outside the dry cleaner.
And yes, I heard the buzz in the kitchen. According to Dierdre, a sweet waitress in her twenties and a self-professed hockey fiend, Riley looked depressed. Jonathan, a sous chef who fixed Harley Davidsons on the side and also loved hockey, said Riley’s eyes were the problem. Why else would he still be wearing sunglasses inside after two weeks, and why would he still be here?
“I think he lost partial vision in his right eye,” Ivan the terrible know-it-all barista and co-owner of Rise and Grind suggested as he whisked foam into art on my latte. “The press thinks he’ll announce his retirement any day now.”
“Who?”
“Riley Thoreau,” he replied with his head bent, a pink headband holding his mop of curls in place. “Have you been listening at all, or am I talking to myself again?”
I huffed fondly ’cause I had to admit, Ivan the terrible know-it-all was a good friend and sparring partner. He was a thirty-two-year-old Elmwood native with blue eyes, brown hair always in need of a trim. His endless wardrobe of black T-shirts were usually paired with skinny jeans and decorated with rainbow pins as if to remind everyone that he was both out and proud and mildly committed to the emo reputation he’d fostered in his youth.
He and his friend Stacy had gone to college in New York and returned to Elmwood with business degrees and a plan to take over the donut shop some genius had opened next to Henderson’s Bakery in the eighties. No one could compete with a place that smelled of pastries, freshly baked bread, and served passable decaf and regular java. But Ivan and Stacy were willing to give it a try.
Three years ago, they took over the lease, renamed and revamped the shop into a specialty coffee emporium that sold lattes, espressos, cappuccinos, and every blended caffeinated concoction under the sun. In a town like Elmwood where a generation of old-timers still drank Folgers they made in the Mr. Coffee machines they’d owned for decades, it hadn’t seemed like a winning idea.
Wrong. Rise and Grind was a huge success.
Elmwood was a surprising place. Six years ago, I’d agreed to help Nolan revitalize the diner his family had owned for almost a century. The town had been leery of me and my French-Canadian-infused menu improvements in the early days. A burger was a burger in their minds. They weren’t sure they could trust an outsider with an accent not to ruin beloved staples. They gave me a chance for Nolan’s sake, and now…they accepted me as one of their own.
Probably because I kept their favorite items. Hey, I didn’t want to spark a revolution. I’d added more than I retained, though, and our customers loved having choices. In a twist, it appeared that the residents of Elmwood had sophisticated palates and were willing to try new things.
Honestly, Nolan was the true genius, but I took some credit and teased Ivan that the diner had paved the way for Rise and Grind because…well, Ivan was fun to tease.
“You are always talking to yourself,” I lamented, shaking my head. “I worry about your marbles.”
Ivan scoffed. “My marbles are just fine. Thank you. Take your latte and scram, or I’m putting you on my no-share list.”
“That sounds horrible,” I deadpanned. “What are you not sharing?”
“Gossip.” His eyes twinkled merrily as he slid my latte across the marble counter with a theatric, “Ta-da!”
I stared at the glob of foam for a beat before meeting Ivan’s gaze. “What is that supposed to be?”
“A heart, you salty old B. I’m like the Wizard of Oz giving the lion the heart you lack,” he replied, fluttering his lashes.
“Oh, boy. You are mixing everyone up. The tin man has the heart, the lion has the brains, and—”
“No, the lion wanted courage. The scarecrow wanted brains,” a newcomer corrected.
Ivan widened his eyes. “Greetings, Mr. Thoreau!”