Page 4 of Steeped In Problems (Badges & Baristas #3)

Tanner knew he needed a floater, someone to bus tables and help when orders piled up. But the cash flow was already tight, and last week’s numbers were down. He did the math in his head and didn’t like the answer. Hiring someone else would have to wait.

Instead, he moved in to help. He was supposed to be the owner, not a deadweight.

He started with the basics—pour-overs and drip.

He could do those with minimal knowledge, almost in his sleep, and sometimes did on the nights when his leg ached too bad for real sleep.

But the ticket printer betrayed him and spat out specialty drinks like machine-gun fire, and soon, he was staring down a caramel latte avalanche, a triple-shot oat milk concoction, and something called a ‘Flamin’ Sarge’ that Rhonda had invented just to piss him off.

He tried. He really did. He even managed to get through three orders before it happened.

He was lining up a row of cups, left hand steadying the next, right hand on the steam wand. The milk pitcher slipped on a wet ring and tumbled, splattering foam across his shirt and onto the counter. He grabbed for it, but too late. The pitcher hit the floor and rolled.

“You okay, boss?” Kristy asked, eyes sharp.

“Fine,” he growled, forcing it.

He reached for another pitcher, but the rhythm was broken. The next shot, he tamped too hard. The portafilter jammed in the group head, and when he finally freed it, the gasket spat scalding water straight onto the back of his hand. It stung, sharp and mean.

“Dang it,” he muttered.

A mother with a toddler stared at him over the top of her cup. Her lips pressed together so tight they were nearly blue. The toddler, in Spider-Man pajamas, pointed at Tanner and giggled.

He wiped his hand on a towel, bit down on the pain, and tried to keep up. But the mistakes multiplied. By 7:00, he’d ruined two more drinks and had to remake a bagel sandwich after burning it in the toaster oven.

He glanced at the ticket rail. Still too many. The panic started low, a spark in the gut, but it spread fast.

That was when Kristy stepped in. “Blaze, I’ll handle the hot bar. Could you stock the fridge?” She said it easy, like she was asking for help moving a chair.

He nodded, trying not to look relieved. “Yeah. I’ll check on the next delivery, too.”

He ducked out to the storeroom, passing the cooler where Rhonda and Kristy were moving like twin tornadoes. The noise faded as he slipped into the back, and for a moment, he let himself lean against the wall and close his eyes.

Get it together, Blaze, he admonished himself.

He knew why the nerves were getting to him.

It was the same every time the shop got busy.

The brain would go into overdrive, looking for threats.

The body kept waiting for the next disaster—an accident, a call, a burst of gunfire.

Here, the worst that could happen was a burned muffin or a customer who thought oat milk was a right, not a privilege.

But still, it felt like he was about to screw up something big. He always did.

The break room was barely the size of a closet, and the “office” was a folding table, a laptop, and a battered file cabinet that still had the name of the previous owner stenciled on the side.

He walked past it, ignoring the invoices and the bills piled up next to the computer, and headed for the bathroom.

He locked the door, ran cold water over his hand, and studied his reflection in the chipped mirror.

The scar along his jaw looked meaner in the fluorescent light. The skin on his hand was already red and rising. He flexed his fingers. Still good. Still usable.

“You’re a cop, not a barista,” he muttered. The mirror didn’t answer, so he tried again. “You were a cop.”

It landed harder that way. Past tense, like that part of his life was over and done with, and he had nothing to say about it.

There was a crash from the front, followed by laughter and the clunk of the mop bucket. Someone had spilled. Again. Kristy’s voice drifted through the thin wall, bright and unbothered.

Tanner splashed his face, dried off, and forced himself back to the present.

He was halfway to the supply room when Rhonda yelled, “Boss? We’re out of oat milk.”

He took a deep breath and straightened his back. “Coming,” he called, and this time, his voice didn’t shake at all.

After the nine o’clock rush, the shop settled into a lull. The regulars swapped war stories at the window table, and even Kristy’s voice dialed down to something less than a five-alarm. Rhonda left to run an errand on her break, and Tanner found himself wandering, hands jammed in his pockets.

The hero wall ran nearly the length of the shop.

Photos, mostly in black and white, some in color, all of them in mismatched frames.

Some of the faces were gone now; a couple had gone out on calls and never made it back.

Most, though, were still around. If you knew where to look, you could spot Aiden O’Connell, the closest thing Clear Mountain had to a living legend, standing with his arms folded over his SAR jacket, eyes like twin spotlights.

Next to him, Zach Turner, opposite in looks and disposition, always the joker, holding the leash of his K9 partner Cooper.

Third row, center, there was a photo of Tanner’s old search team.

Himself, Aiden, Zach, and a scattering of others.

He’d always hated the picture—his left eye half shut, jaw bruised from an ice fall, hair a mess.

But every time he tried to take it down, someone (probably Rhonda) put it right back up.

He noticed the frame had tilted off-level. He reached up and straightened it, then brushed his thumb over the glass to flick away a smudge. For a second, his own reflection merged with the faces behind it. He let his hand linger, just for a second.

Most days, he told himself he didn’t miss it: the calls, the risk, the endless cold. The truth was, it was the only job where the rules had made sense.

“You look like you’re posing for the hero shot,” Kristy’s voice came from behind, soft but not sneaky.

He pulled his hand back and tried to hide the color in his cheeks. “Just keeping things tidy.”

She squinted at the picture. “Is that you in the middle?”

He shrugged. “Used to be.”

“Looks like you got in a fight with a mountain lion and lost,” she jested with a grin.

“It was an avalanche, actually. Got clipped at the base of Eagle Pass. Bounced off a pine tree, according to the incident report.”

She whistled low. “Didn’t know you were that kind of crazy.”

He felt a smile ghost across his lips. “No one ever does until it’s too late.”

Kristy leaned closer to the wall. “Who’s the guy with the mustache? He looks like he could bench-press a truck.”

“Turner,” Tanner told her before he could think better of it. “K9 handler. Nicest guy you’ll ever meet. Unless you mess with his dog. Or his wife.”

Kristy’s gaze flicked to another picture, this one of a medal ceremony and back. “I was always too scared to be in the line of fire. Closest I got was working trauma shifts at County General.”

He risked a glance at her. She seemed genuine, not fishing for sympathy or trying to one-up him. He nodded toward the next photo down the row, showing a group of officers standing on the roof of a burning house, grinning like idiots.

“That was after the Big Thompson flood,” he explained. “We pulled six people off the roof. Four dogs. And a ferret.”

She blinked. “A ferret?”

“People get attached to all sorts of things,” he mumbled with a shrug.

Kristy looked at him then, really looked, and he saw something there that surprised him. Not pity. Not even admiration. Just understanding.

“I get it. It’s hard to let go of something that was such a big part of your life.”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to. She had already moved on, wiping down the tables and humming something under her breath.

Tanner turned back to the wall, running a knuckle along the edge of the frame one last time. He knew the photos by heart, but he still checked every day, as if the details might change and he would somehow find his way back.

His phone buzzed. He checked the ID and nearly didn’t answer, but habit won. “Blaze here.”

The voice on the other end was gravelly, low, and unmistakably East Coast. “You sound like you need a cup of your own medicine, son.”

Tanner exhaled. “Joe. Didn’t think you called before noon.”

“Time zone, buddy. And business waits for no one,” said Joe Griffin, owner and founder of Brave Badge Roasting. “How’s my favorite cop-turned-caffeine-pusher?”

Tanner cradled the phone between his jaw and shoulder, glancing to make sure Rhonda hadn’t wandered back in. “Things are...fine. Busy most mornings. Still working out the kinks.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk about,” Joe’s tone shifted. “I got the latest reports. Your numbers aren’t where we need them, Blaze. Not even close.”

Tanner’s jaw tightened. “It’s only been two weeks.”

“Two and a half,” Joe corrected. “You know what they’re doing at the Glenwood Springs shop? Double your take with half the square footage. And don’t get me started on that new one in Kansas.”

Tanner could feel the blood rising in his neck. “I hired good people. We’re not wasting product. It’s just slow. It’s the off-season for tourists—most of our traffic right now is regulars, and they like to linger.”

Joe laughed, the sound dry and a little cruel. “Listen: you’ve got two more weeks before I send someone out to ‘evaluate and assist.’ You know what that means.”

“Yeah,” Tanner said, his voice flat. “I know.”

Joe softened, just a touch. “I didn’t bring you into this to set you up to fail. But you gotta treat this like a job, not a retirement hobby. Get the numbers up, or I’ll have to make some calls.”

“I’ll handle it,” Tanner assured him.

There was a pause on the line, the kind that meant Joe was considering a pep talk but couldn’t find the words.

“Good man. Tell Rhonda and the new girl I said hey,” Joe finished and hung up before Tanner could reply.

Tanner stared at the phone for a long minute. The urge to throw it was strong, but he tamped it down. Instead, he closed his fist around the receiver, white-knuckled, and set it gently on the counter.

Across the shop, Kristy was wiping down the condiment bar, still humming.

He walked over to the espresso machine, hands steady but heart going double-time. The world outside was still cold, still sharp, but in here, there was work to be done.

He started grinding beans for the next pot, each movement harder and faster than necessary.

This wasn’t the badge he’d trained for. But it was the one he had left. He’d do whatever was necessary to make it count.