Chapter 6

HANNAH

Humming a King Princess song I’d been singing loudly in the shower, I walked down the hill toward Main Street. There was still a spring in my step, and it couldn’t all be attributed to the sensible white shoes I was wearing today or the best night’s sleep I’d had in months. In fact, my legs still ached from being on my feet all day yesterday, but here I was, looking forward to doing it all over again.

Too often in New York, I’d barely registered my surroundings, preoccupied with worrying about my writing, Tania, or whether subway delays would make me late. But today, I was fully present to appreciate my new environment. I passed cute weatherboard cottages with front yards full of rose bushes, peonies, nasturtiums, and other flowers I didn’t recognize in full bloom. Waist-height white picket fences and neatly trimmed hedges bordered the gardens. The smell of freshly cut grass carried on the breeze. It wasn’t even eight a.m., but the sun was strong. Today was going to be hot.

I let out a happy sigh. This was idyllic. I’d visited Sapphire Springs a handful of times while an undergraduate at NYU and had fallen in love. I’d always thought that when the grind of New York finally wore me down, I’d retire to a small, peaceful town like Sapphire Springs. It’d just happened a lot sooner than I thought.

I’d visited here once with Tania, who’d been thoroughly unimpressed by my retirement plans. She was a New York lifer who’d have to be dragged kicking and screaming out of the city. I chuckled at the thought—Tania was always very put together and composed—and then checked myself. Huh. That’s the first time I’ve really thought about Tania without being overwhelmed with emotions.That’s progress, Hannah! I turned onto Main Street, smiling at a random middle-aged man walking a black Labrador, who smiled back at me.

Even the tinnitus in my left ear, which had been bothering me more since I’d lost my hearing aid, didn’t seem as noticeable in Sapphire Springs. Perhaps it was because I had other, more interesting things to catch my attention. Like one very attractive boss.

My good mood wavered as a thought struck me. Shit. From what George had said, she seemed to think I was a woman who’d spoken to Ben about working at Novel Gossip. If Ben saw me, or that woman returned to the café, things could get awkward.

I kept telling myself I hadn’t lied to George and that she would understand I just hadn’t heard her. But the fact that I knew there’d been a misunderstanding and I hadn’t corrected it made me uneasy. While Mom, a philosophy professor, and Dad, a professor of law, had not been particularly hands-on parents, they had emphasized the importance of honesty and integrity growing up. I suspected they wouldn’t approve of the situation I’d gotten myself into—not that I’d ask for their philosophical take on my predicament, anyway. They were currently vacationing in Greece and, in any event, we’d never had the kind of relationship where I felt comfortable asking their advice on anything, let alone minor moral dilemmas. And this one, in the grand scheme of moral dilemmas, was on the sillier side. Not only that, but it would involve telling them information I’d withheld from them for years.

My belly swooped as I tripped over a piece of uneven pavement, teetering for a heart-wrenching second before I righted myself. So much for being fully present. I was almost at Novel Gossip now and had spent most of the walk up Main Street caught in my head. But as I pushed open the door to the café, butterflies in my stomach pulled me back to reality. Would Ben be back?

To my relief, when I stepped inside, the only person I could see was George behind the counter, her back to me. I stopped for a moment, admiring her broad shoulders. I wonder if she works out? I did not get buff while working at Café Mignon when I was a student, but perhaps the book side of Novel Gossip required more heavy lifting. Like lifting all my damn boxes of books, which I could still see piled up at the back of the aisle. Guilt spiked in my chest at the thought.

“Hello!” George turned. Her smile lit her entire face, sending her eyes sparkling. I couldn’t help but return her grin, my guilt receding into the background. “Thanks again for coming in today. Ben just texted me to say he has the flu. It doesn’t sound like it’s hitting him too hard, but I’ve told him to stay away until all his symptoms are gone. I don’t want him to infect any of our customers—or any of us, for that matter. Thank god the rest of us haven’t caught it, or we’d be totally screwed.”

“Oh no!” I grimaced. “I hope he’s not feeling too bad.” But while I meant that, I couldn’t help the wave of relief that washed over me. I’d be able to keep working at the café without Ben blowing my cover for a few more days. That was, if the jobseeker who had spoken to Ben didn’t reappear. As strange as it was, I wasn’t ready to give up on my new career in hospitality quite yet—or for George to find out why I’d really shown up at Novel Gossip yesterday.

“It sounds like he’s through the worst of it now. Hey, do you have time for me to show you how Hugo works?”

“Hugo?” I stared at George, my eyebrows raised.

She chuckled. “Sorry, I mean the espresso machine. I’m quite attached to him and couldn’t resist naming him Hugo.” She patted the shiny red espresso machine fondly.

Well, that’s just adorable. “Sure.”

“Have you had much experience making coffee?”

“Not for years, so I definitely need a refresher. And I’ve never used an espresso machine as magnificent as Hugo.” The espresso machine at Café Mignon had been a third of the size and significantly less shiny.

George laughed. “No espresso machine is as magnificent as Hugo.”

Standing only inches away from me, George walked me through the process of making a latte. The well-defined muscles on her forearms tensed as she emptied the portafilter, a small round container attached to a handle, of used coffee, refilled it with freshly ground beans and tamped them down, and then again as she twisted the portafilter into Hugo. Every motion was so strong, deliberate and smooth, flowing into each other like a carefully choreographed dance. Even the way she frothed the milk, gently lowering the pitcher as the milk turned creamy, her dark eyes fixed intently on the job at hand, sent an enjoyable shiver down my spine. Damn, who knew coffee making could be so sexy?

“Why don’t you try?” George asked, turning to me once she’d finished her demonstration.

Thankfully, despite not absorbing much of the lesson (unless the lesson was about George’s magnificent forearms and just how sensuous making a latte could be), muscle memory kicked in. I stumbled through the steps, acutely aware that my movements were jerky and weak compared to George’s. While my technique was anything but sensuous, I produced a respectable long black on my first turn.

“Good work!” George said with approval. “Why don’t you try a latte next?”

Feeling more confident, I banged the portafilter against the garbage bin to empty it, refilled it with beans, and smoothly twisted it into the espresso machine. As the golden coffee flowed into the cup waiting underneath, I filled the pitcher full of milk, put it under the steam wand and turned it on. An unpleasant screeching noise made me jump. “Oh god, it sounds like I’m murdering a cat. What am I doing wrong?”

George chuckled. “The steam wand is too low in the pitcher. You need to keep it just under the surface, lowering the pitcher as the milk expands,” George explained patiently.

I lowered the pitcher down. “Shit!” I yelped as milk bubbled up, splattering Hugo’s side. I turned off the steam. “Sorry, Hugo!”

“So you overcompensated a little too much.” George grinned. “Do you mind if I give you a hand?”

I nodded, and she stepped closer to me, so we were almost touching, and wrapped her fingers around the pitcher. Her hand brushed mine for a second as she adjusted her grip, leaving a warm imprint that expanded over my skin.

With her other hand, she turned on the steam wand again. “So, instead of holding the pitcher by the handle, if you hold it like this, you can feel when the milk is heating up. See how the milk is expanding?” I nodded again, trying to focus on the milk swirling in front of me and not how close George was standing to me. “So now we’ll slowly lower the pitcher.” George gently guided the pitcher down, her hand only millimeters from mine.

An image of George standing behind me with her arms wrapped around my middle, her hands on mine, frothing milk à la the pottery scene from Ghost appeared without warning in my mind. Heat raced up my face.

“When it’s almost too hot to touch, that’s when you know it’s done.”

My face is too damn hot to touch. I hoped to god that George hadn’t noticed.

The pitcher was hot under my hand.

“Now?” I glanced over to George, taking in the faint freckles that scattered her nose and cheeks and the flecks of golden brown in her eyes.

George was very much not a ghost. She was very real and gorgeous. She’d also pulled her hand away from the pitcher and was now nodding at me.

Ouch! Suddenly aware of a burning sensation on my fingers, I hastily released my grip and placed the pitcher on the counter.

“Is your hand okay?” George asked, concern creasing her forehead.

“Yes, it’s fine,” I said, ignoring the mild throbbing in my fingers.

“It’s probably a little hot, but the foam looks good,” George said, peering at the milk and nodding with approval. “Now you just pour it slowly and steadily into the middle of the cup. You want to try to get around a quarter to half an inch of foam on top.”

I followed her instructions and thirty seconds later was staring proudly at a professional-looking latte.

“Perfect!” George said, grinning at me, her dimple on display. “I can teach you latte art another day. I haven’t been bothering with it this week because it’s been so busy, but it can be fun to play around with if the café is quiet.”

The prospect of another one-on-one coffee making session with George sent nerves fluttering in my stomach.

“The muffins are ready!” Romina yelled from the kitchen.

“I’ll go grab them,” I said, hurriedly, relieved to have an excuse to get away from George and her forearms, freckles and dimple. While it was refreshing to feel attraction toward someone again, I was starting to worry that my crush on George was a distraction I didn’t need right now.