Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 121210 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121210 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
“Josie, I can’t miss my shifts this week. My rent’s almost due,” Camille says.
“Then, I guess the two of you better work this out before tomorrow morning,” I answer, my shoulder shrug nonchalant.
Camille huffs out another breath, looks back and forth between Todd and me, before finally dropping her arms to her sides and saying, “Fine. You’re forgiven.”
“Yeah?” Todd asks, his sad puppy dog eyes still intact.
“Yeah.” Camille nods, steps toward him, and gives him an awkward hug with a hearty pat on the back. “Just don’t try to kill me again, okay?”
“Okay.” Todd grins, but when they both start to take off their aprons and grab their shit from behind the counter, it’s my turn to frown.
“Hey, you guys don’t have to leave now,” I say, but Camille is already walking straight for the door.
“Just following the boss’s orders!” she calls over her shoulder on a laugh. “See you tomorrow, Josie!”
Is it me, or did I just get manipulated by my own staff to give them the rest of the day off?
“Oh, by the way,” Todd exclaims, stopping right at the threshold of the door. “Clay Harris was in here doing something when all the drama went down. He told us to tell you something, but I can’t for the life of me remember what. Me and Cam were too busy in the back.”
“Huh?”
“Just ask him when you see him, Josie!” Camille chimes in and grabs Todd’s arm, dragging him right through the door. The bell chimes, and the door clicks shut before I can question them.
Clay was in here doing something? What does that even mean?
Is it just me, or are my employees not only manipulators but they’re kind of clueless assholes, too?
I stand there for a long moment, staring out the window at them as they cross the street. I’m half tempted to call them, text them, pull the boss card and make them come back, but that’s never been my style.
And when a very pregnant Norah comes waddling through the front door, I decide to leave the interrogation until tomorrow morning when they’re here for their morning shift.
“What are you doing here?” I ask her, my head tilted to the side in confusion. “I thought you were helping with the egg hunt in the square.”
“I am helping with it. Clay told me to come in here.”
“What?” I question. “What do you mean, he told you to come in here?”
“He told me the—”
Before she can even finish her sentence, the bell chimes above the door, and a mad rush of small kids come barreling through with Easter baskets in their hands. They’re screaming and shouting and laughing and zipping around my shop with an intensity I’ve only seen on the faces of Olympic athletes going for gold.
“Norah! What is going on?” I shout over the noise at my sister, who has now relocated herself to a safe spot behind the counter with me.
But she doesn’t even answer because the next thing I hear is, “Found one!”
“Yay! I got a yellow one!”
“I got a pink one!”
And when I start to look around my shop, I quickly realize that these kids are doing an egg hunt in my coffee shop. It’s not long before my eyes catch sight of all the “hidden” eggs. Beneath chairs, on top of tables, on the windowsills, on the floor—it’s a fucking wonder I didn’t see them when I walked in.
Hell, it’s a true mystery how Camille and Todd didn’t notice, but I guess they were too busy arguing over spilled hot water.
“Norah,” I say through gritted teeth, my voice still loud enough for her to hear over all the cute kids. Because hell’s bells, they are cute. I just wish they’d be cute in the square. Not giving their best impression of tornadoes inside my shop. “Who was in charge of the egg hunt this year?”
Norah looks at me with wide eyes. “I’m not sure I should tell you the answer to that.”
“You mean to tell me Clay Harris hid some of the eggs in my shop?”
“He says he hided all the eggs in here, Ms. Josie!” a little red-headed boy named Wally shouts excitedly toward me. His mouth turns up in the most adorable smile, and two dimples pop out of his cheeks.
“Yeah!” a little girl with brown pigtails agrees. “And he tolds us to give you these!” She walks right up toward me and pulls a yellow rose from her basket.
And she’s not the only one. Every single kid hands me a yellow rose, and by the end, I have to start handing some of the flowers off to Norah.
“I think Mr. Clay loves you, Ms. Josie!” one of the kids exclaims, and then a fit of child giggles follows.
“Yeah, Ms. Josie! I think Mr. Clay wants to kiss you!”
More giggles ensue, and when I look out the windows of CAFFEINE, there he is, Clay Harris, standing on the sidewalk with a blinding smile on his face.