Rescue the Barista

Rescue the Barista


Jeri K Raine


Copyright © 2019 by Jeri K Raine
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue


Chapter 1 Jamie
My first free time of the morning, I’m on the phone with Summer, my trusted supplier of all things baked and my BFF. And we decompress.
Or we would if I weren’t totally distracted by a vision of hotness stepping into the sun on the sidewalk outside.
We chat at about this time every day while we make orders for tomorrow’s cakes, pies, and wraps. This is our opportunity to dish and spill. Sorry, ‘network.’
After the morning rush for coffee and pastries, my two helpers have gone, and I’ve cleared away all the crockery and spruced the place up. Sun streams in the big window from the little Main Street outside, there’s nobody else left in my little coffee shop and, finally, I can take a break.
We discuss pastry and related issues, while I treat myself to a blueberry chocolate muffin.
Mid bite, I’m struck by a vision clambering out of a red Italian sports car and rising to the full height of a dark, statuesque man, brooding on the sidewalk in front of my little shop. My attention drifts and wanders, ambling down alleyways and slipping into dark corners while I’m mentally pawing his suit, tracing his tatts and getting my hands scratched on his hard beard.
Summer notices that I have not been completely listening to what she was telling me. I slow my chew on the muffin.
“Summer, a guy just stepped out of a red Maserati. He’s tall. Big, all over. Dark curls, chiseled cheekbones, a dusting of beard. Summer, he’s way too old and he’s so hot it’s got to be illegal. He’s hot as a bowl of chillies, smoking like a fat cigar.
“Sounds dreamy –“ Sumner says, wistfully.
“Three guys got out of the SUV behind him. Summer, they look like henchmen. Bulging out of their T-shirts, covered in ink. Mirror shades, the whole deal.”
“Sounds like the Mafia’s come to town, Jamie.“
“This guy though,” I flip the camera on the phone so I can show Summer the moan-inducing eyes and the super-bitable buns of his smoking hot ass.
“I mean, he’s way too old. And I’m not looking anyway. You know that. I don’t want a man. What could be worse at this point in my life, right? I’m focused on getting the shop up and running. I don’t want to be down on my knees…”
“… What?” she laughs. I can imagine her, wide -eyed, open-mouthed.
“Distracted, I said. I don’t want to be distracted.”
Summer giggles, “I thought you said –“
“Summer, I’m sure those guys are henchmen of some sort. Swaggering behind him. They so look like hired muscle.”
“Keep the camera straight. I can’t get a look.”
“Wait, let me zoom in.” I pinch the picture zoom in on the guy. He looks even better bigger. “Mmm. and he is big. I just heard one of the hench-persons call him Angelo. I mean, does he look like an angel to you?”
“No, Jamie. He looks like a mobster.”
My voice is trailing, “He does.”
“No, Jamie. I mean looks like a mobster called Angelo Franconi. Exactly like him.”
My voice is still drifting some. “Franconi. Wait, Franconi as in… OMG, you’re kidding me, right? They’re supposed to be like, really scary. Serious mobsters. The real deal.”
“Yes, Jamie. Those Franconi’s. Angelo is the head of that family.”
I want to say he’s not old enough. Though he easily is. Distinguished little wisps of grey brush the sites of his temples. Perfectly styled and coiffured, obviously.
My little coffee shop, Jamie’s Rise and Grind, recently opened—do stop by, try our selection of premium Arabicas, specially roasted—is a hot perk in this short section of Main Street alongside the other small store-front businesses. Moms come with toddlers and strollers to chat and catch up over a latte in the morning. Office workers flood in at lunchtimes to grab bags of Summer’s scrumptious pastries, and take them out with lemonade, Chai or fruit juices. Or even coffee.
Old, stuffed leather armchairs and couches huddle at the back around worn, mismatched but nicely polished tables. Artworks hang on scraped-back brick walls. Opal and stained glass hanging lamps bathe the nooks and the open space in a warm, comfortable glow. Music plays low and soft in the background.
The effect is soothing and restful, but it’s smart enough to attract the digital nomads. The kind of place where bright young tech entrepreneurs come to drink coffee next to writers and artists. Not exactly bohemian, but definitely laid-back.
All day long, the dark-stained wood tables are occupied with smatterings of laptop warriors, regularly dosing up with espresso, soaking up the free Wi-Fi. Grazing on panini or croissants, sandwiches or wraps. Trade is brisk and word-of-mouth is good.
The bottom line, not so much.
So I give no more thought to Mr. Mobster, the panty-melting Angelo Franconi. Not much, anyway.
After the lunchtime rush, I’m clearing up. I’m thinking about ways I could make the place more profitable. Donna and Chris, the two girls I have help me for the lunchtime rush, have left and it’s just me for the rest of the day. Chris comes in the morning for an hour from seven-thirty, too. I want full-time staff but there just isn’t the money for it yet. Cash flow would kill me dead.
No-one else is left in the place now. I’m bent over a table, polishing, when