As Bree helped her unpack a crate of antiques in the storage room, Penny noticed the girl’s tired, swollen eyes.
“Is everything okay?” she asked gently, pushing aside the crumpled newspaper used for packing material.
“Huh?” Bree glanced up, her brow furrowed in thought.
“Do you want to talk about what’s on your mind?”
Bree shook her head, her blond bob of soft finger waves grazing her shoulders.
Today’s ensemble boasted 1930s-style wide-legged trousers and a cream chiffon blouse. And in Penny’s opinion, it looked chic even by today’s standards.
“If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” While she spoke with a lighthearted tone, she hoped her warm, steady gaze communicated her sincerity.
Bree returned a faint smile in appreciation, though it didn’t quite reach her seafoam-green eyes. Puffy and pink-rimmed, they held a sad glint Penny found disconcerting.
Although, on some level, she could empathize with the somber atmosphere. She’d barely slept a wink, tossing and turning until she finally slipped out of bed just before sunrise. As if she wasn’t already an emotional mess after their zip-lining excursion, Colt exacerbated the issue when he asked Cassie to bring her leftovers from the barbecue. The sweet, thoughtful gesture left her even more conflicted than before.
She had no idea what to make of the man anymore. Except, he certainly wasn’t the same Colt Davis she knew from her childhood. But how much he’d changed—and whether or not he could be trusted—was yet to be seen.
Fortunately, the mysterious crate had served as a welcome distraction from her addled musings. Around eight o’clock, she’d received a phone call from an estate sale agent wanting to unload everything that hadn’t sold over the weekend. While this only happened on occasion, Penny didn’t mind paying a modest fee for the items, sight unseen. Usually, she more than made her money back.
“What do you think we’ll find today?” she asked, carefully unwrapping a lumpy, oddly shaped item.
“I hope some of it is vintage jewelry. Or something else that’s rare and valuable.” For the first time that morning, Bree’s eyes brightened. “Remember when we found an old vinyl record of the Beatles? I think it was Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club. A customer actually paid five hundred dollars for it. That was so cool.”
“It was pretty exciting,” Penny admitted, but she couldn’t quite match Bree’s level of enthusiasm.
The Sgt. Pepper reference made her think of Colt, evoking memories of the nickname he’d given her in elementary school. Why had she allowed him to get inside her head? She drew in a frustrated breath, exhaling sharply through her nose.
“Well… what is it?” Bree gave her a nudge, drawing her attention to the object in her hand.
Realizing she’d paused mid-unveiling, Penny quickly crinkled back the remaining newspaper, then instantly regretted it.
“Ew,” Bree squealed, shielding her eyes from the hideous sight. “What is that thing?”
The vintage baby doll stared up at them, one eye missing, the other glazed over. Its cracked, discolored face seemed plucked straight from a horror flick.
Penny laughed at Bree’s disgusted expression. “What? You don’t want to take it to college with you?”
Peeking between her splayed fingers, Bree grimaced. “Not unless I want to get kicked out for being the creepiest kid on campus.”
“You may have a point,” Penny chuckled, rewrapping the doll in newspaper.
Bree slowly lowered her hands, her forehead scrunched, as though the burdensome thought had returned.
“You know,” Penny drawled, peeling back a corner of crinkly paper. “Dolls are supposed to be great listeners….”
“Okay, okay!” Bree threw up her hands in surrender. “I’ll talk. If you promise to hide that thing for the rest of eternity.”
“Cross my heart.” Hastily, Penny shoved the doll beneath a tattered lampshade before turning her full attention on Bree.
“It’s just…” Bree stared at the scuffed floor, her shoulders rising and falling as she took deep, troubled breaths.
“Hold on.” Removing a stack of musty linens from two Windsor dining chairs in need of mild repair, she motioned for Bree to sit down.
The girl sank onto the scratched wood with a heavy sigh. “I’m not sure I want to go to college after all.”
Penny blinked. She wasn’t expecting that. Bree had always sounded so excited whenever they’d discussed it before. “Why not?”
“Because…” Trailing off, she bit her bottom lip, as though afraid to say the words out loud. Finally, she murmured, “I’m scared.” A shadow of shame clouded her features, and Penny reached for her hand, giving it a squeeze.
“It’s okay to be scared,” she said softly. “What are you afraid of?”
“Being homesick. And lonely. And… being different.” Bree toyed with the flouncy ruffle on her blouse, not quite meeting her gaze.
Penny’s throat constricted as the truth of Bree’s fears sank in. She was afraid she wouldn’t fit in. Especially with her eclectic wardrobe choices.
The poor, sweet girl. Penny’s heart went out to her, but what could she say? She was the last person to espouse the ole face your fears mantra. If she had a choice, she’d spend her entire life avoiding them at all costs.
“You don’t have to go, if you don’t want to. I’m sure your parents would understand.” She’d hoped the words would provide some comfort, but Bree merely looked more dejected than before.
“I guess you’re right,” she said weakly. “Thanks for the talk.” Rising from the chair, she brushed the dust from her slacks. “Should we find out what else is in the crate?”
“Sure.” Penny slowly followed, but the conversation didn’t sit well.
Clearly, she’d said something wrong to elicit such an abrupt reaction, but what?
She’d offered Bree a free pass to walk away from her fears.
So why had it merely made her feel worse?
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Colt yawned as he followed Frank to the barn.
The cheerful sun crested the roofline of the rustic red building, casting a golden haze across the lawn, spotlighting a sprightly finch searching for breakfast. The sight would have been pleasant if he wasn’t dead tired.
Considering they didn’t have a single thing on the agenda for the day other than coffee roasting, Colt wasn’t sure why it couldn’t wait until later in the afternoon, rather than six o’clock on Monday morning.
He almost regretted staying up late to play poker with the guys. But he couldn’t refuse such high stakes. Instead of chips, they’d bet with creamy, melt-in-your-mouth saltwater taffy from Sadie’s Sweet Shop. Jack went home with most of it, but Colt won a few.
To be honest, his concentration wasn’t really on the game. He couldn’t keep his mind from wandering to thoughts of Penny. Especially after he’d received her text.
Thanks for the shish kebab. It was the best I’ve ever had.
Okay, so she hadn’t professed her undying love, but she’d complimented his cooking. That was a start.
When he’d asked Cassie to take a plate of leftovers to Penny on her way home, he wasn’t expecting to get credit for the gesture. He simply didn’t want Penny to miss out on the meal because of the article. But clearly, Cassie had told her it was his idea. And he couldn’t be more grateful to his sister-in-law.
The text from Penny had made his night.
Even more than the saltwater taffy.
Lost in his thoughts, Colt stumbled over a lumpy patch of grass.
“Pick up your feet, Sunshine,” Frank grunted. Although, it was a more chipper-sounding grunt than usual. If a grunt could be considered chipper.
“Sorry, but I haven’t had my coffee yet. And since we’re on that topic… why aren’t we having coffee first?”
“It’s incentive. First, you put in the work. Then, you can have the reward. You’ll appreciate it more.”
“Yes, Master Yoda,” Colt said with a good-natured chuckle.
“Actually, I prefer Obi-Wan.” Frank paired his rebuttal with a cryptic smile, as though sharing an inside joke with himself.
Colt blinked at the unprecedented display of humor. The day was already proving to be full of surprises. And the main event hadn’t even started yet.
As he slid open the barn door, Colt froze, his jaw dropping halfway to his chest. He’d expected a rinky-dink operation, not the sleek setup before him.
While the roasting machine itself appeared held together with duct tape and wishful thinking, the rest of the barn resembled a top-notch roastery—far more advanced than what he’d stumbled upon in high school.
A neat row of storage barrels flanked the back wall, each filled with green coffee beans and labeled with the country of origin—Colombia, Guatemala, Costa Rica, and Kenya, to name a few.
“I gotta say, this is pretty cool.” He took in the long farm table lined with glistening, five-gallon mason jars, recalling the chapter in the book where Frank explained their role in the roasting process—mainly to sweat out the unwanted moisture from the freshly roasted beans, which both enhanced the flavor and prevented mold from forming.
As he took in the breadth of everything laid out before him, Colt’s heart raced in anticipation.
“We’ll see how ‘cool’ you think it is when the temperature in here hits the nineties.” Frank shoved a bucket and large metal scoop into his hands. “Fill this with four scoops of Sumatra, four Kenya, and two Costa Rica.”
“What blend are we roasting?” Colt asked, making his way to the barrel labeled Sumatra.
“Cassie’s.” Frank’s tone carried a twinge of pride. “She came up with it one of the first times we roasted together.”
“Does that mean I’ll get to pick my own blend, too?” Flashing an optimistic grin over his shoulder, Colt moved to the barrel of Kenyan beans.
Frank snorted. “We’ll see. You need to learn the basics first.”
“Do you have all your blends written down somewhere?” As soon as the question left his lips, Colt straightened, drawing a blank on the last bean in the combination.
At his vacant expression, Frank huffed, “Two scoops of Costa Rica.”
“That’s right.” Colt snapped his fingers before carrying the heavy bucket to the last barrel. The green beans had to weigh at least thirty pounds.
As he filled the remainder of the bucket, Frank settled himself in a wicker chair by the roasting machine. “To answer your question, Cassie is helping me write down all the blends.”
“Is that what your new book is about?”
“Partly. But the main goal is to teach other roasters how to create their own blends. How to recognize the different flavor profiles of each bean and what pairs well together.”
“Huh.” Colt cocked his head. “Kind of like knowing which ingredients to combine when cooking.”
“Yes.” A brief flicker of approval darted across Frank’s face before he replaced it with a stoic frown. “Now, we siphon the beans into the machine.”
As Frank verbally walked him through each stage of the roasting process, Colt marveled at the numerous similarities to his culinary education. Pairing the various beans, roasting temperature and duration—each step was designed to enhance the flavor and mouthfeel; a delicate dance between chemistry and art. And Colt found himself captivated by every minute detail.
He didn’t care that he’d started to sweat, both from the heat and exertion. Or that Frank hadn’t stopped barking orders since he’d loaded the beans into the machine.
They’d finished Cassie’s blend, plus two espresso roasts for the café, and Colt wasn’t even close to losing interest.
“What about a blonde roast?” he asked, eager to learn more. “Can we do one of those next?”
Frank’s expression darkened.
“I take it you’re not a fan.”
“And why would I be a fan of sour coffee?”
“Doesn’t it have more caffeine?”
“You want caffeine? Drink green tea. You want good coffee, then roast it properly,”—Frank grumbled, adding—“Anything worth doing, should be done right. You’re either all in or you’re out. We’ll do Cassie’s blend again and see how much you remember.”
As Colt strode to the barrel of Sumatra, Frank’s words tumbled in his mind.
You’re either all in or you’re out.
Frank was right.
And not just about the coffee.