It's a Brewtiful Day (The Coffee Loft Series: Fall Collection), page 1
IT’S A
BREWTIFUL
DAY
H.M. SHANDER
It’s a Brewtiful Day
Published by H.M. Shander
Copyright 2024 H.M. Shander
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored, in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior written consent of the author of this work. She may be contacted directly at hmshander@gmail.com, subject line ‘Permission Requested’.
ISBN (paperback)
ISBN (e-book) 978-1-990240-26-3
It’s a Brewtiful Day is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events or locals, are entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: Rebecca from Beck and Dot
Editing by: PWA & IDIM Editorial
It’s a Brewtiful Day © H.M. Shander October 2024
First Edition
www.hmshander.com
It’s a Brewtiful Day
Every day, Sage wanders into the Coffee Loft armed with romance books and orders her favourite perk me up. But it’s not the caffeine that sets her heart racing—it’s Elliot, the barista she’s harboured a crush on for months. He’s as sweet as a maple twist macchiato and as heavenly as the pastry to go with it. He’s also laid back, the total opposite to her take-charge attitude.
When a fierce storm strands them together, her carefully constructed facade unravels faster than a poorly bound paperback. Deathly terrified of thunder and lightning, Sage needs to do the unthinkable—ask Elliot for help and allow herself to take refuge in his warmth and kindness.
Between coffee beans and candlelight, further cracks in Sage’s armour appear. As the night deepens and their budding romance blooms, so does her apprehension about where this will lead, since love always ends in heartache.
Surviving the night together is one thing, but these new developing emotions? They scare her as much as the raging storm.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
Dear Reader
Other Reads
Recipe Bonus
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Chapter One
“It’s a brewtiful day, Sage. Welcome back.” Was it wrong that the staff all knew my name? Probably a sure sign of where my extra money went. At least they were all A+ employees.
I gave the barista with a pleasant smile a slight nod. “Good morning, Molly.”
“Same as usual?” She had her fingers poised over the screen.
Every day for the past three months, or at least every working day for the past three months, I’ve made it my mission to stroll into the newly established Coffee Loft as casually as possible and order my favourite hot beverage – a maple twist macchiato.
“Yes, please, and in my usual cup.” I pointed to the recessed wall where different-sized mugs were displayed in a seven-by-seven configuration. “I’m in no hurry this morning.”
“Sure thing. Lofty size coming right up.” She punched the order in and looked up at me. “Anything else?”
“Well…” I stared at the menu board before glancing toward the display case full of yummy pastries and waist-padding delights. “As much as I want to, I’ll just stick to the coffee.” Even if they all looked delicious.
What I wouldn’t give to have a wicked metabolism to go along with my healthy appetite.
“Have a seat, and we’ll bring it out as soon as it’s finished.” Molly turned and grabbed my usual lofty-sized mug—the same colour mauve as Monica and Rachel’s apartment with the show’s name across the front.
Shifting the stack of books I carried into my other arm, I crossed the quaint space and made my way to the rich velvet-covered wingback chair nestled into the corner. When I came in, if it was empty, it was a sign that I needed to sit down and read at least a few chapters of the latest romance novel piled on my short stack of reads. Plus, the music was quieter in this corner, and I had a better view.
Of the scenery.
And of him.
Tucking my perfectly barrel-rolled waves of honey blonde hair behind my ear, I tipped my head down while glancing at the highly choreographed dance behind the counter. Baristas bent and ducked, moving fluidly between each other, all set to the rhythm of hisses and gurgles and of metal spoons stirring against metal containers.
It was neat to watch, but it wasn’t the whole reason I liked this vantage point. Guess he wasn’t working today.
Setting my stack of five books down on the tiny knee-height table, I chastised myself for not having brought my canvas bag; the one with the words Booked on a Feeling. It would’ve made it easier to exchange books from the take-one-leave-one stops along my way to work.
Whoever decided it was a good idea to set up a Little Free Library near the fire station was a genius. As part of my daily habit, I checked it out every day, bringing the old and wasted books with me to work. There I’d turn the books with torn and stained covers, and full of ripped pages, into a beautiful flower or a book tree.
I never just took the books, I was always exchanging them with older, yet not as popular titles from the bookstore two doors down where I worked – Pages & Dreams. Inside those pages was a bookmark buy-one-get-one coupon. We had a much bigger selection of used books than the Little Free Library, but that section paled in comparison to the brand-new books. Our small space wasn’t as grand as a big chain store, but we catered to our readers and their needs and the size of the town. If they needed it—and honestly, who didn’t need a great book?—we went out of our way to get it into their hands.
Shuffling through the stack, I knew which of the five were going to be upcycled into works of art and which would be added to our freebie box. I was making it my mission to rid the Little Free Library of trash, aka books that were in poor condition, and replace them with like-new books. And not just for adults either. Once I’d spotted a couple of young kids looking through, and even more shocking, although pleasantly so, I saw a teenage boy rifling through. After asking what he was interested in, I made sure to add a science fiction novel once a week, and each week it was gone. I was grateful that that particular teen chose to spend his time reading rather than getting into mischief like most teens I knew. Today, he returned one of the books with a handwritten note taped to the top that said thanks! I loved Artemis. It was notes like that that kept me going, making sure the Little Free Library was properly stocked.
I crossed my legs and picked up a pocket romance, leaving the sci-fi novel with its handwritten note on the top of the pile. This book was an older one, a Harlequin from the 80s, if the cover was any indication, back before the romance conglomerate divided into series like the Love Inspired or Historical. It was the kind many referred to as a bodice-ripper, however, it promised a good time between the pages.
My nose was in the book, but my eyes were scanning the area, hoping to see more than Molly or Nina, and that’s when I spotted him.
Elliot.
My reason for the daily visits.
He was looking dapper in his space-dyed navy-blue long-sleeve shirt. No one wore an apron as nicely as he did, and it suited him somehow.
My secret crush was tall, handsome, and as sweet as they came. He was also an enigma as I was sure his charming ways were all an act, but one I literally bought into every single day as I listened to him greet each customer as if they were a cherished friend.
“Your maple twist macchiato.” He held the Friends mug above my stack of books. “Extra foam, one additional shot of maple, and heated only to a hundred ninety degrees.”
“You know me too well, thank you.” I hoped my voice was smoother than the erratic pounding of my heart.
Our conversations were always limited to small talk and friendly greetings. Someday I’d get up the courage to have a proper conversation and perhaps be brave enough to ask him out, have the relationship end in a firestorm in one or two weeks, and squash my daily visits to the Coffee Loft.
On second thought, why crush the dream? This was always a pleasant way to start my day. Why ruin it with potential disaster?
“I only know what your drink order is.” Those long lashes blinked twice as his cheeks tinged a faint pink.
Instinctively, although it was becoming a bad habit, I stared at his undecorated ring finger, not that it meant anything. My father had vowed not once, but twice to love and honour my mother, and failed. Miserably. I blamed his hurtful escapades for causing my mother’s broken-hearted death a few years back.
I sat up straighter and put both my feet on the ground, locking my knees together as I leaned forward to stare up and memorize his mossy-green eyes. Under the house lights, they were brilliant with flecks of dark amber. But it was his hair I really envied. Thick, lush, and with a type of curly wave you knew was natural,
“Whatcha reading today?”
I flipped the cover over to read the title as a spark of excitement built. This was so much better than small talk. “The Duke and his Maid.”
“Sounds scintillating.”
“I think that’s the point.” I had a modicum of sass on the tip of my tongue as I was no stranger to the disdain people gave romance novels.
“Where should I set this?” He glanced to the table and in that moment, I was sad he’d broken our connection and fell back to the safe java-infused conversation.
I pushed the stack to the side and made room on the tiny table for the mug. “Here, I can grab it.”
I reached for the handle, gently touching his finger as I slipped mine into the same space. However, as he retracted his finger, I still hadn’t managed to grip it properly, and in slow motion I gasped in horror as the mug slipped.
The purple FRIENDS cup tipped downward and the creamy brown liquid, foam and all, waterfalled over the lip, splashing onto my stack of books. My attempt to right the mug only resulted in it cresting over the other side and covering my hand.
“Oh no!” I cried out, not sure if I was more upset with my clumsy mishandling or the devastation it caused.
The books!
The handwritten note I was going to pin to the board in the bookshop!
The remaining liquid in the mug wasn’t worth a sip as I set it down mostly empty and stared crestfallen at the rest puddled on top of the books and the tabletop. The drips onto the floor were slow and taunting, almost as if laughing at my misfortune.
“You’re covered.”
“What?” I cast my gaze from the destruction up to Elliot, who had produced a cloth from the pocket on his Coffee Loft apron and quickly wrapped it around my stinging hand.
“I hope you’re not burned.”
Then the pain softly hit a little harder, and I bit my lip.
“Oh, beans. The coffee really did a number.” His voice was crestfallen.
I followed his gaze from my hand to my lap. As I took note of my condition, the heat from the coffee was warming my skin through my soaked leggings. The top of my feet, exposed in my ballet flats, were also covered in warm liquid. All of that could be replaced and any singed skin could be healed, but the books? My shoulders sagged. The note and the books were ruined. There was no way I could make anything out of them now.
Elliot handed me the dry cloth and scampered over behind the counter.
I dabbed at the books, wiping off what I could while quickly inspecting the pages. Maybe when they dried, they’d be salvageable. Time will tell. They would have a maple scent to them which may, or may not, be ideal.
In a heartbeat, Elliot returned, squatting near me with a couple of damp cloths. He passed me a fresh, yet cool one. “For your hand.”
Expertly, like this was something that happened many times a day, he wiped off my mug and cleaned the table. With the edge of the towel, he ran it over my feet and gave the toes of my shoes a little polish.
Why was my heart stammering like a teenager? He was just being nice.
“The books are ruined?” His voice had a ribbon of concern.
“Probably. I’ll see when they are dry. I may be in luck.” I lifted the note, which sagged and tore. It was pretty thin paper.
“I’m so sorry about that. I thought you had the handle.”
I looked into his eyes, ringed in sympathy. “I thought I did too, but it’s not your fault.”
“Well, I should’ve confirmed that you had it.”
“It’s okay.”
He sighed and tossed his gaze to my coffee-stained pile. “Let me get you another.”
As much as I desired to sit and enjoy Coffee 2.0, now I needed to go home and change before I went to work.
“I can’t stay.” I ran the cloth across my lap and down my legs and shook my head as there wasn’t much additional coffee to soak up; my pants had done a great job already.
“I understand.” His shoulders slumped. “See you later?”
“Tomorrow for sure.”
His shoulders pushed back at the suggestion and it made his chin jut out a teensy bit. “I’ll have your drink ready for you. What time?”
I inhaled, and a small smile tickled the edges of my lips. Was he as excited to see me again as I was him?
There’s no way that was possible. He was just being an incredibly sweet barista. It had to be part of the training.
Releasing my breath and trying to act as casually as possible, I pushed up onto my feet, standing slightly shorter than him. “About the same time?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
I tipped my head down and rolled my bottom lip between my teeth as my heart hammered out a fast-paced beat. “I’ll be here at nine-thirty.”
“Perfect. I look forward to it.”
“As do I.”
I unwrapped my hand and passed him the cloth. I gathered the books and stepped off to the side, turning quickly.
Elliot was quick. He already had my mug in his hands and had rewashed the tiny table. He waved and smiled. “Tomorrow. Nine-thirty.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Bring a plastic bag for your books.”
I laughed, tipping my head back slightly as my hair fell off my shoulders and draped across my back. “Indeed.”
His mouth opened, shut, and opened once again. “Hope your hand will be okay.”
“The least of my worries.”
“Have a brewtiful day.”
With a spring in my step, I left the Coffee Loft behind and breathed in the fresh autumn air. Finally, things were looking up.
* * *
In the humidity-controlled Pages & Dreams, a quaint store filled with the satisfying smell of paper and ink, I stood with my first customer of the day.
I slipped the receipt, like a bookmark, into the newest thriller and tucked the book into her brand-new canvas bag. “Metaphors be with you.”
She giggled and covered her mouth. “That’s one I’ve never heard before.”
“Then you need to pop by the Coffee Loft as they are always sending their customers off with a witty pun.”
“Where’s that?”
“Two doors down. Where are you from?”
All the locals knew about Coffee Loft; it was the tourists who didn’t. Because our strip of stores wasn’t on the main drag, most missed it, unless they walked around and happened to spot it.
She tucked her wallet into her purse. “Heading to the BC interior from Lloydminster. Going to check out Lake Louise on our way.”
“It’s lovely this time of year, and now that school is back in session, it shouldn’t be crazy busy like it is in the spring or summer.”
I made it a habit of never visiting Banff and the area during the summer; it was wildly packed with tourists. I pushed the bag toward her.
“Don’t forget to stop by and caffeinate at Coffee Loft. They have the best maple twist macchiato. Although their Pumpkin Spice is nice too.” Suddenly, I had a pang for that sweet caffeine and sugar rush. I didn’t even get a taste of my maple twist. The books, the table, and the floor had all the fun. “You should check them out.”
“I absolutely will.” She grabbed the bag and strolled over to the door.
Most quaint little shops had bells over their door to let the workers know when a customer entered. I felt it took away from the charm and solitude of the place and campaigned pretty hard to Harvey, the owner, to remove it, especially since our checkout desk was at the door. I didn’t have to twist his rubber arm too hard, and he relented, agreeing.
We’d also moved two comfy chairs into the middle of the store so customers could peruse the book at their leisure, and we reduced the volume of the music to make the place more appealing. It worked. Customers—locals and tourists—enjoyed spending time between the pages inside our store, and many times we needed to remind them when the store was closing. But that worked to our advantage since they usually went home with whatever book they’d been deeply ensconced in.
