When I look up, there’s a familiar balding head with a beard wilder than Wyatt’s. I wave frantically.
Wayne locks up his bike on the rack nearby and jogs over.
“Eliza, how are you?” he asks. Thankfully with a smile and not a hint of anything that screams you cost me my freaking job.
“Good,” I say, a little shyly.
I want to ask about yesterday so badly.
Like, how much hell did I leave in his lap? But I’m not sure how to approach it. He’s not pissed, anyway. Hopefully that’s a good sign.
But with the crowd moving in, we’ll have to catch up later.
Several people from the camp wander up to the table in a slow, shuffling line. Meadow offers baked goods and sandwiches while I pour coffee.
I pick up a rating card and a pen, passing them over.
“Hi, thanks for coming. Would you mind letting me know how you like the coffee?”
“Sure, hon, but I bet it’s tasty.” A woman takes the cup, card, and pen.
I smile at her. “If there’s anything at all you don’t like about it—any way it could use improvement—don’t hold back. Please. I can always do better next time.”
She gives me a toothless grin. “Oh, honey, no. You always do just fine by us.”
“Yeah, but I have to do better than fine if I’m ever going to convince someone to pay me for it, right?” I’m feeling a twinge of déjà vu. My mind flips back to the conversation with Cole Asshat Lancaster yesterday—a butting of heads I’ve been trying and failing to keep out of my mind.
Out of the corner of my eye, Wayne stiffens like he can’t believe what I just said.
Frick.
Maybe I did do some real damage yesterday.
She pats me on the shoulder. “People will pay you for it, doll. Waking up with this beats any old alarm clock.”
I give her a friendly smile, but seeing how genuine she is makes me sad. She’s old enough to be my grandma.
Where are her own grandkids and why do they let her live on the street? I wonder. This is the hard part of coming here twice a month.
She leaves with her drink and a small stack of donuts. I serve the next person, going through my spiel about the rating card.
I know.
Some people might ask why I bother scrounging up feedback from homeless people, who should just be happy with whatever they can get. But the truth is, their opinions are just as valid as anyone’s.
Maybe more so.
The homeless are honest. When you have nothing material left to lose, why hold back?
Wayne moves closer as the line churns on, offering me a hand with filling cups. Is it just my imagination, or is he still pretty stiff and nervous?
Once our first cluster moves on and there’s a break, I turn to him and ask, “So, how’re you holding up? That jerk of a suit didn’t fire you, right?”
I hold my breath.
If he did, it’s a thousand percent my fault.
“Nah...not exactly,” Wayne says cryptically, smiling when I give him a confused look. “Actually, the big boss was impressed with your coffee, Eliza.”
Huh? What’s he talking about?
“My coffee?”
Wayne nods again.
“What on earth are you—oh, crap.” It suddenly hits me so hard I rock back. “Yikes. I forgot my mason jar of home brew there, didn’t I?”
Wayne’s lips turn up slightly in a sheepish grin. “Hey, it could happen to anyone after the shit he threw at you.”
“Ugh, don’t tell me. Mr. Gold Dick himself stooped down and deigned to—to what? Try it?” The idea of that corporate maniac with his priceless suit and eyes like pure blue sorcery drinking my campfire roast freaks me out. I’m not sure why.
Maybe because it’s too intimate.
Right now, that drink is for me, a few select friends, and helps warm a few desperate bellies at a place like this. Definitely not intended for overdressed pricks who go off on coffee like they’ve had their own mother insulted in the worst way.
It’s a campfire roast and it’s supposed to be fun. I can’t believe the Grumpfather even knows the concept.
Wayne chuckles, shaking his head.
“Exactly. The kid dove in and took the first swig, but he wasn’t far behind her. Honestly, it seems like he wants to offer you—I don’t know—an opportunity with your brew? To buy it? A job? I’m not sure. He just wants to talk to you first.”
There goes my head. Spinning.
“What? Why, Wayne? Why would he just up and offer me a job? Especially after I gave him an attitude check for the ages. He seemed pissed about that.”
“In fairness, he had it coming. Maybe he appreciates being called out?” Wayne suggests.
The laugh that tears out of me hurts.
There’s no earthly way a walking ego like Cole Lancaster enjoys the bruises I left on his pride.
I have to stop for a few more people coming to our table. I hook them up with breakfast and try not to faint in the meantime.