On the face of it, p.1
On The Face Of It, page 1
On the Face Of It
Maria Dean
Skye High Publishing
Copyright © 2023 by Maria Dean
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.
Cover Design: SSB Covers and Design
Interior Design: SSB Covers and Design
Editor: Swish Design and Editing
Publisher: Skye High Publishing
For my husband, Ryan, who is my happily ever after.
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
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
About the Author
Chapter One
Sitting in my car while the engine settles, I try to calm the nerves that arrived like a flock of fluttering birds. I glance out the window, seeing nothing as I inhale deeply, nearly choking on the overbearing scent of the air freshener dangling from my rearview mirror.
“You can do this,” I whisper, letting my assurance roll off my tongue as if it were a spell to get me through the morning. I clamber from the car, tugging on the bottom of my shirt, hoping it doesn’t look too creased. I’ve never ironed anything in my life, and I’m not about to start now. My smart attire has me feeling restrained, and all I want to do is head home, put my PJs back on, and binge- watch an entire series on Netflix. I shelve the fantasy for another day as I lock my car, closing off my escape route.
I turn and face the building.
New job, fresh start. It will be fine. Deep breaths.
My journey to work began with positive vibes. A collaboration between Ed Sheeran and Justin Bieber playing on the radio made it seem as if there was a small party in my car, but standing in the silent parking lot, my nerves are getting the better of me. The partygoers have fled, and I feel more like an uninvited gatecrasher. I need to relax. It is a job in a coffeehouse, not Ten Downing Street. There’s no reason to be nervous. Maybe it would help if my new boss looked more like an aging politician.
Last month, I was interviewed by a gorgeous Italian, Piero Abbasscio. His dark olive skin, glistening eyes, and mop of umber hair were all thrown together, resulting in a masterpiece of a Mediterranean male. A fullness in his cheeks gave him a cheeky expression, putting him in the cute category. He was not heart-stopping or jaw-dropping but was still nice to admire, which I’d done for the half hour of my interview. I fought the urge to abandon the interview as soon as he spoke. His English accent, clipped with Italian, was like a soft hand stroking my earlobes. I wanted to close my eyes, leave the shop-come-building site and imagine I was on the Italian Coast with the sun on my face, sea breeze in my hair, and a bare-chested Mr. Abbasscio delivering me drinks. The dusty workmen clad in once-navy pants and high-vis jackets were a mere blot upon my daydream as they clattered through the shop with ladders and tape measures.
I sailed through the interview, my unemployment status a constant reminder of why I was there. I’d rehearsed my answer for why I left my last job, careful not to reveal anything of the real reason I’d left Cora’s café. But Piero never asked about my past employment. He merely referred to my CV, where I’d omitted the café in favor of four years of experience in a restaurant in my early twenties.
It had genuinely surprised me when he’d offered me the job, and I was relieved he hadn’t required references. I still wonder what Cora would have penned on my reference. Our parting had been dramatic, and I’m fairly sure the words ‘bitch,’ ‘whore,’ and ‘slut’ would have brandished me in an unfavorable light. I can’t fry bacon without the smell reminding me of the sickly smile she reserved for customers, which would turn into a scowl as soon as the café door was closed. She returns in full force, screeching at me across the café, her dyed red hair almost the same color as her face. Then comes the slam of the cup against the wall as it skims my head smashing into pieces as it hits the framed picture behind me.
I sweep Cora’s split personalities away, along with the broken pieces of the cup. I won’t let the last month hinder what I hope will be a fresh start. Before I get to the coffee shop, I take a deep breath.
I stare at the exterior and wonder how many things they have used this building for. Bean to Cup will open in one week, and the building will start a new life.
The crunch of building debris under my new black shoes makes me wobble. There’s no sign for the coffee shop yet, and the large windows framing the front don’t hide how much work is still to be done inside. I wonder if they’ll finish in time for the grand opening. If the parking lot is anything to go by, then I don’t think it’s possible.
I push open the door. Tape is crossed over the glass front, with no ‘open’ sign or coffee advertisements to entice me. I plant my feet on the wooden floor, marveling at the changes since my interview. A dark-wood counter is installed in the right-hand corner. A large chrome refrigerator is behind the counter, appearing to have been left in charge. I step further into the room where I’ll spend five days a week at completely unsociable hours. Even in its chaotic state, I see the tiny details that will soon create a bold, rustic coffee house. The mix of dark wood, black shelving, and freshly plastered walls gives a sophisticated feeling without compromising on charm.
I’m surprised the shop is empty, and no other new employees seem to be present. Then I remember I am early. I check my watch again to make sure I haven’t made a mistake, something which comes all too naturally to me. The large hands point to the right numbers, reassuring me I am, as I thought, early. So, where is everyone else? A little niggle of doubt builds. Have I got my days mixed up? This could be possible if I’d been left to my own devices, but my brother, Frank, has overseen the details, and he never gets these things wrong.
From beyond the doorway and to the left of the counter, I hear a stream of Italian. My heart flutters at the thought of seeing Piero again. His brown eyes, full smile, and clean-shaven jaw make me feel a little giddy, and I quickly scold myself. I need to act my twenty-eight years. I wonder if I’m ever going to grow into my chronological age or whether I’ll still be eyeing up men in my retirement.
The Italian monologue stops. I hold my breath waiting for Piero to emerge. When he doesn’t show, I push further into the room, glancing into the space that leads from the shop floor. I spot a desk littered with paperwork, stained mugs, pieces of wood of varying sizes, and, among it all, an immaculate briefcase.
My heart drums in my ears as I behold the man standing by the desk. His back is to me, his head slightly bent, and he appears to be reading something. But something is amiss. My toes flex against the rigid leather of my new shoes as I register that Piero appears taller than when I last saw him. Even from the back, I can tell he has grown. How is this possible? I try to think logically about what I’m seeing. Could it be a trick of the light? He is wearing a dark blue suit which is tailored at his waist, making him look trimmer. I can accept the possibility he has lost a little weight since my interview, but how does a person grow taller?
As I toy with this conundrum, lost in the sight of his compact posterior, he turns suddenly as if the feeling of my eyes upon him alerted him to my presence. Standing, mouth aghast, I gaze at the man before me. Italian, definitely. The tanned skin, dark brooding eyes, and rich chocolate hair with a smattering of golden strands through the parting, like a dusting of spices, are all too exotic for him to be English. And although there’s a resemblance, this man isn’t Piero. The man before me is far better- looking. He is slimmer, but a broadness to his shoulders demands attention. His face is slender with a close-cropped beard and a hardness to his stare that, right now, is boring holes into my skin. Only now do I register the way he’s staring at me. He looks horrified.
I blink, expecting him to vaporize. His mouth is slightly open as if a word was on the tip of his tongue, and it’s now been lost. His eyes are locked on me, and his hand grips his phone like it is a grenade. The moment of excitement at facing such an attractive man is quickly washed away as a feeling of unease creeps into my bones. Did I stumble upon a phone conversation that wasn’t meant for prying ears? Have I walked in on a man in the heat of a crisis, his coffee shop nowhere near finished? These scenarios fight for victory, yet none of them convince me I am anywhere near the truth.
“Good morning.” I clear the lump in my throat as I attempt a professional introduction and stamp out the temptation to run from the building straight back to my car. “I’m Chloe Daniels. I’m here for barista training.” The silence consumes us. Not even the clatter of a ladder, the
scuff of work boots on the ground outside, or the holler of a man’s voice from a van in the parking lot can penetrate the staring competition we are now locked in. “Piero?” I ask. It isn’t him, but I’m being crushed under his glare. It seems to do the trick as his trance breaks. He inhales deeply before his eyebrows knit together in a fury that settles a little too comfortably across his face.
“No, he’s my brother. Why are you here?” He has an Italian accent like Piero, but this man is much stronger, like a vintage wine. His aggression surprises me. He is a complete contrast to his brother, who is more akin to a friendly tour guide. As if my existence has compromised something, I get the feeling I shouldn’t be here.
“I’m here for the barista training. Your brother hired me last month. He told me… hang on.” I root through my bag for the details Piero had scribbled down with the date and time of the training. “He told me to be here today.” I continue scrambling in my bag, his eyes almost burning my skin.
“He sent out a text message yesterday changing the venue,” Piero’s brother announces. His thick accent coats the air as a cold sweat trickles down my back.
The message came through yesterday while I was driving. I’d heard the chime of the alert and risked a glance at the screen where my phone sat on the passenger seat. The message was from Piero. The little cup of coffee emoji I assigned to his name told me as much. I intended to read the text when I finished driving, but, like most things in my life, I’d shelved it, never to return. And when it comes to words, I’m not like most people who can scan a message and get the general gist. My dyslexia is severe enough that a simple text message can confuse me. When I saw the message from Piero, I presumed it was confirming the training time and venue. I never thought he’d change the location.
I gulp down the panic.
“I don’t remember getting a message.” Pulling my phone out of my bag, I shake my head. I quickly swipe the screen to make it appear as though I’m double-checking.
“Piero contacted all the new employees. He wouldn’t have made a mistake.” His tone is confident, teetering on threatening.
My hands shake. Clumsily, I pull up my messages and scroll through the texts, my fingers feeling greasy. The familiar emojis I use to identify friends and family whizz past my eyes until I find the text from Piero. I breathe a momentary sigh of relief. I’ve found it, but there’s no way I’m asking this guy to read it to me. I’ll wait until I’m back in my car.
Piero’s brother inhales impatiently as if the air itself irritates him.
“The coffee machines should’ve been installed by now, but there’s been a delay, so Piero had to find another venue. Luckily, the company running the training had a place available.” He glares at me as if I’m wasting too much of his time. “I take it you’ve found the message.”
I don’t dare look up from my screen. The contempt in his voice is enough to tell me he thinks I’m a complete idiot.
“Yes. I must have…” I begin, but he doesn’t let me finish.
“Do you have a car? Can you drive?” His gruff voice cuts me off, and I ball my fists to keep my anger at bay. Who the fuck does he think he is? I’m tempted to ask him, but the little voice in my head reminds me this is my first day, and I need to bite my tongue and smile nicely, even if this guy is acting like a jerk. I drop my phone into my bag and fish out my car keys. I dangle them before him, not daring to open my mouth.
“You have twenty minutes to get to the other side of town.” I expect him to whip out a stop watch, the challenge laid down.
“Then I’d better get going.” I turn to leave, needing to get away from this man as fast as I can.
“Not the best of starts, is it, Miss… what did you say your name was?” I have my back to him, and my head is down. I stop, my hand gripping the strap of my handbag. I spin around, preparing myself for the scorn on his face.
“Daniels. Chloe Daniels.” He holds my gaze as he appears to examine me. He remains silent, so I continue to leave, barely making it out the door before the humiliation and anger brim to the surface.
As I hurry to my car, he’s still watching me through the window. It is as if his eyes are locked on me, judging me with every step I take. After opening the driver’s door, I launch myself into my seat. While my door is still open, I fire the engine so as not to waste time.
Gulping back the rage he has stirred in me, I try to focus on my next move. As the car warms up, I pull my phone back out of my bag and click on the message with the new location. His eyes still watch me from the window. I need to be rid of him if I am going to work out where I am supposed to go.
Carefully, I try to decipher the text, but his face will not leave me. His words are in my ears, and I can’t concentrate. The dancing letters jump before me as if they are laughing at me. I need more time, something I don’t have.
My shaky hands take a screenshot of the text and send it to my brother. I wait impatiently, hoping he is awake. The shrill of my phone nearly makes me drop it as his ginger-bearded emoji flashes on the screen.
“Hey, thank you, I’m in such a panic. Piero texted everyone with a change of venue, and I presumed it was clarifying today, so I didn’t bother trying to read it. I don’t know where I’m supposed to be.” My words cascade out as if a dam has burst within me.
“Hey, chill. It’s fine, just give me a second,” Frank hisses. His voice is croaky and laced with sleep. I feel bad I’ve woken him. As a freelance photographer, he comes and goes at all hours, especially when working for a newspaper or magazine. “It’s a coffee place down by the leisure center. It’s opposite the vet with the large paw on the sign.” Frank knows me better than anyone. My mind works better with images. A sigh of relief escapes when I recognize where he is talking about.
“Thank you so much. I owe you.”
“You always owe me.”
“Thanks.” I hang up, throwing my phone onto the passenger seat as I grab the sun visor, checking my face in the mirror. There is not a hair out of place in the blonde mass that I’d tamed with the straightener this morning, but as I scrutinize my reflection, I am shocked at the moisture glistening in my eyes.
I push the visor back up, wondering why my anger is threatening tears. I never cry. My school days were filled with tears and frustration at being unable to read like all the other students. I’d endured the stigma of being labeled stupid or lazy until I’d gone to art college, where it hadn’t mattered so much. The fact I could draw and had talent far outweighed the fact that it took me longer to read a sentence than everybody else. Is it because I made a mistake with the venue? I hate getting things wrong, particularly when it might highlight my weakness. Is it because I came across as a complete fool in front of a guy who’d not even had the courtesy to introduce himself?
My rage returns with a shudder. He’d made me feel so small during the few minutes in his company. I remember his face when he first met me. He’d been shocked. I wasn’t supposed to be there, but it was more than that. There was something behind the shock, a flame in his eyes that was raw and unedited.
He looked terrified.
Had he seen the real me? Did he have some sort of psychic ability that meant he could see beneath the glossy hair, the smart shirt, and the fake smile?
My tires crunch over the parking lot as I swing the car over to the exit. I glance at the coffee shop window. He’s standing up against the glass, one arm folded over his waist, his phone clutched to his ear. He is watching me with great fascination. The last thing I want to do is to add to my terrible morning by crashing into the side of the building, an act I’m sure he would greatly delight in, so I focus on where I am going.
