Page 1 of Under Pressure

1

The first hourof every morning belongs to me.

It’s my time to sip a piping hot espresso in the comfort of my home without the hiss of a steamer or the beep of an oven timer distracting me. The scent of my favourite sun-drenched-linen candle that I burn for exactly twenty minutes is soft and dainty compared to the coffee beans and fresh croissants that I breathe in for the rest of my day. I can walk around fully nude or shake my ass to a cheesy pop song while slathering jam on a piece of toast if I so please.

Living alone has several benefits, but that’s an important one.

Freedom.

I rinse my espresso cup in the sink before drying my hands on a dishtowel and heading for the front door.

Living above my business seemed like a fantastic idea when I was scouring Vancouver for the perfect location to open my dream café. What could be better than not having to commute to work and brave downtown traffic twice a day? Only being separated by two doors and a flight of rickety stairs, of course.

Or that’s what my naïve ass thought.

It turns out that living directly above a very demandingbusiness is the perfect way to lose the ability to have any sort of separation between your work and private life. Most days, I’m incapable of leaving the place in anyone else’s hands, despite having kept the same employees throughout the five years I’ve been open. Eli knows the work damn near as well as I do, and my sister, well, she knows even more than he does. Yet taking a step back and allowing them to prove it is a pain in my ass.

When I’m not working, I’m bored. And when I’m bored, I think of work. So, I put two and two together and forget taking a break at all.

That’s exactly why I’m ignoring the fact that it’s my only day off this week and heading downstairs.

I snag my apron from the hook by the door and slip it over my head before ducking out of my apartment. Tying the strings at my back is second nature at this point. I finish in a flash and look down just in time to skip the cracked stair. With my grip tightening on the railing, I hop the next creaky one and then plant my feet on solid ground.

Yep. Totally meant to call someone to fix those last week.

The entrance to my private stairwell is only accessible through the office at the back of the building. It’s less my private sanctuary and more a space for my sister and Eli. Right now, it’s still empty.

I flick the switch on the wall and watch the space grow illuminated in a bright, cool light. The small, circular table is still littered with Callie’s school papers, so I scoop them into a pile before turning my focus to the calendar hung on the wall. There’s no C marked for today, meaning she’s not in today.

My sister’s studying to be a surgeon and only works here every few days, mostly weekends. With it being 5:00 a.m. on a Wednesday morning, she’s most likely still fast asleep in her dorm.

I check the calendar one last time before exiting the office and heading for the kitchen. There’s plenty of movement in therealready. Five might be early for most people, but Ruthie’s in the kitchen at three every morning.

Pushing the door open, I’m greeted with the scent of fresh bread. My stomach grumbles as I move behind Ruthie’s slightly hunched, very short figure and peek over her shoulder at what she’s doing.

“Morning!”

She gasps and whirls on me, her thin, grey brows knotted between her eyes. “You are going to give an old woman a heart attack, Quinn!”

“You should just expect me to pop out of nowhere by now,” I tease while stealing a fresh, steaming blueberry muffin from the cooling counter.

She tsks. “I get busy.”

“Excuses, excuses.”

“You’re down early,” she says, switching gears.

The giant mixer behind her churns a hefty batch of pastel blue dough with giant milk chocolate chips. I retreat a step and take a bite of the top of my muffin. The flavour bursts on my tongue, making my stomach rumble louder this time. I chew it quickly before swallowing.

“Yeah, well. I’ve got to update the board this morning.”

She makes a rough noise in the back of her throat and turns off the mixer. “Ah, yes. That must be the reason.”

“You’re sassy this morning.”

“You have bags beneath your eyes. Sleep is not a bad thing, you know?”

“I sleep,” I argue, my next bite rougher.