Page 2 of Under Pressure

“Not enough. Eventually, youwillrun out of steam and crash.”

I narrow my eyes on her plump figure and thumb away a crumb from my lips. After I’ve swallowed, I wrestle the muffin out of my tight fingers and abandon it on the small cart beside her. I’m as stubborn as I am exhausted, which means she isn’tgoing to win this argument. Now I’m just wasting a very delicious muffin out of spite.

“I sweated baking that, you know?” she chides, not really caring.

“That doesn’t sound like an actual word.”

“You’re a dictionary now, are you?”

“I feel like this conversation is going in circles.”

“That’s your fault.”

I roll my eyes at her, ignoring it. “I’m always like this. My sleep habits have nothing to do with it.”

She makes a non-believing noise in the back of her throat but lets the topic die. At her age, she knows better than anyone else in my life when and where to pick her battles. This one? Yeah, not worth it.

I’ll sleep when I’m dead. That’s the whole point of living, right? Tonotwaste it sleeping?

Granted, I doubt whoever came up with that saying meant it to excuse someone’s inability to shut their brain off at night.

“I found a new order in the binder. I don’t remember anyone mentioning it,” she says, flicking flour off her fingertips. “It’s a small one, so I figure I’ll get it done tomorrow morning after popping the croissants in the oven. Having Callie in would cut some time off. Or I could get her weighing out the cookies and take it off my list of to-dos.”

I suck in a staggered breath and reach for the hot pink binder resting beneath my discarded muffin. “Shit, yeah. I meant to mention it yesterday. I’m sorry.”

“It’s no problem. I’m glad we’re getting more of them.”

Yeah, because Blank Page has been here, in this same building, for the last five years, and while business is steady out front, we’ve never been able to bring in a continuous rush of orders in the kitchen. Custom work isn’t my specialty in the slightest, but with Ruthie at the helm of this coasting ship, I’ve taken to a few things. It’s a great way to burn through theseemingly endless amount of energy I have when I’m in this place. Or outside of it, even.

I don’t know why or when exactly it started, but in the last three years, I’ve lost the ability to just . . . be. My entire life revolves around this place now, to the point where I will stay up all night researching the best new equipment, coffee beans, or even seat cushions, as long as it means that I can keep my brain moving.

There are always things to do as a business owner, and I like that. I enjoy being so busy that I don’t feel the need to count the hours as they pass. Instead, they just blur until, suddenly, it’s gone from sunrise to well past sunset.

Another day come and gone.

“I’ll talk to Callie tonight and see if she has the time,” I promise.

“She’s a very busy girl. Don’t pressure her to come around here.”

“When do I ever?”

Ruthie casts me ayeah, rightlook before flicking the faucet on to scrub her hands for what I know is the millionth time this morning alone. “She has dreams. Big ones.”

And I don’t?

I shake that thought out of my mind, knowing damn well that isn’t what she meant. That tiny squeak of a mental voice is too mouthy for my liking. Not to mention green-eyed and bitchy.

“I’m well aware. She’s doing great.”

Ruthie’s deep brown eyes light up in silent confirmation. The conversation dulls as she falls back into her tasks and, for lack of a better explanation, tunes me out. I bite back a laugh and leave her be. She’ll be out of here by the time Eli gets in and I flip the sign on the door from Closed to Open.

Shouldering open the kitchen door, I step through to the café. The sun casts a warm glow through the space and bounces off the deep wood slats on the wall and the mint-coloured counter. Isniff the air and ignore the flecks of illuminated dust as the door swings shut behind me. The scent of coffee grounds has to be imbedded into the walls by now. It’s done the same to the emerald-green bar stools at the end of the counter and the matching velvet chairs at the tables. I go upstairs every night with the same scent in my hair and on my skin.

I’m positive coffee has replaced the blood in my veins.

Despite that fact, I still love it. I move behind the counter and make my morning drink with the ease and comfortability of someone who’s done the same routine for years. My nan taught me how to use an espresso machine when I was ten and would spend nights or sometimes weeks with her. Her machine was nowhere near as fancy as this one, but I think that taught me more than if she’d had one of these bad boys.

By the time I was thirteen, I was experimenting with different ingredients and making her every type of drink I could think of. She only spit out a few of them and deemed them too toxic for me to replicate. In my defense, I wasn’t allowed to drink them myself, so she was my guinea pig. I still keep the recipe book I began using to track the drinks she liked in the back office.