Page 14 of The Fall Classic
I’ll take the smell of espresso, thank you very much.
The factory runs 24/7, but there’s a shift change at seven AM, which is the first rush of the day. The people starting a shift are eager for caffeine to keep them up, but I discovered a number of those ending a shift need to stay up for a few more hours. I stood outside the front doors one day offering free shots of espresso to the departing workers.
“Just in case you need to run errands or get kids off to school.”
The exhausted shift workers were over the moon, and I’ve since added a lot of loyal customers to my lines.
Even Marlowe was impressed.
When she saw the numbers a few weeks ago and I explained what I’d observed, she said, “Well, wasn’t that lucky?”
She’s not one for compliments, but she cares the best she knows how.
“Can I get a black coffee?” a guy in his late twenties asks.
“Sure. What size?” I ask.
“Large. You’re cute, by the way.”
“Thanks. Medium roast or dark?” I ask. I’ve been fielding flirts since I was sixteen, and the best approach is to keep going. He laughs, but something tells me he’ll leave a decent tip.
The line finally starts to calm when I spot the VP I’ve coordinated with at the window.
In a baseball cap and a flannel shirt over a T-shirt, Rusty looks more like a farmer than your typical VP.
“Hey, Rusty. Can I get you anything?”
“Can I have a peach protein cozy, but can you make it cold?”
“An iced cozy?” I say before I realize what I’ve said and that no one but Logan would get this joke. Do Logan and I already have an inside joke? The idea makes me have to wipe the grin off my face. “Silly joke, sorry.”
There’s no one behind him, but I spot a couple of people hovering near the parking lot, so the rush isn’t completely over.
Rusty shrugs off my comment. “You’ve been busy. I saw the line forming before you’d even opened.”
“The shift-change crowd has been great,” I say.
“Have you thought about coming here on weekends?”
“I have. The farm store’s open on weekends, though, so I’ve actually been hoping to set the truck up there. Although, I guess I could maybe start here on Saturday and Sunday mornings for the shift change and then head over there for the midmorning crowd. It’d be the best of both worlds, if I can manage it.”
He nods slowly. “That’s good thinking. You know, the field workers at the farm start earlier than the factory crew does. They’d probably appreciate something before the heat sets in.”
I look up from the machine. “How early are we talking?”
“Before sunrise, some days.” He scratches his brow. “But usually around five, five thirty. We’re in our busiest stretch right now, and the crew is worn down. I’ve been thinking about ways to boost morale. If we covered your expenses for a flat fee, would you be willing to come out to the farm lot in the early mornings for the rest of the season?”
“I’d need to run it by Marlowe,” I say, “but that sounds like something we’d want to do.”
He nods. “Good. Run some numbers and let me know what a fair rate is.”
I nod, and then something overtakes me—the thought of bringing Marlowe an idea, the possibility of her being impressed by something I did—and I hear myself say: “Would there also be any chance of getting a spot at your Food Truck Fridays? And the Fall Festival?”
Rusty’s eyebrows go up. My heart hammers in my chest.
“Huh.” He considers it. “I’ll talk to Tripp. But I think we could make it work.”
I keep my expression professional while internally freaking out that Rusty is going to check with Tripp Carville—the CEO of one of the largest commercial farms in the region—about giving Meant to Bean space at the Fall Festival.
