Chapter six : The counter
1999 Words
The bell above the bakery door gave a sharp, accusing clang as Elara shoved it open. Heat from the ovens pressed against her face, thick with the smell of yeast and burnt sugar
She was late. Again.
The front counter was deserted, trays stacked high with bread rolls already starting to harden at the edges. Behind the counter, Mr. Costa’s stocky figure emerged from the kitchen doorway, his apron streaked with flour, his brow already furrowed deep.
“Elara.” His voice cracked across the shop like a whip. “What time is it?”
Elara swallowed hard, staring at the tiles. “ there was extra work at the estate. They needed me to stay.”
“Estate?” Mr. Costa’s eyes narrowed. “So it’s true, then. You’ve taken another job.”
Her throat tightened. She’d hoped he wouldn’t notice, not yet, not until she figured out how to balance both. “It’s just mornings,” she lied . “A housekeeping position. It won’t affect…”
“It already has!” His voice rose, echoing off the shelves of stale biscotti. He slammed a tray down on the counter, rattling the glass jars. “You think I don’t see? You drag yourself in here, half-dead, late, and distracted. You think I can run a business with someone who treats it like a hobby?”
Elara’s hands curled into fists at her sides. “This isn’t a hobby. I need both jobs. My mother…”
“Don’t you throw your mother at me,” he snapped. His dark eyes softened for only a flicker, then hardened again. “I know she’s sick. I’ve been lenient, more lenient than any employer would be. But I won’t have you disrespecting my shop. My name is on this door.”
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, hot and humiliating. “Please, Mr. Costa. I can do better. I’ll stay late tonight, I’ll…”
“You’ll what? Work yourself to bones and leave me with scraps tomorrow?” His scowl deepened, but beneath it there was something else, a kind of frustrated pity. “You can’t serve two masters, Elara. Either this job matters, or it doesn’t. And if it doesn’t, you’d better walk out now before I fire you myself.”
She forced her chin up, even as her voice shook. “This job matters. You matter. I wouldn’t stay if it didn’t.”
For a long moment, Mr. Costa studied her, his jaw working. Then he let out a low growl, running a flour-crusted hand down his face. “You’re a stubborn one.”
“I don’t have a choice,” she whispered.
His shoulders sagged, but only a little. “Then listen to me. No more excuses. No more Mercer estate stories. If you’re here, you’re mine. On time, ready, focused. You can scrub their marble floors at dawn, but by evening you’ll be in my shop with your sleeves rolled up and your head on straight. Do you understand?”
Elara nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”
“Say it.”
Her throat worked. “I understand.”
“The words stung, not because they weren’t true, but because they were too true.
The oven timer dinged. Mr. Costa cursed under his breath and disappeared into the kitchen.
Elara wiped her palms on her skirt, squared her shoulders, and stepped behind the counter. She had no time to fall apart. If she wanted to keep this job, she’d have to prove again that she was worth the space she took up.
But as she tied on her apron and reached for the bread knife, her chest still echoed with his words.
They’ll toss you out like crumbs the second you’re not useful.
For the first time, she wondered if Mr. Costa and Mr. Mercer weren’t so different after all.
“Go,” Mr. Costa barked, jerking his chin toward the glass doors that connected the bakery to his small but bustling restaurant space. “You’re on barista duty tonight. If you’re going to stay, you’d better earn your keep where I can see it.”
Elara’s stomach tightened. The barista station was the most exposed spot in the building,no hiding behind trays of bread or the safety of ovens. It was front-and-center, all eyes on her, every mistake magnified.
“Yes, sir,” she murmured, slipping off her flour-smudged apron and replacing it with the slim black one kept for café staff.
She slid behind the counter, forcing her hands steady as she wiped down the portafilter and pulled her first shot of the night. The bell over the front door chimed.
Elara glanced up.
And froze.
Liam Mercer strode in with three boys trailing behind him, all tall, all laughing too loudly, their presence sucking the air from the room. They were dressed in casual wealth. Crisp polos, sneakers that probably cost more than Elara’s monthly wages, watches that caught the light like deliberate weapons.
Liam was at the center of them, as always. Even in joggers and a T-shirt, he carried himself like the axis around which the others turned. His hair was still damp, pushed back carelessly, and his jaw tightened with a mix of amusement and annoyance at something one of his friends said.
Elara’s chest seized. Of all the restaurants in the city, why here? Why tonight?
Her instinct was to duck, to busy herself with the grinder until they sat somewhere far away. But the universe wasn’t that kind.
“Coffee, Mercer?” one of the boys drawled, shoving his shoulder. “Or are we breaking into the wine list?”
Liam smirked, his gaze flicking lazily around the room until it landed on her.
The smirk faltered. Just slightly.
“Elara,” he said, her name sharp enough to make the other boys glance her way.
Heat surged to her cheeks. “Welcome,” she managed, forcing her voice even. “Table for four?”
“Or we can sit at the bar,” Liam said smoothly, ignoring her question. His eyes didn’t leave hers. “Closer to the service.”
The words weren’t crude, not exactly, but the way his friends snickered made her stomach flip.
Elara gritted her teeth. “Bar it is, then.”
She gestured stiffly, and the boys slid onto the stools opposite her. Their laughter spilled over the counter, filling the small space with entitled noise. Liam leaned on his elbows, chin tilted, watching her with a look she couldn’t decipher not mocking, not quite, but not kind either.
“What’ll it be?” she asked, picking up her notepad even though she didn’t need it.
“Cappuccino,” one boy said.
“Macchiato,” another added.
“Flat white, extra shot,” the third declared.
They rattled off orders like demands, not requests. Elara scribbled them down, though her hands already knew the recipes by heart.
Then Liam spoke, low and deliberate.
“Americano. Black.” His gaze sharpened. “No sugar.”
“Coming right up,” she said, retreating to the machine.
Her hands moved automatically grind, tamp, lock, pull. Steam hissed, shots poured, cups warmed beneath her palms. But her skin prickled with the weight of his stare. Every second she spent behind that counter felt like being measured, tested, pulled apart.
She set the drinks down one by one. Foam hearts bloomed on the cappuccino, a rosetta on the flat white. She kept her eyes lowered, her breaths even.
When she placed Liam’s Americano before him, her fingers brushed the hot porcelain. His hand moved at the same time. Their knuckles grazed.
Heat shot through her like she’d touched a live wire.Then he withdrew his hand. He lifted the cup and took a sip, his throat working. He didn’t make a face of the bitterness. He didn’t say a word.
The silence stretched, taut as wire.
Elara forced herself to step back, to grab a cloth and polish the counter like it mattered more than the way her pulse thundered in her ears.But every time Elara glanced up, his eyes were on her.
“So,” the boy with the flat white said, leaning an elbow on the counter. He had sharp cheekbones and a smug smile, the kind that made Elara’s skin crawl. “You’re a barista and… what? A high schooler? How’s that working out? You brew lattes in between algebra tests?”
The others snickered.
She set down the mug with deliberate care and looked the boy dead in the eye.
“Well,” she said, her voice calm but edged sharp as glass, “at least I can balance both. Imagine graduating with nothing to your name but your daddy’s credit card and a drinking habit. That’s a skill, right? Leeching?”
The boy’s smirk vanished. His friends’ laughter cut off mid-breath.
Liam’s lips curved ,not in mockery this time, but in something darker, almost amused.
The boy sputtered, color rising to his cheeks. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Elara folded the cloth over her wrist.The silence after her words was sharp, alive, dangerous.
Liam’s Americano hovered halfway to his lips, his gaze locked on her like she’d just torn open the air between them. His friends stared, wide-eyed, caught between outrage and shock.
Then, slowly, Liam leaned back on his stool. The smirk was back but this time it wasn’t cruel. It was something else. Admiration, maybe. Respect, disguised as a lazy curl of his mouth.
“Savage,” one of the other boys muttered under his breath.
The flat-white boy bristled, ready to snap back, but Liam cut him off. His voice was soft, but it carried like a command.
“Drop it.”
Three syllables, low and final.
The boy swallowed whatever insult had been loading on his tongue and slouched back, muttering into his drink.
The boys didn’t linger long after that. Their jokes had thinned, their laughter never quite recovering from Elara’s sharp strike. One by one, they drained their cups and stood, scraping stools against the tile.
“Party at Maddox’s this weekend,” one muttered, tossing bills on the counter.
“Don’t be late, Mercer,” another added, clapping Liam’s shoulder before heading toward the door.
Liam gave a distracted nod, but his eyes didn’t follow them. They stayed fixed on Elara.
She focused on stacking cups, on wiping down the milk frother, on anything that meant not meeting that gaze.
The last of his friends pushed through the door, the bell chiming as it swung shut. And then it was just the two of them, the café humming softly around the silence they left behind.
Liam rose from his stool slowly, like he had all the time in the world. He slid his empty cup across the counter, his movements unhurried, deliberate.
“You need a ride?” he asked, his voice low but carrying in the quiet.
Elara blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“A ride home.” He leaned his elbow on the counter again, casual as if he were offering her sugar with her coffee. “I’ve got the car outside.”
She tightened her grip on the cloth in her hand. “No, thanks. I’ll manage.”
One blond brow arched. “You’d rather walk?”
“I’d rather not owe you anything,” she shot back.
For a second, his lips twitched like he might laugh. Instead, he studied her ,that same unreadable storm-dark gaze that made her chest tighten. “Suit yourself.”
He straightened, shoving his hands into the pockets of his joggers. For a moment, it looked like he was actually going to leave without pressing the point. But when he reached the door, hand on the frame, he glanced back over his shou
lder.
“That,” he said, voice dropping into something rougher, “was kind of sexy.”
Elara’s breath caught.
he swings the door open and walks out.
- Writer
