“SMALL AMERICANO.” ASH counts the change in her pocket before putting away a few coins and worrying her bottom lip.
Americano? Something’s majorly wrong. The girl loves the flavor of foamed milk in her coffee like I do—but the flavor comes at a cost—an extra dollar. I am certain now, Ash is broke. I would’ve paid for her mug, but I don’t want to be tazed down with her glares at the counter, so I grab my macchiato and head for our table.
But her actions start making me think.
A week ago, at the bookstore, when Ash flipped over the Hannah Plower cookbook, her eyes widened slightly at a spot on the lower right corner, before putting it back. Was it the price tag? As she walked away, I grabbed the book and turned it over. It was 19.99, not that high. Did she think it wasn’t worth the price?
