For as good a time as I had this summer, I can’t help being resentful that I was forced to give up my bookseller position for something I suck at. I know books. I love books. I could’ve helped a bunch of dads find graphic novels for their daughters, could’ve pointed out the best romance novels for other sappy readers in search of humor and kissing, could’ve learned so much more about all the other books on the shelves—the awesomely titled “cozy mysteries,” as Beth taught me they’re called, or the zillions of young adult fantasies with crowns or swords on the covers. Working here isn’t just about money—I want to learn how to do this, to be Beth, to one day surround myself with books and coffee and people who love both while working on my own romance novels in my downtime. I don’t know exactly what I want to do with my life, but I do know I feel the closest to figuring it out when I’m here.

The best I can do now is prove that I can go above and beyond in whatever job I’m given, or at least I’ll try to.

So in the eight minutes I have left until the store opens, I take Beth’s muttered advice and get another instructional video going while I finish morning prep. I’m so wrapped up watching a pair of hands draw a swan that the first customer has to cough to get my attention. I offer my apologies and ask for her order, hoping it’ll be a latte or a cappuccino or even a hot chocolate to give me another chance to practice, but like most of the customers clinging to the end of summer, she orders an iced coffee, and the only thing I can show off is that I can make one without screwing up. She also orders a mixed-berry scone, the café’s most popular baked good (and the secret recipe of none other than Beth’s nephew, Winston, whom I’ve never met but lives in Beth’s basement and apparently has a golden touch with flour, sugar, eggs, and butter). I wrap it in the store’s trademark lavender tissue paper, hand it over along with the iced coffee, and make change … only to say goodbye and see Jasmine Killary standing at the front of the line.

“Good morning and welcome to the Book and Bean,” I greet her as if I’m not at all rattled by her presence, by her bedhead and lip gloss and the Bathory Belles concert T-shirt she wore the day we went to the Pea Island Wildlife Refuge and came back covered in bug bites. We spent the night soothing ourselves in the hot tub. “What can I get you?”

She glances at the chalk menu over my head. “What do you recommend?”