“Did you try my raspberry almond bars?” I ask with way too much intensity.

“Yeah,” Nick says, turning to face me. He looks all cool and calm and ruggedly sexy over there in his flannel shirt. I hate him and also I want to lick his face.

“They’re good,” he says.

I stand up straighter. “Good?”

He raises his eyebrows and walks to the speaker, where he presses some buttons. “Yeah? That’s the opposite of bad, in case you forgot.”

Bon Iver starts playing and I can’t even be annoyed by it because I’m too busy being annoyed by this faint praise. “I’m looking for great, Nicholas.”

“Stop calling me Nicholas.”

“Stop changing the subject. What was wrong with my raspberry almond bars?”

He widens his eyes. “Nothing was wrong with them. I said they were good.”

“But no one leaves the warmth and safety of their home to travel to a coffee shop and get something that’s good. People are looking for great. They’re looking for fantastic. They’re looking for stupendous.” I slam my hand on the counter.

Nick leans against the baked goods case, eyebrows raised, a look of amusement on his face.

“I’m glad the success of your business is funny to you,” I mutter. “I’m trying to help you be great.”

“You’re trying to help me be stupendous.”

I stifle a smile, which is easy to do because Bon Iver is still playing and it’s hard to smile while listening to a song about a blood bank, for God’s sake. “Yes, stupendous. Nicholas.”

Nick frowns.

“I don’t want Nick’s to be any old coffee shop, you know?” I say. “Columbus has a lot of coffee shops. A lot of very good coffee shops. But I want us—I mean, you—to be the best, the place where people can expect the highest quality. Where our baked goods are classics with a twist, something you know you’ll love that’s a little bit different than what you expected. And I know you don’t care about décor, but I really think that with a few small changes we can make this place more—”

“I think the bars are great,” Gary calls from his table.

“Wait.” I glance at the baked goods case, then at him. “How did you even get a bar?”

“Oh, I walked over and got one while you two were doing your whole . . .” He waves his hand in the air. “Thing that you do. I left a few dollars by the register.”

“Huh,” I say. But I can’t even concentrate on the fact that apparently Gary’s, like, an expert at baked good heists because the bell above the door rings.

I do a literal double take, like I’m a vintage cartoon character, when I see who steps through the door.

“Mikey?” I ask.

He squints, looking around, as if he’s stepped out of a cave and into the sunlight. “Hey, Chlo,” he says, his voice easy and sleepy. “This is your place, huh?”

“My workplace, yes,” I say, watching him take everything in. He inspects the artwork on the walls, the nature paintings by local artists. He runs a hand over the brick wall, then ambles up to the register and picks up a napkin dispenser, eyeing it skeptically like he’s never seen one before.