Read Blackberry Winter: A Novel for Free Online

you’re being a little too hard on yourself? Surely your parents are proud?”
    I shrugged. “I write fluff for the local newspaper—which is what I’m doing today, in fact, reporting on the snowstorm. Not exactly what you’d call substance.”
    “Well, I, for one, think your work sounds very interesting, and worthy,” he said, leaning against the counter. “Certainly better than a thirty-five-year-old barista. Imagine the comments I get every year at Thanksgiving.”
    I liked his humility. “What did you do before this?”
    He looked up from the coffee grinder, which he had just filled with espresso beans, shiny and slick-looking under the café lights. “Just one false start after another,” he replied.
    “Failure builds character,” I said.
    He didn’t respond right away, and I worried I had offended him. “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to imply that
you
are…”
Why did I open my mouth?
    “That I’m hopelessly unsuccessful?” he said. “Fine with me. This place wasn’t exactly the wisest business decision.”
    I bit my lip.
At least he’s smiling.
    “But even if I go bankrupt in a year, I won’t regret it,” he continued, gazing around the café with pride. “Sometimes you just have to take chances, especially when it makes you happy.” He sighed. “When I came to work here three years ago, I’d just been laid off from the accounting firm that hired me straight out of college. I had a lot going for me then—a decent salary, a fiancée, an apartment, and a pug named Scruffles.”
    I stifled a laugh. “Scruffles?”
    “Don’t ask,” he said with a pained smile. “Her dog.”
    I nodded knowingly.
    “When I lost my job, she left.”
    “And she took the dog?”
    “She took the dog,” he said, polishing the chrome of the espresso machine with a white cloth.
    I half-smiled. “So you got a job here?”
    “Yeah, as a barista,” he said. “It was only going to be temporary. Then I realized how much I loved the gig—getting my hands gritty and stained from coffee grounds, pouring perfect foam into ceramic cups. I didn’t miss the long hours at the firm or the number crunching or any of it. Making coffee was cathartic somehow. It sounds weird, but I
needed
it. And when Mario offered to sell the business, I jumped at the chance, even though my family warned against it.”
    I smiled. “Well then, you’re lucky. Do you know how many people hate their jobs?”
    He hopped over the counter with a box of dry cat food in his hands, pouring a generous portion into a white dish on the floor near the door. “Pascal,” he called. “Here, kitty.”
    Moments later an overweight black-and-white cat appeared, eyeing me cautiously before settling in for his meal.
    “Can I make you something?” Dominic asked, turning to the enormous espresso machine. It felt funny being the sole customer at the café, sort of like being backstage at a theater before curtain time.
    “Oh, you don’t have to make anything for me,” I said.
    He turned on the coffee grinder and its hum filled the air with a comforting lull. “I insist.”
    I grinned. “Well…”
    “It’s no trouble,” he said. “I’m making myself a cappuccino. You like hot chocolate, right?”
    “You remember?”
    “Of course I remember,” he said. “And I always see you sprinkling cinnamon on top. Would you like me to mix some spices into the cocoa? I could make a Mexican hot chocolate. You’d really like it.”
    “Yes, thank you.”
    He spun around to retrieve a canister of cocoa powder. “I don’t mean to pry,” he said, “but why is it that your husband…” He paused. “He is your husband, right?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “Right,” he continued. “Why does he always give you a hard time about ordering hot chocolate?”
    I smirked. “So you’ve heard him tease me, I take it?”
    Dominic nodded.
    I shrugged. “I’m married to Seattle’s biggest coffee snob.”
    Ethan had lived in Seattle his entire life, born and