Chapter Text
Georgie drops a wet washcloth onto the counter, wiping away the stray crumbs that had accumulated during the morning rush. To her right, her coworker (and amicable ex-boyfriend) Jon is doing the same to the espresso machine. It hisses at him and he clicks his tongue at it like it’s a petulant child.
“One day, Simon will actually listen to us and replace that thing.” Georgie says, dropping the cloth into the bucket with all the other used ones.
“I highly doubt that.” Jon says, his eyes squinting like they always do when he’s taking something she’s said much too seriously. “He didn’t listen when we told him the sink was broken, why should he listen when we complain about this infuriating thing?”
Georgie almost laughs out loud, remembering the panic that had ensued when the sink’s nozzle had finally broken, spraying water everywhere during one of their peak lunchtime hours. It hadn’t been funny at the time (especially when she had to work the rest of the shift soaking wet), but sometimes Georgie would play the security footage on the shop’s single TV during down times and it never failed to make Jon laugh.
Simon, their boss, was an...interesting person. He’d inherited a ton of money passed down through the generations of the Fairchild family and decided (for whatever reason) to open a few coffee shops with it. He had no real grasp on, well, anything really, so the Electric Owl was mostly run by his adopted son. Mike was a little more in touch with the workers, but sometimes Georgie couldn’t help but feel like her and Jon were the only ones keeping the place together.
“Better watch it, that thing might start spraying hot steam at you in retaliation.” She warns, going around the front of the display case with a spray bottle and a paper towel. Jon looks alarmed for a moment, eyes widening as he looks over at the espresso machine, but the look disappears when he glances back to see her wide grin.
“You’re teasing me.” He says, frowning.
She buffs out a couple sets of child’s fingerprints on the glass. “Yes, I am.”
He frowns harder and is about to make a snarky comment back when the bell on the door rings, announcing a customer.
“Good morning.” Georgie says automatically, turning as she speaks.
No way. No fucking way.
Walking up to the counter is Melanie King, host of the Ghost Hunt UK YouTube channel (and Georgie’s entire reason for starting her podcast).
She’s smaller in person, skinny and dressed in an oversized shirt that only accentuates that fact. There’s a bright green streak in her hair and she has the brightest blue eyes that Georgie has ever seen.
She smiles and Georgie nearly drops the spray bottle.
Jon seems unaffected by Melanie’s absolutely gorgeous aura and moves to the front of the register. “Welcome to Electric Owl, what can we get started for you?”
“Hm.” Melanie says, staring up at the chalkboard menu above them. Georgie quickly finishes her task and rushes back behind the counter, turning the sink knob very carefully when she goes to wash her hands.
Across the counter, Melanie has pulled out a pair of glasses and is squinting at the board with them on. She never wore glasses, at least not in her videos. They’re big and round and make Georgie’s heart skip.
Jon taps his fingers against the counter, looking at his watch. Georgie suppresses the urge to smack him. She knows he’s just waiting for his Prince Charming to walk through the doors like he does every Wednesday at 11, but Melanie (god, Melanie King ) doesn’t know that.
Melanie frowns at him but pulls out her wallet. “One caramel cappuccino. Medium, please.”
Jon starts scribbling the order onto the cup then looks up. “A name for the order?”
(Only Jon Sims would ask for a name when there wasn’t anyone else in the shop.)
Melanie seems unperturbed, giving her name while slipping her glasses back into her purse. Georgie practically snatches the cup from his hand and sets to work.
The coffee shop was honestly meant to be a temporary thing. She’d applied around the same time she’d started her podcast, wanting some extra money to support her where advertisements couldn’t. Then she’d discovered that her weird college ex had grown into an even weirder man and also worked at the Electric Owl. After two stilted shifts together, they fell back into the same banter that she found she missed terribly.
The shop is small enough that people started recognizing her after a while, and she began putting faces to orders (though for the life of her she could never properly identify Nikola, despite her coming twice a week). Her podcast was doing fairly well, but still not quite enough to fully support her, but she also found that she didn’t really want to leave.
It’s calming and methodical, making drinks. Georgie almost goes on autopilot, loading the portafilter into the espresso machine then opening the fridge to get milk as she waits for the shot to pour.
One espresso shot and some steamed milk later and Georgie is clicking the lid onto the cup. Underneath is a shaky attempt at a heart, drawn into the foam (what? She just wanted to practice her latte art. Sue her). She walks it down to the pickup end of the counter, where Melanie is waiting, looking at her phone.
“Melanie?” The name feels right in her mouth. She is rewarded when the woman in question looks up and smiles, which sends a shot directly through her heart.
“Oh, thank you.” She takes the drink from Georgie’s hand, brushing their fingers together just slightly.
“Uh, careful. It’s hot.” She says, as though Melanie has never had coffee before, come on Georgie, what is wrong with you?
Melanie laughs in response. It’s a wonderful laugh, soft and bright. “I’ll be careful.” She uses her other hand to drop a few coins in the tip jar. “Have a nice day–” Her eyes drop to the front of her apron, squinting a little until she finds her nametag. “Georgie.” Another smile.
Melanie King just said her name .
“You too.” Georgie says, much too quickly, and then Melanie is gone, the bell on the door chiming as she leaves.
Before she can start overanalyzing every second of their conversation, Jon interrupts her train of thought from the other end of the counter. “He’s late, Georgie. He’s never late.”
Despite not saying his name, Georgie knows exactly who he’s talking about. She glances at the clock. Sure enough, it’s nearly fifteen minutes past 11.
She pushes down a laugh that’s threatening to bubble from her throat. “I’m sure he’s fine, Jon.”
Jon huffs, but doesn’t say anything more.
Georgie unloads the portafilter and smacks it against the rim of the trashcan until the tiny circle of grounds falls inside. She moves on autopilot again, rinsing it out and dropping it into the sanitiser bucket. When she goes to put the milk away, it’s already gone.
“Oh, thanks, Jon.”
He doesn’t respond, just taps his fingers against the counter.
(She decides that now is not the best time to ask if he knows who Melanie King of Ghost Hunt UK is.)
Then, saving her from a terrible, silent shift, the bell on the door rings and in walks Jon’s Prince (she knows his name is Martin, but it’s much funnier to refer to him that way and see how Jon’s ears turn red).
“Morning.” Jon’s voice is low, the octave he drops it to whenever he’s trying to act like he has control of a situation. Georgie smiles to herself and stands on her tiptoes to peek over the top of the espresso machine.
“The usual, Martin?” She asks, before Jon can say something inadvertently rude about his supposed lateness.
Martin smiles, warm like always. His face is a little red, like he was in a hurry, and his breathing is quick. “Uh, yes, please. Thank you.”
She sets to work preparing the familiar drink (vanilla latte, almond milk) while Jon rings him up. She mostly tunes out their awkward banter, mostly because she’s not sure she can stand to hear Jon embarrass himself, but does catch Martin saying Jon’s hair looks nice, so at least he’ll be in a good mood for the rest of the shift.
She hands the coffee over the counter to Martin, who’s staring longingly at the pastries like he always does. “There you go. Have a good day.”
“Thanks, Georgie.” He says, then his eyes flick over to Jon, who has taken a sudden interest in his nails. “Thanks, uh, thanks Jon.”
Jon’s head snaps up. “Oh, um. Yes. Quite.” He mutters, looking everywhere but Martin’s face.
Georgie, for the second time that shift, resists the urge to smack him.
That night, wrapped in a thick blanket with some shitty romcom playing in the background, Georgie pulls up Melanie King’s Twitter account.
After she scrolls through three times and sees no mentions of ‘coffee’ from the past day, she drops her phone on her nightstand and buries her face in her pillow.