The Holiday Blend

First, the espresso machine screeched louder than usual. Then it abruptly blasted hot steam, unprompted, straight into Caitlin Camp’s eyes.

“Ow, geez,” Cait staggered back. She tasted burnt metal, never a good sign. The ancient La Marzocco, Nonna’s old machine and her pride and joy, went ominously silent.

Twenty-two pairs of Gore-Tex-clad feet shifted behind Cait. The morning rush at Camp 4 Coffee smelled like wet gear, all the skiers and snowboarders desperate for their morning fix.

“Everything okay up there?” called a woman in a bubblegum-pink Bogner jacket that probably cost more than Cait made in two weeks.

“Everything is fine!” she lied, wiping her face with the hem of her already-ruined apron. “Just giving us a dramatic start to the day.”

Ryan, her nineteen-year-old cousin who’d been roped into holiday labor, was nowhere in sight. Of course. Cait slapped the side of the machine, just in case.

Nope, nothing. It was completely dead.

Pink Jacket tapped her ski pole on the floor. “I have a private lesson up the mountain in twenty minutes. Oat milk latte, extra hot?”

Translation: Fix it, lady. Fix it fast. Cait forced the smile she’d perfected with these types long ago.

“Coming right up. Pour-over espresso okay for now?”

She spent the next hour hand-grinding beans, kettle in one hand, while Ryan finally materialized and fixed the machine with a grunt and a few turns of a wrench.

By ten-thirty the line had thinned, and the floor looked like a snowplow had gone through. Cait smelled like espresso and sweat, and was wrist-deep in espresso sludge and fantasizing about a shower when the bell above the door gave its familiar jingle-jangle.

The glamorous woman who stepped inside looked like she’d been photoshopped into the little shop in Crested Butte. Tailored crème-colored coat, cinched at a waist, with Louboutin boots. Dark hair in a low knot that had probably taken forty-five seconds (plus around three hundred dollars worth of product) to look casually perfect.

Nearly every tourist in Crested Butte was rich. But even among them, this woman stood out.

Cait straightened herself, suddenly aware of the coffee grounds in her ponytail and the gross oat milk stain on her left boob. She dusted off her apron quickly.

“Hi, welcome in. What can I get for you?”

The slightly intimidating woman was currently scanning the chalkboard menu.

“I'll have a large Americano, quad shot, please.” She lowered her Ray-Bans just enough for Cait to see her gray-blue eyes. Beautiful, like a lake in winter covered with a thin layer of cracked ice.

Cait grabbed a cup. “Four shots, got it. Name?”

“Nicole,” the woman replied, maintaining eye contact.

“Coming right up.” Cait scribbled N-I-C-O-L-E on the cup in her distinct cursive. Nicole tapped a black Amex on the reader: Four twenty-five. Her eyebrow rose slightly, the big-city tell of pleasant shock at small-town prices.

“Are you from out of town?” Cait asked, genuinely curious.

“Yes,” Nicole’s gaze flicked up. Something electric lodged itself behind Cait’s ribs when they made eye contact. “I'm here for business and not fun, unfortunately.”

Before Cait could answer, Nicole’s phone pinged. Her whole posture stiffened.

“Oh, do you have the Wi-Fi password?”

Cait pointed toward the back bulletin board, and Nicole walked over. Nicole's impeccable crème coat was swaying just enough to reveal the curve of her hips, and Cait watched the impatient little bounce of her boot heel while she waited for bars.

Stop staring, Camp. She’s definitely straight, and married to her job. She's not looking twice at a barista.

Ryan placed the hot Americano down on the far end of the pickup counter. “Large Americano for Nicole!”

Nicole claimed it, taking a sip: eyes fluttered shut momentarily, her shoulders dropping a fraction. She made a tiny sound in the back of her throat that Cait felt resonate throughout her entire body.

Then Nicole's phone pinged again, the spell momentarily broken. She turned back to the counter, leaning in just enough that Cait caught a trace of something expensive she couldn't quite make out; vanilla and pistachio, she thought.

“Question,” Nicole said, cocking her head. “I’m looking for the owner of this building, Elk Avenue Commercial Properties? Someone named Walt Jones, do you know him?”

Cait could suddenly hear her pulse hammering in her ears.

Yes, she knew Walt Jones. The same Walt Jones who’d left three increasingly urgent messages about her rent being late. The Walt who talked about “new development opportunities” and “maybe it’s time to let someone with deeper pockets buy it off our hands, doll.”

Cait smiled, thin-lipped and hollow. “Two blocks north, blue building on the left. Big 'Walt Jones' sign, you can't miss it.”

Nicole’s eyes narrowed, studying her. “Well thank you…” She glanced at the name tag Cait had forgotten she was wearing. “Cait.”

Nicole was already halfway to the door when she paused, looking back. “That was the best Americano I’ve had in recent memory by the way. You should really charge more.”

And then she was gone, leaving behind only the certainty that Cait’s entire life was about to be flipped upside down.

Great. Just great.

*Author note:* I was once a barista at a coffee shop in a tourist town, and this is partially inspired by my daydreams (and also by my suffering, let’s be real). Hope you enjoy this low-stakes, cozy Sapphic holiday romp.