accounting for us swayed her to the dark side.” She chuckled. “Your total is twelve twenty-five.”
“That’s it? For a sandwich, a salad, soup, and a drink?”
Her cheeks colored. “We don’t overcharge. That way people come back. We might not make as much as the guy down the street charging sixteen for the same, but our customers become regulars, and that’s worth it to us.” She beamed.
I shook my head. “I can see that. If your food is as good as the price, I’ll be making regular visits as well.”
“Even better!” The smile she gave this time was more than confident.
Sitting down at an open stool at the counter, I people-watched the way I had yesterday. Folks from all walks of life came in and out, some in yoga attire, others in suits picking up to-go orders or eating in. A short brunette with dark eyes and a constant smile worked efficiently, packing up orders.
Coree set a gargantuan turkey and hummus sandwich on thick slices of soft focaccia bread in front of me. The spinach salad filled the entire remaining half of the plate, and a steaming cup of soup sat next to it. Only the cup was more like a big bowl with a handle. How in the world did these people make any money? I ate my lunch and watched the women work.
“So did you just get out of a yoga class?” Coree glanced down past my hoodie, T-shirt, and loose pants.
“Yep, private lesson.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, yeah? Any particular reason, or are you one of those yogis who want to be able to stand on their heads and walk around on their hands?” She leaned forward, placing her elbows on the other side of the counter, and braced her chin in her hands.
“Nah, I have an injury I’m working on.”
“Oh? Did you get in an accident?” Her brows furrowed, and a little line appeared above her nose.
I shook my head. “Work-related injury.”
She frowned. “What kind of work do you do?”
The fact that she didn’t recognize me immediately made me relax even further. I enjoyed the fame and fortune but not the loss of privacy. “Professional baseball.”
She bit her lip. “Like with the Stingers?” Of course she’d choose the rival team.
Wiping my mouth after taking a bite of the world’s best potato soup—including what my mother makes, and hers is damn good—I said, “No, the Oakland Ports.”
“Cool,” she said.
I wasn’t sure if it was a placating gesture. People in the Bay Area usually only liked one team or the other and were fiercely protective over the one they chose.
“How does someone get hurt playing baseball? Did you get whacked with a bat or a ball?”
That took the cake. I sat back and laughed, a full-bellied one that felt good down to my toes. It had been a long time since I’d had something truly entertaining to laugh at. “No, I tore a hamstring. Had surgery, and I’m now doing therapy. Yoga is part of my recovery.”
She nodded, went over to the pastry case, and pulled out a peanut butter cookie before plating it and setting it next to my demolished lunch. “Here, on the house. Nothing like a fresh-baked cookie to make you feel better.”
“Did you make them?”
Her head popped back, and she cringed. “No way. Bethany and I stick to all the organic stuff. We make everything fresh, get our veggies every couple days at the local farmers’ market, and buy our bread and treats direct from Sunflower down the way. We want our customers to have the best of everything, and they’re the best. Why try to recreate what they already do perfectly?”
This street so far had boggled my mind. Everything on it was unique, yet consistent in that they all had the “do unto others vibe” about them. Seeing that guy help out the old lady yesterday, Dara at the bakery talking my ear off like I was her best friend, and now Coree and her café where they charge less yet still give more—unbelievable. I’d have to tell the guys about this. Get them to come down and give the places some fresh business. Not that
“That’s it? For a sandwich, a salad, soup, and a drink?”
Her cheeks colored. “We don’t overcharge. That way people come back. We might not make as much as the guy down the street charging sixteen for the same, but our customers become regulars, and that’s worth it to us.” She beamed.
I shook my head. “I can see that. If your food is as good as the price, I’ll be making regular visits as well.”
“Even better!” The smile she gave this time was more than confident.
Sitting down at an open stool at the counter, I people-watched the way I had yesterday. Folks from all walks of life came in and out, some in yoga attire, others in suits picking up to-go orders or eating in. A short brunette with dark eyes and a constant smile worked efficiently, packing up orders.
Coree set a gargantuan turkey and hummus sandwich on thick slices of soft focaccia bread in front of me. The spinach salad filled the entire remaining half of the plate, and a steaming cup of soup sat next to it. Only the cup was more like a big bowl with a handle. How in the world did these people make any money? I ate my lunch and watched the women work.
“So did you just get out of a yoga class?” Coree glanced down past my hoodie, T-shirt, and loose pants.
“Yep, private lesson.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, yeah? Any particular reason, or are you one of those yogis who want to be able to stand on their heads and walk around on their hands?” She leaned forward, placing her elbows on the other side of the counter, and braced her chin in her hands.
“Nah, I have an injury I’m working on.”
“Oh? Did you get in an accident?” Her brows furrowed, and a little line appeared above her nose.
I shook my head. “Work-related injury.”
She frowned. “What kind of work do you do?”
The fact that she didn’t recognize me immediately made me relax even further. I enjoyed the fame and fortune but not the loss of privacy. “Professional baseball.”
She bit her lip. “Like with the Stingers?” Of course she’d choose the rival team.
Wiping my mouth after taking a bite of the world’s best potato soup—including what my mother makes, and hers is damn good—I said, “No, the Oakland Ports.”
“Cool,” she said.
I wasn’t sure if it was a placating gesture. People in the Bay Area usually only liked one team or the other and were fiercely protective over the one they chose.
“How does someone get hurt playing baseball? Did you get whacked with a bat or a ball?”
That took the cake. I sat back and laughed, a full-bellied one that felt good down to my toes. It had been a long time since I’d had something truly entertaining to laugh at. “No, I tore a hamstring. Had surgery, and I’m now doing therapy. Yoga is part of my recovery.”
She nodded, went over to the pastry case, and pulled out a peanut butter cookie before plating it and setting it next to my demolished lunch. “Here, on the house. Nothing like a fresh-baked cookie to make you feel better.”
“Did you make them?”
Her head popped back, and she cringed. “No way. Bethany and I stick to all the organic stuff. We make everything fresh, get our veggies every couple days at the local farmers’ market, and buy our bread and treats direct from Sunflower down the way. We want our customers to have the best of everything, and they’re the best. Why try to recreate what they already do perfectly?”
This street so far had boggled my mind. Everything on it was unique, yet consistent in that they all had the “do unto others vibe” about them. Seeing that guy help out the old lady yesterday, Dara at the bakery talking my ear off like I was her best friend, and now Coree and her café where they charge less yet still give more—unbelievable. I’d have to tell the guys about this. Get them to come down and give the places some fresh business. Not that
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