A Perk of Trouble

Excerpt

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Buzz.

Not the kind that comes from a double shot of espresso. Not the kind that keeps a writer awake at their desk, typing out their next bestseller.

No, the kind of buzz that filled Honey Springs that morning had nothing to do with caffeine—and everything to do with Landon Creed.

The bestselling thriller author. The self-proclaimed genius of crime fiction. The man who had an ego bigger than his book sales.

And now, he was here, in my coffee shop, turning his nose up at the festival menu I’d prepared for Leslie Roarke to serve at Landon’s book signing at the Crooked Cat Bookstore.

I’d like to say that Leslie picked the Bean Hive Coffee Shop because it’s so amazing, if I do say so myself, but also the little bits I made with love to serve my own customers, but I bet it was just because Landon Creed also fancied himself as a connoisseur of coffee.

And by the look on his face, as if he’d just sucked a dill pickle, he was not impressed.

Bunny Bowowski, never one to let an unimpressed customer ruin her mood, bustled over with a flourish. A fine layer of powdered sugar dusted the front of her apron from the morning’s baking. She tucked a stray hair behind her ear, adjusting the pearl earrings that dangled just below her silver-gray bob, and leaned onto the counter with a knowing smile.

“Well, Mr. Big-Time Author,” she said, her voice dripping with the kind of Southern charm that didn’t ask for permission, “you’re just in time to hear about our special festival coffee menu. And let me tell you, I’ve been waiting all morning to roll these out.”

Landon barely glanced up from the leather-bound notebook he had been scribbling in, his pen gliding in long, dramatic strokes. Leslie, on the other hand, clapped her hands together and beamed.

“Oh, I love this part! Bunny, tell him about the names,” she said, adjusting the tortoiseshell glasses perched on her nose. She wore her usual mix of professional and artsy—wide-legged trousers, a fitted blazer, and a silk scarf tied loosely at her throat. Her signature wavy auburn bob bounced as she turned back to Landon. “You’ll appreciate this, Landon. Roxy names the coffee after literary themes for the festival. It’s all very on-brand for the writer’s retreat.”

At the mention of the retreat, Landon finally looked up.

Bunny took that as her cue to continue, pulling out one of the laminated menus just for the festival and sliding it onto the counter between them.

“First up, we’ve got the Plot Twist Pumpkin Latte. It’s got a little unexpected kick of cinnamon cayenne. A real surprise ending, if you ask me.” She winked at Leslie.

Leslie chuckled. “That one’s my favorite.”

Bunny pointed to the next one.

“Then there’s the Cliffhanger Cold Brew—dark, smooth, and leaves you wanting more. Just like a good mystery,” she said, ending it in a little hand clap.

Landon’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers tapped absently on the cover of his notebook.

“And, of course,” Bunny went on, completely undeterred, “we’ve got the Whodunit White Mocha, the Cozy Killer Cappuccino, and for the die-hard noir fans, the Hardboiled Espresso. Strong enough to put hair on your chest.”

“I told you, Landon. Isn’t this perfect for the retreat?” Leslie asked with a nervous laugh.

Landon let out a slow sigh.

“Speaking of the retreat,” I said and set the contract on the counter and tapped it.

“Yes, about that…” He turned to me, his eyes narrowing slightly. “There’s still the matter of that contract you need me to sign. I don’t like signing things I haven’t fully read.”

“We need your signature before you leave today. Otherwise, I have a very nervous mayor breathing down my neck,” I told him.

When I first opened the Bean Hive, I never imagined I’d also be handling legal work for the town. I’d left that lawyer side of me to open the coffee shop. But in a place as small as Honey Springs, where everyone wore more than one hat, the mayor’s offer to serve as the town’s sitting lawyer had been too good to pass up. It kept me in the loop on town happenings, like the writer’s retreat, and ensured I was always the first to know when trouble brewed—both in and out of my coffee shop.

“Wouldn’t want that, now would we?” Landon smirked.

He picked up the menu again and barely scanned it before pushing it aside. “I’ll take a black coffee.”

Bunny’s jaw dropped. “After all that? You’re really going to pass up on a Plot Twist Pumpkin Latte?”

Leslie groaned. “He only drinks Perk Coffee.”

Bunny gasped, pressing a hand to her chest as if he’d just insulted her grandmother’s biscuits.

Landon merely raised an eyebrow.

I sighed. “Fine. One black coffee.”

But something about the way Leslie watched him, the way she bit the inside of her cheek like she wanted to say something but wouldn’t dare in public, told me there was more behind this than just a picky coffee preference.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go make that right now,” I said, knowing Landon Creed was exactly the person I’d read about and researched before I’d even contacted him as the Honey Springs lawyer to get the contract signed.

I made my way behind the counter, pulling down the sleek black tin of Perk Coffee he had so graciously brought in himself. I knew his type—only the most expensive, exclusive beans, roasted in small batches in some high-end facility, probably with a backstory about monks hand-sorting them at sunrise.

Grabbing a clean pour-over dripper, I set up the scale, measured out the coffee grounds with the precision of a chemist, and began heating the water to exactly two hundred two degrees—just the way Perk Coffee’s strict brewing instructions demanded.

As the first slow stream of water hit the grounds, a rich aroma rose, deeper and earthier than my usual blends. I glanced over my shoulder just in time to catch Landon watching me, eyes sharp, like he was making sure I didn’t botch his sacred brew.

I held back an eye roll and focused on the technique. Bloom, pause, slow pour in circles—like I was performing some kind of coffee ritual for royalty.

Behind me, Bunny huffed under her breath. “He better drink every last drop after all that.”

Leslie gave a tight smile. “He will.”

I wasn’t so sure. By the time I finished, the dark coffee swirled in the cup, giving off a bold, almost smoky scent. I set it on the counter in front of him.

“There you go. One black Perk Coffee. Hope it lives up to expectations.”

Landon took the cup, lifted it to his lips, and took a slow, deliberate sip.

I waited.

He lowered the cup, gave a single nod, then went back to scribbling in his notebook without another word.

Well, at least he didn’t spit it out.

“Why don’t we go right over there to the window and sit at the bar while we discuss the issues you brought up on our drive from the airport?” Leslie gestured, almost touching his arm, but he jerked away just before her fingertips could graze him.

“Fine,” he said with a pompous attitude and started across the coffee shop.

“Yep, he’s not from the South,” Bunny grumbled, pointing out how he lacked Southern gentlemanly manners. “I ain’t never seen Leslie so timid. Alexis would be so mad. God rest her soul.”

Bunny referred to Alexis Roarke, Leslie’s mother.

“There’s nothing we can do now. He’s here now,” I told her.

I grabbed a clean bar towel from the back counter, along with a fresh stack of lids and a few extra stirrers, and made my way over to the self-serve coffee bar. The Bean Hive was already humming with the easy rhythm of a summer morning in Honey Springs.

Sunlight streamed through the large front windows, glinting off the wooden ceiling beams and catching on the white-painted shiplap wall I had painstakingly DIY’ed. The view of Lake Honey Springs stretched beyond the wooden boardwalk outside, where a few early risers sat on benches, sipping their coffee and watching the water lap against the pier. Inside, the scent of fresh-ground beans mingled with warm vanilla, cinnamon, and a hint of the lemon zest I had sprinkled over the morning’s blueberry scones.

The L-shaped glass counter displayed a variety of baked goods—golden croissants, raspberry muffins, and the last few slices of my honey pecan coffee cake. The mismatched salt and pepper shakers on the café tables added a touch of quirky charm, donated by longtime customers who loved that their favorite mugs and knickknacks had a permanent home here.

I wiped down the self-serve coffee bar, refilled the sugar jars, and made sure the six industrial thermoses were full. A few regulars stopped by to chat, their voices blending into the steady hum of conversation.

“That’s really him?” a woman near the pastry case whispered to her friend, both of them sneaking glances toward Landon.

“As live and in-person as it gets,” her friend replied. “I love his books, but they say he’s got a real attitude. Wonder if he’s as bad as the rumors?”

Right on cue, a hopeful-looking man in a polo shirt stepped up to Landon’s table, holding a well-loved copy of one of his novels.

“Mr. Creed? I don’t mean to bother you, but I just wanted to say I’m a huge fan. Your last book—wow. It kept me up all night. Would you mind signing this for me?”

Landon didn’t even look up. He flipped a page in his notebook, his pen scratching against the paper. “I’m only signing books at the Crooked Cat tonight. If you want my signature, you’ll have to buy one there.”

The fan’s face fell.

“Oh, I already own all your books,” he said, forcing a chuckle. “I even preordered the next one.”

Landon capped his pen and finally met the man’s gaze, his expression as flat as a stale pancake. “Then you already know how this works.”

The man swallowed hard, his ears burning red as he tucked the book back into his bag and turned away. A few nearby customers exchanged glances, their murmurs growing louder.

Honey Springs prided itself on hospitality, on warmth. This wasn’t the kind of place where people dismissed each other like background noise. And yet, Landon Creed didn’t seem to care one bit.

Leslie, who had been watching the exchange with tight lips, suddenly stood.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, smoothing the front of her blazer as she slipped away toward the back hallway.

I saw where she was really headed—not to the bathroom, but straight toward the glass display case where the fan Landon had just brushed off was standing. She leaned in, placing a gentle hand on his arm.

“I’m so sorry about that,” she said softly, and the man looked up in surprise. “I know it doesn’t mean much, but I appreciate you coming out to see him. We all do.”

The man let out a slow breath and gave her a small smile. “Well, that’s more than he did,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Leslie nodded, offering a quiet apology before making her way back toward the front counter, pausing just long enough to take in Landon’s hunched-over figure.

I grabbed one of the tiny glass cream pitchers and filled it from the back fridge. “You need me to top off the creamers?”

Leslie hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the silk scarf tied around her neck. “No, I just… needed a breather.”

She exhaled and turned back toward Landon’s table, but something in her posture told me she wasn’t looking forward to sitting back down.

And judging by the glances being thrown his way from more than one table, Landon Creed wasn’t winning any new fans this morning.

The man lingered for a moment near the pastry case, shifting the strap of his bag higher onto his shoulder. He let out a breath, shaking his head as if trying to brush off the embarrassment of being dismissed so publicly.

Bunny, never one to let a sour mood linger in the Bean Hive, took one look at him and leaned across the counter with a knowing smirk.

“Don’t you worry about Landon Creed,” she said, adjusting her pearl earrings. “He’s got the personality of an unseasoned biscuit. No butter, no honey, just dry as can be.”

The man let out a surprised laugh, his earlier tension easing as he stepped forward.

“I should’ve expected it,” he admitted. “Rumor has it, he’s just as prickly in real life as he is in interviews.”

“Well, lucky for you, our coffee isn’t,” Bunny said, handing him a to-go cup. “What’ll it be?”

“Just a black coffee,” he said. “And one of those blueberry scones.”

I stepped up to the register and punched in his order. “You visiting for the writer’s retreat?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Just a fan, though. Thought it’d be fun to see some of the authors speak.”

“Well, you picked a good time to visit,” I said, sliding his scone into a brown paper bag. “Minus the Landon Creed experience, of course.”

“Yeah, I think I’ve had enough of that for one morning,” he said, swiping his credit card through the reader before taking his coffee. He offered a small smile. “Thanks.”

“Come back anytime,” I said, watching as he turned and made his way toward the door.

At the same time, Landon stood, stretching like he’d just completed some exhausting tasks. Leslie gathered her things quickly, as if she’d been waiting for any excuse to leave.

I spotted the contract still sitting on the counter where I’d left it and snatched it up, stepping forward just as Landon and Leslie made their way to the door.

“Landon, wait!” I called, holding up the paperwork.

He didn’t even slow down.

I stood there, contract in hand, as the bell above the door jingled and the two of them disappeared onto the boardwalk.

Deflated, I sighed. It looked like I’d have to track him down later, or my job as the lawyer for Honey Springs would be no more.

end of excerpt