Needs more cinnamon. Try with brown sugar syrup.
She stopped on a page. The Autumn Maple Cortado. You created this?
She nodded. Gave it to Ron last fall. He said he'd submit it through regional. And went on the menu, sold like crazy.
Your name on it? No. Ron listed it as his initiative.
She turned more pages. Summer Berry Cold Brew, Holiday Spice Latte, Banana Pecan Bread, all hers, all credited to Ron. I stopped writing my name on them. She closed the notebook. What's the point?
Harold typed under the table, Emma Sullivan, four recipes confirmed, zero credit, zero raise.
Day three, Ron Hadley visits. Harold smelled him before he saw him. Cologne, sharp, expensive, too much. Employees stiffened, conversations stopped.
Ron Hadley, regional manager, 48, tall, tan, perfect haircut. He walked in like he owned the store. Ironic, considering the actual owner was standing 3 ft away in a gray polo. Ron high-fived Tiffany.
Hey, superstar. Place looks great. Walked past Emma without a glance. She was restocking cups 6 ft away. Invisible.
Ron spotted Harold. You're new? Just stick with Tiffany. She's the heartbeat of this store.
Emma was right there. Her hands didn't stop moving. She didn't flinch. She'd heard it before.
Harold pushed. What about the seasonal menu? Whose idea was the maple cortado?
Ron grinned, wide, proud. That was mine. Regional initiative Q3 last year.
Harold nodded, slowly, didn't blink. Emma's hands paused. One second. A cup tilted.
She caught it, kept going.
Day three, the tip situation. End of day. Harold offered to count tips. Tiffany shut it down.
I handle tips. Store policy says equal split, right? Policy is policy. Real life is real life.
People up front earn the tips. Emma's support staff. She gets support staff share.
Harold checked the POS when Tiffany stepped away.
Tiffany and Jenna, 80%. Emma and two others, 20%. Same hours. A fifth of the money. He photographed the screen.
Day four. Patricia. A woman walked in around 2:00 p.m. Black, mid-50s, hospital lanyard, still in scrubs.
Ordered a vanilla latte and a muffin.
Tiffany served her the way she served everyone without hearts next to their name. Dead eyes, flat voice, wrong name on the cup.
Her name was Patricia. The cup said, "Pat."
"Excuse me, my name is Patricia, not Pat." Tiffany didn't look up.
"Same thing."
Patricia took her coffee, sat down, took one sip, stood up, and walked out. Harold followed her.