On virtual assistant pay, it’ll be a hot minute before I can fund my own shop.
But when I do, I’ll have my drinks and baked goods paired up and ready to go.
“God, Dad. It’s so early and I’m already bored.” A new, squeaky voice drifts through the cafe. It sounds too much like Gossip Girl to be Wayne.
“Destiny, sit,” a man replies gruffly.
I look up from my notebook. The whole vibe in the store has shifted.
Now there’s a tension so thick it could curdle the air. A whole pack of suits are standing in front of Wayne’s counter, clustered together like wolves.
What the hell?
Oh, he did mention a meeting with management and his morning helpers aren’t here yet, which is a little strange. But I sort of imagined the usual middle-aged, soccer-mom-type manager from the franchise.
Not pure Wall Street. Though I wonder about the kid I heard and why’s she tagging along with this school of corporate sharks?
I quickly scan the room.
A teenage girl in a black dress wanders through the tables, empty except for mine. She flops down in a seat at the table across from me with a book—probably because the other chairs are still upside down on their tables. The place isn’t technically open yet.
Interesting.
The gaggle of execs form a neat line in front of the counter. They stare down at everything like they’re after world domination rather than cornering coffee markets.
My thriller brain screams mafia shakedown or CIA sting.
Wayne slides a cup across the counter with a forced smile I’ve never seen on his face.
A tall man with sandy-brown hair seems like the leader of the pack.
He reaches for the drink, flanked by a man on one side and a woman on the other. They both step away like it’s taboo to share the same breathing space with the kingpin.
Here we go. It’s Godfather time. I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse...
His navy-blue jacket strains with packed muscle as he lifts the cup. For the briefest second, his eyes catch mine.
Oof.
Air stalls in my lungs.
I melt into my chair.
Forget the old, saggy middle-manager type who could stand to lose fifty pounds. This guy is younger and infinitely better looking than Marlon Brando, even if his gaze could challenge an actual mafia don.
Sculpted face. Aquiline nose. Eyes stolen from the crisp blue sky.
They hide whatever he’s really thinking about the weird girl ducking down in the corner, startled and desperately trying not to blush.
I mean, he’s not my type—do I have a type?
He’s a human bulldozer stuffed into an expensive suit.
A Franken-hottie machine who looks like he was brought to life by some mad scientist with lofty dreams of crafting the perfect destroyer of ladybits.
For a second, I wish I was that dark-blue jacket hugging the contours of those wound, chorded muscles. But only for a second.
That scowl he’s wearing could scare the paint off the walls.
He’s still giving the whole store the evil eye as his mouth disappears behind the cup in one brutally long sip ending in a displeased groan.
And his manners aren’t any kinder a second later when he yanks the plastic lid off the cup, points at the brew, and says, “You call this a featured roast?”
Oh, God.
My heart stalls.
He sounds like a flipping prosecutor charging Wayne with running over a baby. I’m instantly angry and worried for my friend.
He’ll probably have a horsehead in his bed tonight thanks to this bosshole.
Not fair.
The teenager across from me lowers her book, meets my eyes, and bites her bottom lip to keep from—laughing? Wincing? I’m not sure.
The pained grin she tries to hide shows her dimples.
“Don’t worry. He’s in a good mood today,” she whispers.
Holy hell.
If this is a good mood, what’s he like with a bad one?
He’s rocking the hot villain vibe, at least, but other than that, all I get from him is a modern prick playing at being Ozymandias.
“Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
My friend and former roomie, Dakota, would be laughing her little poet head off. I just wish I had coffee strong enough to resurrect Percy Shelley and put this guy in his place.
Godfather isn’t the right description with the crap falling out of his mouth. Grumpfather feels more accurate.
I’m surprised he bothers tasting the coffee again.
His posse of suits stare in absolute awe—or is it terror? A couple young-looking intern types behind him shift their weight nervously.
Ugh.
There goes my peaceful morning.
I glance at my notebook again, teething my bottom lip and trying like hell to mind my own business.
I should just finish picking apart this coffee and slip out the back door, leaving Wayne to his fate. He’s a proud guy and we’re coffee shop besties, but not close friends. He wouldn’t want me fighting his battles like an overprotective sister.
At least he’s holding his ground against Crankyface. He has the patience of a monk, really, hidden behind this subtle, eerily calm smile that just looks tired more than anything else. He clears his throat, waiting for the inevitable death by insult.