VIVIAN
“Hey, Vivian. The usual?”
“Yes, please. Make it four,” I said as the barista rang me up. I frequented the coffee shop near my office so often they’d memorized my order. “Thanks, Jen.”
“No problem.” She smiled. “See you tomorrow.”
I paid and moved to the pickup area, only half looking at where I was going. I was too distracted by the flood of new messages scrolling across my screen.
My phone had been blowing up all weekend. Friends, acquaintances, society reporters, everyone wanted to congratulate or talk to me after the smashing success of the Legacy Ball.
Mode de Viehad deemed it “one of the most exquisite balls in the institution’s history” in their Sunday style roundup, which meant I woke up that morning with even more messages crowding my inbox.
It was only Monday, and I already had twenty-two new client inquiries, five interview requests, and countless invitations to balls, screenings, and private parties.
The whispers about Lau Jewels’ troubles were still circulating, but they weren’t enough to override the prestige of hosting the Legacy Ball.
It was equal parts thrilling and exhausting.
I opened a new email from a prospective client right as I bumped into another patron. Coffee splashed over the side of their open cup and onto their shoes.
Horror streaked through me. “I’m so sorry!” I looked up, the email forgotten. “I didn’t mean…” My apology died a quick death when my eyes landed on a familiar head of dark hair and bronzed skin.
My lips remained parted, but my words had fled to some far-off island for an unplanned vacation.
“That’s all right,” Dante said easily. “We’ve all been there. It was my fault for leaving my cup open when it’s so crowded.”
I watched, stunned, as he plucked a lid from the counter and fitted it over his coffee.
It was the middle of the workday, but instead of a suit, he wore black dress pants and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up. No tie.
“What are you doing here?” I found my voice somewhere between the rapid thumps of my heart and the dryness in my throat.
It was the second time I’d asked him the question in twice as many days.
His office was a few blocks away, but there were at least half a dozen coffee shops between here and there.
A small, playful hitch of his brow. “Getting coffee, like you.”
He placed a hand on my arm and gently moved me to the side before a harried twenty-something blonde blitzed past us with a full tray of coffee.
If I hadn’t moved, I’d be wearing Americano and cold brew with my Diane von Furstenberg.
Dante’s hand lingered a beat on my arm before he removed it and held it out. “I’m Dante, by the way.”
The imprint of his touch burned into my skin.
I stared at his outstretched hand, wondering if he’d bumped his head and developed a sudden case of amnesia over the weekend.
I couldn’t work out how else to respond, so I slid my hand into his with a wary, “I’m Vivian.”
“Nice to meet you, Vivian.” His palm was warm,rough.
My stomach fluttered at hazy memories of that roughness mapping my body before I shoved them aside.
They belonged in the past, not here in my favorite coffee shop, where I was having the world’s most bizarre conversation with my (amnesia-ridden?) ex-fiancé.
“So, do you come here often?” he asked casually.