I snort. “Did she say proud, or did she say, ‘worried but supportive’?”
“…Both.”
Sounds about right.
Before I can respond, the door swings open. My heart leaps at the sight of the elderly couple peering inside. They exchange a glance, nod approvingly, and step in.
I straighten immediately. “Welcome!”
The woman smiles. “Oh, what a lovely space.”
I beam, ready to launch into my rehearsed speech about authentic Viennese coffeehouse culture, but she continues before I can start.
“Do you do English Breakfast tea?”
I hesitate. “…Yes?”
“Oh, wonderful,” she says. “Two teas, please.”
I shoot Jasper a look as I prepare the order. He bites his lip, visibly trying not to laugh.
Tea. My first real customers, and they’ve come to The Kaiser’s Mug, an Austrian coffeehouse, for a bog-standard cuppa.
But hey, at least it’s a start. I try to make it the best tea on the planet before sliding it across the counter for Pavel, one of my waiters, to carry it with all the right drama to the customers.
The bell above the door jingles again, and I brace myself, hoping for a customer who actually cares about coffee rather than just asking for tea like it’s a roadside café off the M25.
Instead, two women stroll in, completely oblivious to their surroundings, deep in conversation. Well—one is talking at high speed while the other nods along, making noises of agreement.
“…And I’m just saying, it was a bad idea from the start,” the blonde one insists, flicking her hair over her shoulder as she walks right past the pastry display without even glancing at it. “Honestly, Christa, I should’ve seen it coming.”
The other woman—shorter, darker, wearing enough eyeliner to qualify for a punk rock band—snorts. “I did see it coming. I literally told you it was a bad idea, and you waved me off.”
“Yes, well.” The blonde sighs dramatically. “I was being optimistic.”
Christa—at least I assume that’s her name—gives her a look. “You were being delusional.”
“I was being hopeful.”
“Oh, hopeful. Is that what we’re calling it now?” Christa smirks. “Because I’d call it throwing yourself into a foursome like a human buffet for some knobheads and then acting surprised when half the party left for football.”
I blink.
Foursome?
My head snaps up properly now, eyes narrowing slightly as I take a look at them.
The blonde is curvy, with wild waves of hair that have a mind of their own, bright eyes, and a naturally expressive face that seems to shift emotions at an alarming rate. She’s wearing a navy-blue dress and boots, and her body language suggests she’s telling the greatest tragedy of all time, despite the fact that her friend looks like she’s enjoying her pain a little too much.
The other one, Christa, is the complete opposite. Shorter, leaner, dressed in ripped jeans and an oversized leather jacket, with a collection of rings that look like they could double as weapons. She has that effortless cool-girllook—like she either plays in a band or at least used to date the lead singer of one.
Neither of them is paying attention to where they are.
Neither of them has even looked at me.
And yet, I am completely hooked on this conversation.
I grab the cloth and wipe down the counter again, pretending I’m not blatantly eavesdropping.
