CHAPTER ONE
“I love dick!”I shouted loud enough for the entire café to hear.
I got a high-five from a Viking look-alike leaving with his flat white, death glares from three yoga mums in matching activewear, and exactly zero free coffees.
Yet.
Rick doubled over, wheezing into his empty cup. “You’re a walking HR complaint, Ry.”
“Occupational hazard of being broke,” I said, shoving my dying laptop an inch closer to the centre of the wobbly table before it teetered onto the floor. “Now where’s my coffee? That was the agreed exchange.”
He raised both hands in surrender. “Fine. But when I pay, you drink what I choose.”
Ten minutes later a white teapot clanked between us.
“Tea?” I stared at the offending pottery. “I ordered a long black, not a hug from Tepid Tina.”
“When you pay, you can have rocket fuel. When I pay twice in a row, you get herbal tea and have some gratitude. Besides, I already had a long black last night.” He poured the liquid, smug as sin.
“You’re disgusting.”
“You literally just screamed about loving dick, Ry. Pot, kettle.”
“Point taken. Still want caffeine.”
I took a sip and gagged. “This has never seen a coffee bean in its life.”
“Correct. It’s peppermint. Good for the digestion.”
“If you’re raking it in, then why can’t you splurge for coffee?”
“You know I’m saving for a house. I’m thirty-one, I’m not getting any younger.”
I hated when people younger than me said stuff like that.
No, you’re not. And neither am I. Thanks for the reminder.
He looked up at my miserable expression and reached a hand across the table.
“You’re doing fine. What do they say? Obstacles are detours in the right direction?”
“Something like that,” I grumbled, letting him rub the top of my hand with his thumb. “Although it seems like there’ve been a lot more obstacles and a lot fewer right directions.”
“Don’t measure yourself by other people’s successes, to quote someone else I can’t remember. Especially mine. No one’s on my level.” His brown eyes grinned as wide as his mouth did, and I pulled my hand back to my keyboard, ignoring him.
He tapped away, with the smug glow of someone who had actual invoices to send. Paralegal gigs were booming. Meanwhile, my copywriting business had tanked with AI.
A forced career start at thirty-five was not a pleasurable experience. My inbox looked like a wasteland.
FINAL NOTICE—OVERDUE
FINAL NOTICE—OVERDUE
FINAL NOTICE—DISCONNECT IMMINENT
And one subject line that simply read:URGENT—6 Bellamy Lane.
I snorted. Scammers had really levelled up. I clicked anyway, because curiosity is my cardio.
