“See you tomorrow.” Ashley pouts as he turns and heads out into Manhattan’s rush hour.
“Is he a regular?” I ask as I rush behind the counter to the small staff area behind it, throwing my jacket onto a peg and dumping my purse on the floor.
I tie on my candy pink apron that clashes spectacularly with my auburn hair, and return to the counter, taking my place by the coffee machine and grabbing a milk jug.
“Nope.” She shrugs with an easy smile. “But he will be now. Coffee and charm.” She lowers her voice, turning to me. “A little flirt keeps that tip jar of ours nice and fat. Just how we like it.”
I chuckle as she turns back to the line with a bright smileand the next guy in line reels off his order to her. She rings it up on the register and I prepare it.
“You do this one,” she whispers, giving me an encouraging poke in my lower back when I don’t step forward.
“Oh… um… here’s your coffee, sir,” I say, holding the cup out to the guy with sandy hair, who must be in his mid-forties.
As he takes it from me, I throw what I hope is a cute smile at him.
His brown eyes sparkle, dropping to my name tag. “Thanks… Tate,” he says.
“Nicely done,” Ashley hums after he throws a twenty and a business card into the jar.
We work in unison, the radio playing in the background as we make fast work of processing the morning rush, until the only people left are a couple of female tourists taking their time to ponder over the blends, and two businessmen adding sugar to their coffees at the end of the counter.
“So, did you get it?” Ashley asks, leaning against the counter with folded arms.
“Yeah. I’m sorry I was late. The only pharmacy that had stock was a twenty-block detour,” I answer, wiping my hands on my apron and leaving cocoa powder behind on the pink fabric.
“It’s fine, things like that come first,” Ashley says, swatting her hand in the air.
She turns to the tourists, who make their selection, and I fix their order.
Ashley’s a great boss and is becoming a good friend since I began working at Caffeine Couture.I was doing afternoon shifts for my first month. But then her morning barista, Whitney, needed some time off, so I picked up her shifts too. It’s a different crowd to the day. The mornings are full of people in workout gear, stopping in after their run in Central Park, followed by the suits on their commute, taking calls as theyorder their espressos and double shots, setting themselves up for another cutthroat day in the city.
Then come the tourists. The ones with time to stop and soak in the magic of the city. They look up from their phones and appreciate the tiny things. Like the pictures I like to create on their coffee foam using cocoa powder.
The dreamers.
Like me.
“Here you go.” I hand over the two takeaway cups, but the couple’s attention is pinned to a sleek black town car that’s pulled over on the street outside.
“The morning shot of tall, dark, and devastatingly anti-commitment just showed up,” Ashley muses as she moves to my side and looks out of the front window.
“Huh?” I glance at her, but her attention is glued to the black car, along with the two tourists. Even the two businessmen have halted their conversation and are watching.
A suited driver, who looks like he should be auditioning for a Bond film from the way he scans the sidewalk with narrowed eyes like he’s assessing for threats, exits the car. He walks around to the rear door and holds it open.
I wait for a king or queen to step out, dripping in jewels and a crown.
Instead, a guy in a suit who looks around thirty climbs out.
I swivel my head around, then glance back at him. Everyone’s eyes are on him as he buttons his suit jacket with one hand, pulls a cell phone from his pocket with the other, and presses it to his ear, beneath a head of perfectly styled jet-black hair.
As he turns, a side profile of perfect angles and sharp lines cuts across the sidewalk, making a woman who passes him stop and turn back to have another look. Her expression is one of awe, like she’s seen a celebrity.
“That,” Ashley clips with an air of suspense, like what she’s about to tell me is incredibly important. “…is Sullivan Beaufort. He has enough money to have his own coffee plantation, yet he still sends his PA to get one of ours every day, because it’sthatgood.” She grins with pride.
“Beaufort? Like the place next door?” I ask.
“Tate.” She snorts, rolling her eyes. “Yes! Like the billion-dollar jewelry store and head offices we’re lucky enough to be neighbors with.”
