“Name?”
The fun part. I have never given my real name at this coffee shop before, and I know the regular employees enjoy my name creations. Let’s do something special for the new anime-looking guy.
I bat my eyelashes and say in Japanese,“Namie.”
“Spell it.”
“N-A-M-I-E.”
The cute barista—Kale, as his name tag reads—scribbles the romanized name on the cup and puts the order in. He takes the card I hand him, all without the slightest hint of a smile.
“Need a receipt?” he asks in the same monotone voice he’s used this entire exchange. Just because I don’t want to be here doesn’t mean I can’t try to make this man’s day better.
“My boss might literally morph into a Nomu if I don’t bring one back,” I jest. Kale only blinks, the blank expression still coating his face. “My Hero Academia?” I question, stating the show’s name the Nomu monster is from. He shakes his head slowly. At least I got some reaction out of him, even if he’s slightly terrified of me now. I thought for sure this guy watched anime based on his cool and wild hair color. He hands me my card back with the receipt. “You should watch it!” I call over my shoulder as I move to wait in the new line to receive the beverage. Cute Kale has already begun boring the next customer.
My shoulders rise and fall with my sigh. I miss Stella. She didn’t watch anime, but she playedZelda: Breath of the Wildwith me and let me ramble on about fan theories surrounding my favorite anime—My Hero Academia.It’s not cool for a woman of my caliber to be into that sort of stuff, but it's my escape, and it hasbeen for a long time. Regardless, I learned another new language out of the obsession.
“Namie,” another barista calls out, pronouncing it like nay-mee instead of the proper nah-mee. Walking up to the counter with my head held high, I pick up the coffee for Darcy. I borrow the pen on the counter to scribble the Japanese characters above the romanized name, always jumping at the chance to practice the characters.
I freeze in my tracks.
This. Is. For. Darcy.
Darn it all. I forgot this was his coffee, and the name on his cup in Japanese translates to “God’s blessing.”
Dear Lord, if Darcy understands Japanese, now would be the time to give him amnesia,I pray. Okay, it’s not a great prayer, but the Lord already knows my heart.
Of all people, Darcy Marshall does not need an ego boost.
After trekking to the nearest parking garage, I hop into my car and begin navigating the morning traffic as I make my way to Darcy’s house—er, mansion? His massive place is located on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, which is why I’m driving and honking my horn at people jaywalking instead of walking on the streets myself.
There’s a part of me that wants to crank up J-Pop tunes and take my dear, sweet time, intentionally letting his coffee grow cold so that maybe he will quit sending me on this waste-of-time errand every morning. But then again, the man is running for president, and I need this to go well for the both of us. My student loans won’t pay themselves off. Plus, if I get him elected, the door will openwith countless opportunities for me. As a young, Black female in politics, I’m not incredibly liked or accepted. I get called every name in the book by the liberal media, many of them saying I am a disgrace to my people because of my conservative-leaning beliefs. The conservative media always tiptoes around me like they don’t want to offend me by saying the wrong thing.
It’s all unbelievably frustrating.
But if I can be the woman to get Darcy Marshall—tech guru, billionaire, inventor of the popular networking app COFFEE, and Independent candidate—elected to America’s highest office, then maybe that’ll shut everyone up and I can do my thing. Debt-free. My ultimate dream is not to be president, but to be Secretary of State. That’s where therealaction is.
I’ve clawed my way to where I am and won’t let cold coffee ruin it for me. I put the pedal to the metal and book it to Darcy’s place.
Arriving at the entrance, I reach through the window of my car and punch the code in to open the large, white monstrosity of a gate. The name “Ophelia” is crafted in a thick, straight font across the top of the gate. According to the news, he renamed the estate from Marshall Estate to Ophelia Estate after his father passed away. Ophelia was also the name of his younger sister who passed away, though eerily enough, there isn’t much online about her passing considering the fame and prestige of the Marshall family. The bars swing wide, granting me access to the long, stone road leading to the house—er, mansion. I really need to quit referring to the giant place as a mere house.
Houses are for normal people, and Darcy isnotnormal.
Centennial Blush Magnolia trees line the way forward, and I long for April to arrive in order to see the trees blossom, creating a wall of pink to brighten this dreadful drive.
Okay, the drive isn’t dreadful, but knowing it ends with me sitting in Darcy’smansiontwists my stomach into knots, and not the good cinnamon pretzel kind. The man infuriates me. He’s cold and stoic. Hard to understand at times. My issue is with his grumpy personality, not his work ethic or values. I respect him and support his vision for the country; I wouldn’t take on this campaign if I didn’t.
I park my car outside his garage, flip down the visor mirror, touch up my lipstick and make sure my hair is in place, then step out of the vehicle. Right as I click the button to lock the doors to the black Toyota Camry, I realize I forgot Darcy’s coffee in the cup holder. Beeping my key fob and opening the door, I lean in to grab the cup.
“Finally.”
Jerking upright at the sound of the deep voice, my head hits the roof of the car and the coffee slips out of my hand, falling onto my black leather seats and splashing on my body.
My torso and face burn with the contact of the hot liquid, and I let out something between a howl and screech. Jumping away from the crime scene, I trip over my heels and squeeze my eyes shut, preparing for a painful impact with the ground.
It never comes.
Instead, I fall into strong arms. While it’s not the concrete I was expecting, this embrace is as solid as if it was sculpted out of marble.
