“If you’re hungry, there’s a killer charcuterie board on the counter,” she called, without looking up. “And by killer, I mean I spent exactly ten minutes pretending to be a food influencer.”
Arden arched a brow. “Charcuterie?”
Penny grinned, unrepentant. “Every day should feel celebratory, right?”
In the kitchen, Arden found the board laid out with suspicious precision: salami slices folded into neat roses, cheese arranged like dominoes mid-topple. A crystal pitcher of iced tea sparkled beside it, studded with mint leaves and translucent lemon wheels.
She hadn’t expected this level of effort.
Orflair.
“Do you always live this way?” she asked, reaching for a glass, amused.
“What way?”
“As if you’re auditioning for a lifestyle magazine.”
Penny laughed, light but laced with conviction. “What can I say? Life’s too short to be boring.”
She grabbed a piece of cheese, popped it into her mouth, and shot Arden a grin that could’ve closed a tab or started a bar fight. “If you’re going to exist, might as well make it fabulous.”
Arden leaned her hip into the counter, her glass cool in her palm. “Your brain never stops, does it?”
“Story of my life.” Penny twirled the stylus like a conductor guiding chaos. “Between impossible clients who think ‘concept’ means ‘copy Pinterest,’ soul-crushing deadlines, and the three side projects I definitely shouldn’t have taken on.”
She finally set the tablet aside, eyes shining with that brand of energy that could either light up a city or spark an existential crisis.
“But mediocrity is the enemy, right?”
A wicked grin. “Besides, now I’ve got you, my perfectly brooding counterweight. We’re going to be legendary. Trust me.”
Arden wasn’t sure about legendary. But she didn’t feel entirely alone.
?
The city’s noise washed over Arden, car horns punctuating a blur of voices, footsteps falling into their own relentless cacophony.
By midweek, she’d carved out quiet routines: grocery runs at off-hours, meandering walks to map her new territory, quick chats with Penny anchoring the day.
The city pulsed around her: sharp with sound, heavy with motion. It should’ve overwhelmed her. But its frenetic, unpredictable pace felt… steadying.
She’d made peace with chaos years ago. Learned how to carry it without flinching.
She’d found it: a coffee shop wedged between a boutique and a used bookstore, like it had slipped through the cracks and stayed hidden on purpose. A little battered, a little overlooked. The kind of place that didn’t mind being alone—and didn’t mind if you were, too.
A chalkboard easel listed the drinks in playful, uneven script:Lavender Latte. Rose Cardamom Cold Brew. Honey Cinnamon Latte.
Her hand hovered on the door. Then she pushed inside.
Light poured through tall windows, pooling across mismatched chairs and uneven tables. Books slouched in stacks: some abandoned mid-thought, others aligned with intent, waiting for someone to return.
The air was thick with coffee and sweet lavender, easing the tension in her shoulders.
At the counter, she studied the ornate menu while the barista, ink-covered fingers and quiet presence, paused her work.
“What can I get you?”
Black coffee felt like a surrender in a place like this.
