What's wrong with you today, Rosemarie? It's just a drink. Just coffee. You've created hundreds of signature beverages. You literally have one named after you at the corporate headquarters of the world's biggest coffee chain.
But this one feels different. This one feels like I'm trying to distill all my loneliness into liquid form and then somehow—somehow—alchemize it into something beautiful.
No pressure or anything.
The bell above the door chimes—a cheerful jingle that cuts through my existential coffee crisis like a knife through butter—and I lift my head automatically, retail-smile already forming.
The smile freezes.
Shatters.
Reforms into something entirely genuine.
"Ruby?!" I practically shriek, and there goes any illusion of being a calm, composed professional. "
The woman standing in the doorway is a vision in black leather and fire. She laughs—that bright, unrestrained laugh I'd know anywhere—and waves one hand while the other clutches what's clearly a gift bag.
I feel like I'm seeing a ghost. A gorgeous, six-foot-tall, leather-clad ghost who smells like wild roses and gasoline and pure unadulterated chaos.
Ruby Martinez is what you'd call a firecracker of empowerment—the kind of omega who makes Alphas nervous and other omegas either intimidated or immediately obsessed, with no in-between. Her hair is vivid red-orange, the exact shade of flames licking up from a bonfire, falling in dramatic waves past her shoulders. Golden eyes—actual gold, like someone melted down ancient coins and poured them into her irises—sparkle with perpetual mischief. Her lips are painted their signature ruby red, perfectly complementing the subtle flush of blush across her slightly tanned cheekbones.
And she'stall. Gloriously, unapologetically tall. In her leather boots with their chunky heels, she's easily six feet of badass omega energy. The black leather jumpsuit she's wearing hugs every curve like it was sewn specifically for her body, which, knowing Ruby, it probably was.
She rides a motorcycle "for fun and vibes," her words. She once told an Alpha who tried to neg her that his knot probably couldn't satisfy a donut hole, and then finished her coffee while he stood there processing the insult. She is, in every possible way, a rebel wrapped in omega packaging.
And she used to be my coworker at the Starbucks Reservatory—the corporate think tank where they pay people obscene amounts of money to invent drinks that shouldn't exist but somehow become bestsellers.
I'm already yanking off my apron, tossing it onto the counter as I rush around to meet her. My hands smooth down my black henley and high-waisted jeans—casual but cute, the kind of outfit that says "I'm working but I still have taste"—and then I'm throwing my arms around her like we didn't just see each other... actually, whendidwe last see each other?
"Still tall as ever," I sigh into her shoulder, which is really more like her collarbone given our height difference.
Ruby laughs, the sound vibrating through me like music. "Being six feet in leather boots should be a sin, I know." She pulls back to look at me, those golden eyes doing a quick assessment. Her scent wraps around me—wild roses with that sharp undertone of gasoline, like freedom bottled and given an attitude. "Look at you, running a whole bakery like a boss bitch."
"Co-running," I correct, already steering her toward the counter. "Hazel's on maternity leave. I'm just holding down the fort."
"Same thing." Ruby settles onto one of the window stools, crossing one impossibly long leg over the other. The morning light catches the golden undertones in her tan, and I notice for the first time that she's darker than when I last saw her. "What concoction were you pursuing when I so rudely interrupted?"
I glance back at my abandoned cup, the Rio experiment waiting patiently on the counter.
"Something inspired by Rio," I admit, moving back behind the counter but positioning myself across from her so we can talk. "Mila put me up to it, actually. She caught me doom scrolling New Year's videos at like two in the morningand decided I needed to 'channel my feelings into something productive.'" I make air quotes with my fingers. "Her words."
"New Year's videos? The Copacabana ones?"
"Everyone and their auntie, uncle, and long-lost cousins making it to Rio for the New Year," I confirm with a dramatic sigh. "Meanwhile, I'm watching through my phone screen like the world's saddest voyeur."
Ruby's smile widens, something knowing flickering in her golden gaze. "Well, I'ddefinitelyhave to try it."
The request settles something in my chest—shifts the weight of my earlier melancholy into something lighter. Having Ruby here, with her impossible confidence and her easy laughter, makes everything feel less heavy somehow. The loneliness that had been clinging to me like a second skin begins to loosen its grip.
This is why friendships matter. This is why people need people.
I take my time with the pour now, emotions settled into something far happier with Ruby's presence warming the space. The espresso flows in a steady stream, rich and dark, the scent of Brazilian beans rising to mingle with the bakery's sweet notes. I reach for the steamed milk, temperature perfect, and begin the pour—slow, controlled, wrist rotating in the practiced motion that's become muscle memory after years of training.
The latte art forms beneath my hands: a delicate fern pattern that gradually opens into something resembling a palm tree. Not my best work, but appropriate for the theme.
Rio in a cup. Here's hoping it doesn't taste like regret and doom scrolling.
I slide the cup across the counter toward Ruby, who receives it with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts. She brings it to her nose first—proper tasting technique—and inhales deeply.
