Now, once again in reality, I’m pulled back to the bustling atmosphere of the Daisy Cafe. The espresso bar glistens with steam and the tinkle of cups. Yet, my reverie has shaken me, and my cheeks are hot. My legs are actually shaking. I reach for the milk pitcher and almost drop it, hands unsteady.
Fortunately, there’s more than enough to keep me busy. The morning crowd thickens: grad students, tech bros, yoga moms in matching Lululemon, all vibrating with caffeine anxiety and gossip. I keep thinking about Hunter’s hands on my skin and almost over-pour the next latte. I squeeze my thighs together. God. I need to get a grip.
Between customers I text Eliza under the counter:
Me: “I can’t stop thinking of him.”
Her: “Stop! Work! Focus!”
I sigh, which earns a side-eye from my manager, a stern but gentle Midwestern woman who thinks I’m sweet and pure. If only.
A regular—quiet old man with a beard like Santa—slides up to the register. “Morning, Tara,” he greets.
“Hey Harvey,” I respond in return. “What’ll it be?”
He orders the usual, a black drip, but lingers to chat about the Twins and the weather. I give him my best “you’re my favorite” smile, and he shuffles off, leaving a tip double the cost of his coffee.
I work the rush, hands flying, brain half on autopilot, the other half reliving Hunter’s mouth and the way he bit my neck that amazing night of the party. The memory settles low in my belly, an ache that won’t go away. I check the clock: still three hours until close. If I survive, it’ll be a miracle.
When the line finally ebbs, I wipe down the counter, damp rag cooling my overheated skin. My phone buzzes again:
Eliza: “Still can’t believe you’re fantasizing about your stepbrother, lmao.”
Eliza: “But I get it because Hunter is H-O-T.”
Me: “He’s more than hot. He’s total fire.”
Her: “Oooh, tell me more. I wish I had dreams like that.”
I grin, cheeks burning, and push the phone aside. If only Eliza knew! I catch my reflection in the display case glass—eyes bright, lips bitten. I look unhinged. Maybe I am.
But the day isn’t going to get any easier, and the tips are piling up, which is always good. I inhale coffee steam, savor the sugar rush of forbidden cravings. If I can’t have Hunter now, at least I can keep the memory on repeat, like a secret song playing only for me.
A new customer appears, phone in hand, distracted. I straighten my apron and force myself to focus, standing straight.
“Hi there,” I say, pushing my smile to full wattage. “What can I get started for you?”
The world spins on, and I keep moving, one drink at a time. But my heart’s still beating double-time, just waiting for the next fix of my gorgeous stepbrother.
The morning tricklesinto early afternoon, which means the customer mix shifts from frantic commuters to the oddball regulars who form my true fanbase. These are the people who ask for “the usual,” and to be honest, I love them for it.
First up is Professor Cordell—white beard, rumpled corduroy, and the bookish air of someone who still believes in Oxford commas. He orders a large black coffee and an espresso chaser, no sugar, and never fails to launch into a monologue about his latest academic crusade.
“Good morning, Professor,” I chirp, grabbing the biggest to-go cup and lining up his shots. “What’s the word on the classics front?”
He sighs, glancing around as if to make sure the NSA isn’t listening. “They’ve merged my department with Media Studies,so now I’m technically a ‘Content Curator’ instead of a Professor.”
“That’s criminal,” I say, deadpan, “but at least now you can assign TikTok as homework.”
He grins and taps the counter, appreciative. “If more of my students had half your wit, I’d still believe in the youth of America.” He slides two dollars into the tip jar—and winks as he wanders off to his favorite window seat.
Next is a young mom with twins. The babies are adorable, chubby-legged and pink-cheeked, wearing matching onesies that say “Caffeine Makes Mommy Go.” The mom herself is an exhausted goddess, hair in a headband, eyes smeared with sleeplessness.
“Double-shot latte for the bravest woman in Minneapolis,” I announce, as I hand over the cup. The mom gives me a grateful look, and I lean over the counter to make kissy faces at the babies, who gurgle and clap their sticky hands. I always hope they’ll remember me, even if it’s just as the lady who made milk foam smiley faces in their mom’s cup.
“Say thank you to Tara, kiddos,” the mom says, bouncing one twin on her hip.
One of the babies, the loud one, shouts “Ba-ba!” and beams at me. I smile because I’ve always loved kids and it would be a dream to have a handsome husband with adorable rugrats underfoot. But does that dream still hold when said handsome husband is your stepbrother? Oh god. My face flames, and I look down quickly, busying myself counting change.
