Not good. Not cute-local-place good.
Perfect.
The foam was glossy. The espresso didn’t taste burned. The cinnamon danish had flaky edges, soft center, and enough butter to make me briefly believe in organized religion. By my second visit, Daisy behind the counter knew my name.
By my third, she had my order started before I reached the register.
By my fourth, she slid a cappuccino toward me and said, “Regan told me to keep an eye on you.”
I stared at her. “Of course she did,” I replied with an eye roll.
Daisy was small, blond, and deceptively sweet-looking, with a silver nose ring and the energy of a woman who knew everyone’s business but only used it for good or entertainment. Possibly both.
“She said you’re new,” Daisy added.
“I am.”
“And stubborn.”
“Rude.”
“And traveling with a violent cat.”
“Accurate.”
Daisy grinned and added a danish to my bag. “On the house.”
“I’m not a charity case.”
“Did I say you were?” She pushed the bag closer. “Regan prepaid.”
I closed my eyes. “That woman is a menace.”
“She’s married to Tank. Menace is kind of the family language.”
That was how I started learning the local mythology.
Over cappuccinos and danishes, Daisy gave me the edited civilian version of the Royal Bastards. Edited, because every time the story got close to something illegal, she took a sip of coffee and changed direction like I hadn’t noticed.
Tank was Regan’s husband. Big. Quiet. Enforcer energy, according to Daisy, although the word enforcer seemed like the kind of thing people should not say casually over croissants. Regan had somehow turned him domestic without making him less terrifying, which sounded like witchcraft.
Tarak had been president before. He was still around, still respected, still very much the kind of man people lowered their voices about. River was president now. Broody, Daisy said, but with the kind of loyalty that made people follow him into fires and then complain about smoke damage later.
I asked if the Royal Bastards were famous or just loud.
Daisy said, “In Santa Fe? They’re royalty.”
I thought she was joking.
She was not joking.
Apparently, the upcoming wedding was going to be the event of the year, or at least the event Daisy was most excited todiscuss while steaming milk. Tank’s bachelor party had already become legend, though Daisy refused to give me details beyond the phrase mechanical bull incident and one ominous mention of someone named Bullet wearing a veil.
“You should try to snag a date and an invite,” Daisy told me, sliding a cappuccino across the counter.
I laughed. “I have been here a week.”
“That’s plenty of time.”
