Shoulders sagging, doubt nipped at my mind. Was I remembering wrong? Had it all been a dream? No way someone had actually jumped into the middle of me getting mugged to help.
Maybe that happened in other cities or to other people. But not in the slums of Buffalo. Not to me.
Angry and maybe a little hurt, I ran over to the nightstand and snatched up the cup. The liquid inside was still hot, the warmth seeping into the part of my fingers exposed from beneath the sleeve of my shirt. The unmistakable scent of coffee wafted upward, and I remembered the black coffee I’d tossed in one of my attackers’ faces.
After another tentative glance around, I lifted the large white cup and took a sip. Flavor burst across my tongue, swirls of creamy milk, sweet caramel, the warmth of cinnamon, and of course, the jolt of espresso.
Frankly, it was heaven in a cup, and I forgot I’d been taking a drink out of spite and purred while taking another decadent gulp. This stuff made those little creamer cups in my pocket look like a joke.
Eyes straying to the paper bag, I wondered what was inside.
But then I remembered what I was supposed to be doing.
“Mmm,” I said, super loud and drawn out. “This coffee is sooo good.” The second the words left my mouth, my fingers tightened around the cup, expecting someone to barge into the room and try to toss me out the window because I’d touched their bougie latte.
The pictures of these in all the coffeehouse windows around the city did look delicious. I’d always wondered if they tasted as good as they looked. Now I knew they did. And I also knew I’d probably never get another one because good-lookingandgood-tasting were definitely out of my price range.
“I’m drinking your coffee,” I announced again.
Nothing.
No one.
Not a peep.
A new thought plagued me, and I looked down at the latte in absolute horror.
What if it was poisoned? Made so tasty and warm to entice me into drinking it so it could strangle me from the inside out?
Maybe it was those thugs. Maybe this was their way of getting back at me for having so little cash and attempting to fight back.
Popping off the white lid, I gazed into the contents, noting the way the foam on the top swirled perfectly with the light brown brew. There was even a drizzle of caramel clinging to the foam.
It didn’t look poisoned.
Like they’d make it look poisoned. Don’t be stupid, Rett.
Lifting it, I sniffed.
It didn’t smell poisoned either.
I pouted, caught in a war with myself. To drink or not to drink.
I mean, who was I to waste bougie lattes with caramel andcinnamon? But also, what if this latte wasted me?
Could be worse ways to go,I reasoned.
Heaving a regretful sigh, I set the cup back on the nightstand, my eye catching on a pad of paper and a pen illuminated in the glow of the lamp.
The pen clattered onto the wooden tabletop when I picked up the thick rectangular pad to read the note scrawled on the top page.
Check out tomorrow at 11 a.m. Room service is on me.
Below those words was one more.
Eat.
And right after it was an arrow pointing at the paper bag and latte.
