Page 16 of An Espresso Machine’s Guide to Love & Mischief

There is definitely something wrong with me. Being switched off in the cargo hold must have scrambled my circuits. Do espresso machines have circuits? I honestly don’t know what is inside me except for metal, water, and coffee beans.

Scrambled circuits would explain my attraction to the rat—and to Fletcher. It probably explains why I thought those people were following us around, too. And the best thing for me to do is to forget about all of it and focus on getting my fortune back.

Chapter 8

Rollo

My second-in-command, Aero, races across the train tracks toward where I’m standing. “What are you looking at, sire?”

“Would you please refrain from calling me that?” I twitch my whiskers and turn my gaze back to the espresso machine. Why has it captivated my attention thus?

“Whatever you wish, sire.”

I grimace.

I’ve been the King of Mischief since my father passed away six years ago, but it still feels odd to be called sire by a gentleman twice my age. I grew up calling him sir. Aero was my father’s second and my fisticuffs instructor when I was a young pup.

“What are you staring at, King Rollo?” Aero tries again.

“That’s hardly better.” I let out a sigh filled with longing. “I’m gazing at the espresso machine on the platform.”

“The red one those two humans are ferrying?”

“It’s… beautiful, like the full moon after a snowstorm.”

Aero is silent for several long moments. “Are you craving a coffee, sire? I saw a discarded Tim’s cup on the tracks further down the platform. Would you like me to retrieve it for you?”

“It’s not that.” But what else could it be? Why else would a coffee machine be so enchanting? “I thought I had defeated that habit after I became ill from a spilled frappe, but I suppose not.”

Aero scratches his ear. “Unfortunate, that.”

I shake my head to clear the caffeine craving, but my gaze shoots right back to the espresso machine. I want to run my paws over its metal sides, feel its nozzles, and groom its beautiful metal casing.

“My liege…” Aero lifts his snout and sniffs the air. “The pizza is here. We had best get to it before we miss it again. You know how hard it is to convince anyone else to deliver here. We’re fortunate that business is slow at the Pizza Pizza on the corner.”

“I know, Sir-Aero… Serro! Aero! I mean Aero…”

“You are not acting like yourself, sire,” Aero says. I’m sure the use of my title is intended as a subtle reminder of our difference in status.

“I do not know.” I glance longingly at the espresso machine and lick my lips. I can almost taste its hot, bitter juices and—

“I shall intercept the pizza delivery and leave you to your gazing,” Aero says. He races toward the beam that lets us climb from the track to the platform.

I’m almost tempted to abandon our quest and follow the espresso machine instead. But tonight’s meeting is one that my Mischief shouldn’t face on empty stomachs. I’m also troubled to realize that Aero can chase down the pizza fellow, but he cannot pay him. The paper currency is strapped to my back with a tiny belt that I chewed out of a much larger, human-sized belt—and pizza only comes to those who pay.

I wrench my gaze from the red metal beauty and scurry after Aero. I catch up to him on the main platform. A few people shriek and leap out of our way—the usual reaction to our presence when we’re in rat form. No complaints from me, as the crowd clears a path for us—as is befitting rat royalty.

It would be more convenient to shift at times like these, but impractical. It is not safe for our kind to traverse the tracks in human form. To shift on the platform is pure folly. If anyone observes humans absconding into the tunnels, they’ll take notice—but no one gives a whisker if rats do it.

To make matters worse, there are security cameras everywhere. Humans carry portable phones, too, and I know of the damage a single video on the world wide web can cause.

We cannot risk revealing that paranormal creatures dwell in the subway tunnels of Union-King and Union-Andrew. The last thing the rat community needs now is more angry humans.

“Over there, sire,” Aero calls. Quite unnecessarily, I might add.

The tall fellow with a mop of curly green hair is carrying the pizza box that houses our extra-large cheese pie. He stands out easily from the crowd—as does the delightful scent wafting from him.

Aero races toward him, but I hesitate. The espresso machine tempts me from across the platform, and my gaze drifts toward it. I long to lay my eyes on its metal casing, but my lower vantage point only allows me to see the legs and bottoms of humans crowding the platform.