Page 50 of An Espresso Machine’s Guide to Love & Mischief

“They had to find a new toe because of me.”

“Why the fuck was there a toe?” I demand louder this time.

“You never heard of it? Aren’t you Canadian?”

“What does it have to do with being Canadian?” I glare at her. Why can’t she ever give a straight answer, damn it?

“Dawson City’s in the Yukon. You haven’t been?”

“Fuck no, that’s on the other side of the country.” I frown. “Now, back up. What kind of toe?”

“Human.” I swear there’s laughter in Maxwell House’s voice when she adds, “It’s a rite of passage up there. Yukon Jack whiskey in a glass with a mummified human toe. Don’t worry. It’s always a toe that fell off naturally.”

I drop my fork and it clatters onto my plate. “Well, now you’ve ruined my appetite.”

“Good, because you chew loudly. And you eat too fast.”

“Better than drinking a toe.”

“Swallowing it was an accident!” she snaps. “Makes for a good story, though, so I don’t regret it.”

“You don’t seem like someone who visits the Yukon. You have family there?”

“No, my family is from the Upper East Side.”

“Of…?” I feign confusion just to mess with her. Serves her right since she messed with me about the toe. There’s no fucking way that drink exists, and if it does, there’s no way in hell she tried it or swallowed a fucking toe.

“Obviously New York. Does that body lack a brain, or are you always this slow?” She throws my words from earlier back at me.

I chuckle. “So how did you end up in Toronto?”

“It’s a long story.” She lets out a drawn out sigh. “Let’s say I’m… on a quest.”

I perk up. “What kind of quest?”

“That got you excited.” I can almost picture her rolling her eyes. “Are you a gamer or something?”

I rub the back of my head. “Mystery novels.”

Tim Horton’s twists her knobs in what I’m starting to guess is confusion. “What?”

“I grew up on The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew. My friends and I used to draw treasure maps and… never mind. It’s stupid.”

“No, tell me.” She genuinely sounds interested.

“Okay, well, a few kids in my building used to host scavenger hunts. We’d take turns saving up our allowances for an epic prize—”

“Like a diamond necklace?” Balzac’s interrupts.

More like a fancy notebook. “Yeah, something like that.”

“And then what?”

“We’d hide clues all around the neighborhood. Finders keepers.” I feel myself grow hot. “We were ten at the time.” Plus seven, but no way in hell am I telling her that.

“My friends and I used to do something similar, actually,” she surprises me by saying.

“Yeah, right.” I roll my eyes.