11. The Great Coffee Conspiracy
11
THE GREAT COFFEE CONSPIRACY
Downtown Seattle, WA
GRAYSON
The problem with kissing someone in a coat closet is that it makes it very difficult to maintain proper statistical objectivity.
"Sir," CORA announces as I stare at Meet Cute Coffee Co.'s financial projections, "your heart rate elevates approximately 12.3% every time you review these numbers."
"That's because they're concerning numbers," I lie to my AI. "Not because of... other factors."
"Actually, sir, when cross-referenced with your physiological responses during recent interactions with Ms. Carpenter?—"
"Mute, CORA."
Three days after the charity gala, and I still can't focus on anything except the way Rosalind felt in that closet, all warm curves and soft whimpers and?—
My office door bursts open. Connor strides in, followed by Alex, both wearing expressions that suggest they've caught me doing something embarrassing.
Like analyzing a coffee shop's profit margins at 7 AM on a Tuesday .
"Interesting reading material?" Connor peers at my screens. "Because unless Meet Cute Coffee Co. has suddenly become a SecureMatch subsidiary..."
"I'm doing market research." I minimize the spreadsheets, but not before Alex spots them.
"Market research? On the coffee shop where your fake girlfriend spends half her time?" He drops into one of my chairs. "The same coffee shop whose owner just announced possible closure?"
"How did you?—"
"Mac heard from Lucia who heard from Nonna Flora that Mrs. Rodriguez's nephew is trying to convince her to sell." Alex crosses his arms over his chest. "Apparently, some developer wants to turn it into a chain store or something."
"Over Roz's dead body," Connor mutters. "You should have seen her at La Famiglia on Sunday. She practically threw breadsticks at anyone suggesting Meet Cute might close."
My phone buzzes. Speaking of Rosalind...
" Save the Shop meeting in twenty minutes ," her text reads. " Bringing reinforcements ."
Before I can respond, another message pops up: "P.S. Your AI just asked me about my 'emotional investment in beverage-based entrepreneurship.' Is that normal?"
"CORA," I growl, "what did we say about contacting Ms. Carpenter directly?"
"That it promotes efficient communication patterns?" my AI suggests innocently.
Connor snickers. "Your robot's got a point. Though personally, I'm more interested in your 'emotional investment' in?—"
He's interrupted by Alex's phone ringing. Mac's ringtone—the one I’m sure she didn’t approve.
"Hey babe," Alex answers. "Wait, what? How many bees?"
Connor and I exchange looks.
"Define 'emotional support hive,'" Alex continues. "Uh-huh. So, you stopped by Heart & Soul's lobby because... I see. No, I don't think that Sir Whats-His-Name’s foam sword will help with bee removal. Yes, I'll call Grayson."
He ends the call, turning to me with the kind of expression that lets me I'm not going to enjoy what comes next.
"So," he starts, "apparently Dani's newest suitor?—"
"The medieval knight's been replaced?"
"By an artisanal honey farmer. Who brings his bees to work."
I check my watch. Eighteen minutes until Rosalind's meeting.
"Let me guess," I sigh. "The emotional support hive got loose?"
"In technical terms? Yes." Alex checks his phone again. "In practical terms? Heart & Soul's lobby currently resembles a very aggressive apiary."
Another text from Rosalind: "Slight change of plans. Meeting relocated due to unexpected... guests. Small, striped, unfortunately armed guests."
I'm already grabbing my coat. "CORA, pull up everything we have on urban beekeeping regulations. And contact my lawyer about liability issues regarding 'emotional support' insects."
"Already done, sir," my AI chirps. "Though I feel compelled to note that your increasing involvement in Ms. Carpenter's business affairs suggests?—"
"Not now, CORA."
Twenty minutes later, I'm standing in Meet Cute Coffee Co.'s back room, watching Seattle's most determined matchmaker pace holes in the vintage hardwood while explaining her "Save the Shop" campaign to a crowd of regulars.
"We can't let some soulless corporation turn this place into another chain store," she declares, gesturing with what has to be her fourth lavender latte. "This is where connections happen. Real connections, not algorithm-approved matches—no offense," she adds in my direction.
"Statistically speaking—" I start, but she silences me with a look.
"The point is," she continues, "Meet Cute needs us. Mrs. Rodriguez needs us. Who's with me?"
The crowd—mostly longtime customers, plus what appears to be a surprisingly organized contingent of elderly ladies from the corner table—cheers.
"That's very inspiring," I say when she finally pauses for breath, "but have you considered the actual financials?"
The room goes quiet. Even the espresso machine seems to hold its breath.
"Financials?" Rosalind echoes.
I pull up the spreadsheets I definitely haven't been obsessing over. "Based on current market trends and projected revenue streams?—"
"Oh Lord," Connor mutters from somewhere behind me. "He's going to spreadsheet the romance right out of it."
"—I estimate Meet Cute needs approximately two hundred thousand dollars in immediate capital investment, plus updated equipment and marketing strategies, to remain competitive in Seattle's current coffee landscape."
More silence. Then:
"Two hundred thousand dollars?" Rosalind's voice carries a dangerous edge. "That's your solution? Just throw money at it?"
"Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of a strategic investment partnership." I gesture to my carefully organized projections. "With proper optimization of resources and implementation of modern business practices?—"
"Modern business practices?" She takes a step closer. "You mean like replacing all this—" she waves at Meet Cute's deliberately mismatched furniture and vintage decor, "—with something more 'efficient'?"
"The aesthetic would remain intact," I assure her. "Just with better profit margins."
"Profit margins? This place isn't about profit margins! It's about?—"
"Young love?" Mrs. Rodriguez's voice carries from the doorway. "Second chances? The kind of connections your fancy algorithms can't calculate?"
We all turn. The café owner stands there looking amused, coffee-stained apron and all.
"Mrs. R," Rosalind starts, "we were just?—"
"Trying to save my shop?" She smiles. "By arguing like an old married couple?"
"We're not—" we both begin.
“No need to lie. I’ve been watching people fall in love in this café for thirty years. You think I can't spot the real thing when I see it?"
Before either of us can protest, my phone buzzes. Alex's name lights up the screen.
"Update on the bee situation," he announces without hesitating. "Good news: Sir Gala-What’s-It has volunteered his services as 'ye olde bee whisperer.' Bad news: turns out medieval armor isn't actually bee-proof."
I put him on speaker just as Rosalind's phone chimes.
"Dani says the honey farmer is crying about his hive's betrayal," she reports. "Also, William's baking has reached new heights. Apparently, he's trying to create some kind of honey-based pastry to 'soothe the savage bees.'"
"That's not how bees work," I point out.
"Thank you, Mr. Science." But there's no real heat in her voice. "Should we..."
“Try to help them out?”
“Yeah, well, it would be ‘professional’ of us. "
Mrs. Rodriguez watches this exchange with knowing eyes. "You know what else is professional? Letting someone help you because they care, not just because of some business arrangement."
We both stop short.
"I don't—" Rosalind begins.
"Know what you're talking about," I finish.
“Of course not.” Mrs. Rodriguez starts gathering empty cups. "Just like I don't know anything about running a successful business for thirty years. Or spotting real chemistry when I see it."
Through the windows, Seattle's promised snow finally begins to fall, dusting the street in what romantics might call magic and what my AI would probably label "frozen precipitation achieving ideal atmospheric conditions."
"About that investment offer," I say carefully.
"Save it." Mrs. Rodriguez pats my cheek. "For now, let's just say I'm interested in seeing how this particular love story plays out." The elder café owner starts walking away. “I’ve been serving coffee to love-struck fools for three decades. Trust me, I know a match when I see one.”
Before either of us can respond, both our phones buzz simultaneously.
"The bees have discovered William's honey pastries," Alex reports.
"Sir Galahad's declaring war on behalf of the hive's honor," Dani adds.
“Let’s—“ I point my chin towards the door.
"Help our wayward friends?” Rosalind's already grabbing her coat. “Already ahead of you.”
But as we head out into the snow, my hand finds the small of her back automatically, and I catch Mrs. Rodriguez's knowing smile in the window's reflection.
" Sir ," CORA pipes up through my phone, "I feel compelled to point out that your physical proximity to Ms. Carpenter suggests?—"
“Give it a break, CORA."
I glance up at the quickening snow, shaking my head.
God knows I need one right now.