Chapter 2
MYA
“MYA DESSEN-JONES!” A familiar voice shouts from my left.
My hand jerks and boiling hot coffee splashes from the reusable cup all over the expensive machine. I hiss in pain as it hits my skin, dropping the cup and scrambling for a rag.
“Shit,” I mutter, patting the mess frantically.
I didn’t even realize I was still holding the lever. I was in another dimension entirely until my best friend-slash-manager-slash-sister-from-another-mister snapped me out of my trance. Tiana stares at me, tilting her head to the side toward the client in line.
I glance up, flustered, only to meet the impatient silence of the man waiting for his double shot Americano mist. He doesn’t say a word, just grunts and goes back to scrolling on his phone like I’m some glitch in the matrix he can’t be bothered to acknowledge.
“Sorry about that.”
Of course, he doesn’t look up. Prick.
He’s tall and broad-shouldered, in a tailored charcoal suit that looks like it was stitched directly onto him by a very expensive Italian man, with a very precise measuring tape.
His hand, still gripping the phone, has perfectly manicured nails.
Not a hangnail in sight. Who even has time for cuticle maintenance?
I bite back a scoff as I finish remaking his drink.
Then I catch a glimpse of his profile as he leans forward, enough for the overhead light to graze the sharp edge of his jaw and the striking contrast of his salt-and-pepper beard.
I don’t even need to see his entire face to know that he’s stupidly handsome. Like, rude-level handsome. His hair is just as perfect as the rest of him.
My brain short-circuits for a half-second as I slide the drink across the counter.
“There you go.”
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
He takes the cup, gives the barest nod, and walks out without ever lifting his head.
“You’re welcome!” I shout after him.
Asshole.
Classic corporate Seattle—rude, passive-aggressive, and severely caffeine-dependent.
There’s still a line of groggy people waiting to get caffeinated, but I need a moment. Thankfully, Demi’s on cash and Eric’s covering baked goods. They’ll survive without me for a few minutes.
I sigh, tug off my apron, and head to the back.
“I told you to stay home today. You were up ‘til an ungodly hour working on that project,” Tiana says, following me into the kitchen.
“TJ,” I groan at my step sister.
My biological father, Marcus Dessen, was a design consultant. When I was eight, he died in a work accident after falling from a structure during an on-site visit.
I was still too young to understand the loss, but I’ve grown up carrying the echoes of it.
My mom was the doctor on duty when they wheeled him into the emergency room.
Her husband of ten years, broken and fading on a gurney in front of her.
I can’t even begin to imagine the kind of pain that must have ripped through her as she worked, torn between the roles of wife and physician.
Two years later, she met Devon Jones. They eventually got married and, just like that, I became Mya Dessen-Jones. Our parents blended our families when I was ten and Tiana was seven.
She and I hit it off immediately. We were practically twins in energy and chaos. A few years later, our little brother JJ was born. Jackson has my curls and brown eyes, and Tiana’s nose and warm skin tone. We always joke that he looks like our love child.
“I told you I’d be fine. I just need a shot of espresso and some cold water. I’ll be good.”
“You’ve had four shots already and it’s not even eight,” Tiana snaps, arms crossed. “You need to go home. Don’t make me put on my manager pants.”
Gah. I hate when she does this.
Even though I’m twenty-four and three years older than Tiana, she acts like the older sister.
Always has, but especially now that she’s my boss at the café.
She never misses a chance to remind me of it, wielding that manager title like a crown.
And the worst part is that she knows how to keep me in line, even when I don’t want to admit she’s right.
“Tell you what. If I mess up one more time, I’ll go home. Otherwise, I’m staying ‘til the end of my shift.”
Tiana exhales like she’s debating body-slamming me. “Fine.”
“Fine.”
She spins and leaves, and I collapse onto the break room chair, kicking my legs up on another. I’m fried. TJ is right. I was up until four a.m. finalizing my capstone project. It counts for the bulk of my final grade, and I’m proud of it. But now, I’m running on fumes.
I’ve worked here at Willow’s since second year in college, when Tiana offered me a part-time gig.
I love this place. The energy is comforting. Familiar. Even on a shitty day, the smell of fresh coffee and the sight of Demi’s chaotic highlighter notes taped to the espresso machine help me reset. Unless a corporate jerk like that guy walks in.
Still, I should’ve stayed home today.
But I’m restless. The wait for final grades and the anxiety over job applications are gnawing at me.
I don’t want an internship. I want real responsibility and experience. I want to be seen and respected. Not someone’s coffee runner or personal assistant. I worked my ass off for this degree. I’m graduating top of my class. I followed in my father’s footsteps for a reason: to make him proud.
Of all the firms I applied to, W.H.M. Construction is the dream. They are massive, with projects all over the world, endless resources, and a creative division that lets designers pitch and build their own concepts. If I land this job, it could change my entire career.
My heart pounds just thinking about it.
I wipe my forehead and shuffle away from the oven before I melt into the tile.
As if on cue, the timer blares and my phone vibrates at the same time.
I yelp, nearly launching out of my chair. I fumble for my phone and nearly drop it twice before I see the caller ID: W.H.M. Construction.
Oh my God.
“OH MY GOD!” I’m screaming, and not just in my head anymore.
Tiana rushes back in, fanning smoke. “What’s going on? Did you burn the cookies?”
Shit. The cookies. I forgot them.
I try to answer the phone as I wave what I hope is an apologetic hand at her, but my fingers don’t work. I’m panicking. Sweating. Possibly dying. Eventually, I press accept and croak out, “Hello?”
A woman starts speaking on the other end. “Is this Mya Dessen-Jones?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
She starts shooting information at me, but I have no pen or paper. TJ has her back to me, salvaging the baked goods. I flail my arms to get her attention. Nothing.
I whisper-shout her name. Still nothing.
So I do what any rational adult would do—I throw my shoe at her.
It hits her square on the butt. “Ow!”
No time for apologies. I wave her over.
She hurries to me, and I grab her phone, typing furiously into her Notes app.
“Okay. Thank you, Shaina. I’ll be there. Goodbye.”
I hang up, hands shaking. My heart is trying to claw its way out of my chest.
Tiana just stares at me. “Well?”
“I just got a call from W.H.M. I have an interview in two days. I can’t breathe.”
We scream. We jump. I cry.
My sister hugs me tight, and I feel relief and pride in my bones.
“I’m so proud of you, MJ. You’re going to kill it.”
I wipe my tears and nod, trying to savor the high before the nerves creep back in.
“Thanks, sis.”
After another hug, TJ heads back out. As she reaches the kitchen door, she throws a grin over her shoulder.
“Oh, and MJ?”
“Yeah?”
“You messed up again. The cookies. You’re out.”