1. Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Lizzie
“L arge decaf, no-foam, brown sugar oat milk latte for Lizzie?”
I took two uncertain steps forward, eyes darting between the coffee cup bearing my name on the counter and the new tattooed barista at Steep & Shot Coffee—apparently named Heinrik —who’d shoved the cup in my direction.
“Um, yeah… that’s not right.”
Heinrik raised a pierced eyebrow, though the rest of him appeared unaffected. “That’s what you ordered.”
I tried not to wince. The bored affect/vocal fry was high with this one.
I shook my head. “No, you just said ‘decaf’. What I ordered was extra-caff. As in, an extra shot of espresso.”
“Sorry… that’s not what I heard.”
What kind of psychopath orders decaf coffee at seven-fifty in the morning?
Taking a deep, steadying breath, I willed myself to remain calm. “Heinrik… please, help a girl out. I mean, do I look like someone who needs a decaf right now?” I gestured dramatically, shaking the plastic bag containing the box of tampons I’d just picked up from the drugstore. Combined with my rumpled appearance, today’s hot-mess version of Lizzie Blake left little room for doubt that caffeine was an absolute necessity.
Though if Fate had proven anything to me over the last year, it was that it had a really twisted sense of humor.
Because not only had I been handed an overnight power outage, leading to a way-too-late wake-up time—but I woke up slammed with pre-period cramps, several days early.
And, yet again, the incomparable baristas at Steep & Shot had given me the wrong freaking coffee order.
Oh, and I was already twenty minutes late to work. Again.
But Heinrik just shrugged as he moseyed on back towards the cash register, clearly not here for hysterical women or self-righteous coffee demands. “Beth can make you another one, but…” he said, craning his neck to look past me, “it’s gonna be awhile.”
I followed his gaze towards the lineup of people also waiting on their orders, which had grown exponentially during the past fifteen minutes I’d spent sucked into another romance novel on my e-reader.
And like me, not a single one of them looked thrilled to be there.
It was like a tragic scene out of what would likely be the worst—or most accurate—book ever: Death by Nine-to-Five Grind.
Though I was pretty sure none of the other patrons had been up until two a.m. for the fifth night in a row, trying to make progress on a manuscript that seemed determined to unwrite itself.
Probably because I’m more qualified to write the Death book than my own.
“Ugh, just… never mind.” I was already late enough for work as it was. Snatching my cup from the counter, I shifted the strap of my bookbag further up my shoulder before elbowing my way through the crowd towards the door.
For the fourth time in as many weeks, I grumbled to myself about finding a new coffee shop—but who was I kidding? This place was only a block away from my second-floor walk-up apartment. I knew I’d be back again for the same torture on Monday morning, if not sooner.
I rolled my eyes, annoyed at my own sad-sack internal monologue. I was better than this. Mostly, I was tired of feeling so… stuck. And the last few months since losing my mom and grandmother had only managed to amplify all of it.
With a sigh, I pushed open the door to step out onto the sidewalk. Suddenly there was a shout—and the door immediately swung back, smacking me square in the face. My coffee—along with everything else I’d been carrying—flew out of my hand. Cursing loudly, I felt the hot contents of the paper cup spill down the sleeve of my light gray blouse, tumbling down to land amongst the tampons that had, of course, fallen out of their box and across the cement.
Eyes tearing up from the pain (both from my third-degree latte burns and the giant goose egg forming on my forehead), I tried to shake off the shock as I bent down to gather my coffee-soaked feminine products, praying nobody saw me.
But of course— of course —my request was denied, as I discovered most of them were scattered around a pair of scuffed-up sneakers.
“Jesus… you ok?”
The smooth tenor of the man belonging to those shoes rang out above my head. Looking up, I was met with gold-flecked hazel eyes and a smile that was equal parts sexy and disarming—perfectly framed by a smattering of brownish whiskers and a single dimple that I itched to run my fingers over.
Grabbing the last few remaining tampons and throwing them into my bag, I quickly stood to face him, my traitorous cheeks already ablaze. Fully upright, he still had a good eight inches on me, tall and lean with decidedly better muscle tone—at least, based on what I saw outlined through the thin fabric of the t-shirt and shorts he was wearing.
To sum it up, the guy was hot. Like, really hot—in a ruggedly handsome, Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse, sent to deliver my doom with a side order of humiliation, sort of way.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, dabbing at my soaked sleeve with a tissue I’d pulled from my bookbag, but it was pointless—the stain was already set. Sighing, I tossed it into the plastic bag, along with the rest of the coffee carnage. “I just… somehow ran into the door.”
Smirking, he ran a hand briefly through his sexy-scruffy golden-brown hair. “Yeah, I figured as much… so did I.” He gestured a few feet behind him, where a few boxes lay spilled open across the sidewalk. “See, I was carrying a load of my friend’s stuff—that is, until your door swung open and shoved everything into my face.”
My eyes drifted towards the welt over his right eyebrow, feeling the teensiest pang of guilt—nevertheless, I bristled at the insinuation that somehow all of this was my fault.
But getting upset wouldn’t help a dang thing right now, much less get me to work more quickly. Just keep it breezy and be on your way, Blake.
“Well, technically, it’s not my door… unless my name has been changed to Steep & Shot Coffee, which would be great if it came with a discount.” With a breezy little laugh, I tossed my empty cup and bag of useless, caffeinated tampons into the trash can nearby, turning back to face him. “Anyway, I guess we both just need to be more careful next time.”
But instead of being gracious and moving on, Hot Rude Guy raised an eyebrow—staring at me in a way that felt equal parts uncomfortable and heart-fluttery—and simply said, “Huh.”
‘Huh’? Not even a question—more of a statement, like, ‘Well, you’re ridiculous’.
Speaking of which, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the coffee shop window behind him—stained shirt, black skirt, the messy bun I’d frantically piled atop of my head looking even more disheveled than before. I couldn’t have looked more hot-mess certified ridiculous if I’d tried.
All things considered, the smart move would’ve been to walk away right then—especially since this conversation was getting me nowhere. But instead, I tucked a stray section of auburn hair behind my ear, narrowing my eyes at him. “Exactly what do you mean by ‘huh’?”
He shrugged. “Well, it’s just that— you were actually the one who opened the door. Might not be a bad idea to take a quick glance outside first and make sure no one’s within striking distance, ma’am.” Now his tone was borderline condescending as he appeared to bite back a smile, cranking up the heat on the irritation already simmering in my chest that was becoming impossible to ignore.
‘Ma’am’?! I one-hundred percent did not need this right now.
Crossing my arms, I looked him square in the eye. “I’m sorry, but who walks around Minneapolis without watching where they are going? You could’ve just as easily taken out a small child, restricting your sightline with a stack of boxes like that. Maybe you should be more careful next time, sir.”
Now there was definitely no mistaking the amusement in his annoyingly-twinkly gold eyes. “Yes, well… it would also be a shame if a small child somehow managed to trip over this,” he said, reaching down, “unless you aren’t concerned with the aftermath of your lady litter, Red?” With a smug smile, he presented me with one last rogue tampon . Which of course happened to be one from the pack screaming ‘HEAVY FLOW’ down the wrapper in gigantic, judgy text—probably chosen by some masochistic moron being paid mid six-figures a year.
My face burned as I snatched it from his hand, refusing to break eye contact. “I’ll have you know, I care very much about children and the environment. And I also care too much about my time to waste another second of it on this conversation.” Pointedly, I dropped the tampon into the trash can and turned to storm past him, his laughter echoing behind me as I made my way towards work—now, later than ever.
I didn’t even care that he was attractive… or that both his voice and his smile were kind of sexy, when he wasn’t making blatant accusations… or that he might have a point, because at the very least, I had been distracted.
But it didn’t matter. The only words echoing through my head on the remainder of my rush towards work—besides the cute little nickname he'd tossed at me—were what. an. asshole.
Ten minutes later and out of breath, the elevator doors opened on the twenty-fifth floor of Woodruff & Shay to reveal the one person I’d most hoped to avoid on my way in.
Constance Quist stood there—all glowering, five-foot-eleven inches of her—dark eyes blazing and mouth turned down in that perpetually disappointed expression she seemed to reserve especially for me. As Chief Marketing Officer for Minneapolis’s top-ranked accounting firm, the woman had a reputation for being a shark in male-dominated waters—and she expected no less than perfection from the marketing staff who reported to her.
Worse still? For whatever reason, Constance hadn’t liked me from the moment I was hired as lead copywriter three years ago. And now, glancing down at the folder she held in her hands, I knew I was likely circling the drain.
“Ah, Elizabeth… so kind of you to grace us with your presence this morning. Please, follow me to my office, won’t you?”
I felt my face and hands begin their usual anxious tingle as I followed her down the long corridor, willing myself to hold it together while simultaneously cursing myself internally. Walking into her spacious-yet-imposing corner office, I let the door close behind me before lowering myself into one of the angular metal chairs.
Constance settled into her high-backed leather chair, resting her arms against the desk with fingers clasped as she stared, waiting to begin the interrogation.
“Listen, I’m really sorry. The power was out in my building this morning, and I—”
“---still had time for coffee, I see,” she said coolly, nodding towards the partially dried stain on my blouse. But before I could respond, she continued. “Do you recall the very important meeting that was scheduled with the senior partners this morning, Elizabeth?”
“Yes, I—”
“… and yet, you waltz in here almost–” she glanced at the gold watch on her bony wrist, “—forty minutes late, after leaving myself and the rest of the team to look like complete morons, as we attempted to present the Q4 marketing plan without our completed ad copy?”
“I know, and I’m so—”
“Yes, I know… you’re sorry,” Constance said impatiently, her words dripping with thinly-veiled sarcasm. “I shouldn’t have to remind you that the firm has already been discussing the possibility of layoffs. Every single one of us needs to be performing at one-hundred-percent. Which begs the question—-do you even want to be here, Elizabeth?” She unfolded her hands now, moving to tap a fingernail against the surface of her desk, each tap pounding like a nail into my coffin.
I paused, heart racing, as I considered my words. Being honest right now would only cause more damage—and like it or not, I needed this job.
“Of course I want to be here. I’m grateful for the opportunity I’ve had to learn from you, Constance.”
Lies, lies, lies!
She studied me for a moment in silence, her pale face and narrowed eyes framed by her trademark angular, mahogany bob—looking very much like a black hole, siphoning away what remained of my confidence.
Slowly, she leaned forward in her seat towards me. “Then I trust this won’t happen again, yes?” Her tone was softer, which only made it more menacing.
“It won’t, I assure you. You can count on me.”
“Good. You may go. And have the Q4 materials on my desk before ten.” She turned towards her computer and began rapidly typing away.
I rose from my seat and was halfway to the door when she spoke again. “Oh, and Elizabeth?” I braced myself for the inevitable insult that usually followed. “Please tidy yourself up. This is a professional environment, not some millennial rager. You look like you’re… high or something.”
Yep, there it was.
“Of course.”
As I shut the door of my own office a few minutes later—with thoughts of scary-ass boss ladies and hot/rude men swirling around in my head—I tossed my bag to the floor and sank into my chair. Slowly, I released my breath, leaning back with eyes shut tight.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I mean, for God’s sake, I was thirty years old—and even though I wasn’t exactly thrilled with my career, I wasn’t irresponsible. I’d always worked hard and done the job asked of me, even when I’d rather be doing literally anything else.
Clearly, missing that meeting this morning had been a major screw-up on my part. I couldn’t fully blame the power outage or my disastrous run-in with Rude Guy. I swear, it was almost like I’d been in self-sabotage mode the last few months. Everything just felt too much . And I had no idea how to fix any of it.
All I wanted to do right then was walk out that door—away from this job, away from all of the stress and worries and grief that seemed determined to bury me, too. I’d hide out in my apartment, focused on nothing but healing my heart—until I got my spark back. Maybe then all the hard crap from the past year would finally sort itself out.
Maybe then I’d no longer miss my grandmother in a way that made it hard to breathe.
It wasn’t that easy, though, was it? Hiding from my problems wouldn’t pay the bills—and neither, apparently, would my fiction writing. Because even there, I felt stuck. The words that used to come so easily just didn’t flow anymore. Maybe they never would.
I swear, if I listened closely enough, I could almost hear my mom chanting ‘I told you so’ with her megaphone up in heaven—all of her warnings about the ‘ frivolity of creative careers’ going in one ear and getting lost deep inside my brain, never managing to find their way towards the exit on the other side.
I released a long, slow breath, refusing to allow my thoughts to pull me down further. It had taken everything in me to get to the point of being functional again these past few months. I couldn’t afford to go backwards. Not again.
But I knew—neither my grandmother nor my mother would be proud of the road I was on right now. I felt like I was barely holding my life together with a few loose stitches, not even able to finish the first draft of a manuscript I’d been working on since before I’d started this job three years ago.
How long, exactly, would those stitches continue to hold?
I squinched my eyes shut, hands clasped in my lap. Please, God… help me to—
But my prayers were soon interrupted by a loud pinging coming from my phone. Opening my eyes, I reached down to scoop it out of my bag—groaning out loud as I read the message.
brOOKE: Hey, babe…. where are we going for happy hour tonight?
Shit, I’d forgotten. And I really, really didn’t want to go out tonight. But before I could reply back, my phone pinged again.
brOOKE: And no, you can’t just stay home. You promised, Lizzie. I’m not letting you postpone a third time. You need this.
Damn it.
Sullenly, I typed in my response.
LIZZIE: Alright, fine. The Independent at five-thirty?
brOOKE: Fabulous! See you there. And… wear something cute, ok? NO SWEATS this time.
Setting down my phone, I leaned back in my chair again and tilted my head towards the ceiling, amending my prayer—
Please, God… just let me get through the rest of this day.
Oh, and maybe pass along some divine inspiration while you’re at it?
K, thanks.