Chapter 10Victor
Chapter Ten
Victor
I push open the door to the coffee shop, a blast of warm, roasted air hitting me square in the face. It's part of the daily grind now, this ritual I can't say I love. Back in Boston, my penthouse kitchen houses a Nuovo Simonelli that spits out espresso like it's nectar from the gods. I asked for it to be shipped to the corporate apartment, but I was told that wouldn't be a good PR move.
Jenna insists it's all about mingling with the locals, making nice with the neighborhood. "Support local businesses, Victor," she chirped. And, oh, how she knows it grates on me.
I shuffle into the line, and that's when I see her. Chestnut. Those wild, tawny curls that tumble down her back are hard to miss and even harder to take my eyes off. My heart picks up its pace—thud, thud, thud—like it's trying to win some kind of race. Just looking at her stirs something in me I can't quite name.
I hate it.
Last week, when she cornered me at the rink with accusing eyes and spitfire remarks, I was lost for words. Clammed up and walked away. I hate that she thinks I'm here to play the villain, to tear down her world brick by brick. I've been on the receiving end of that narrative too many times. Foster care doesn't let you forget what it feels like to be disposable.
"Hey, watch it," someone mutters as I realize I've been standing still, lost in my thoughts. I shuffle forward, keeping an eye on Chestnut at the counter. She's got this vibe about her, like she can take on the world and win. It's addictive to be around, even if she's on the opposite side of where I want her to be.
I inch closer, pretending to check my phone as Chestnut orders. "Can I have a cinnamon raisin bagel with cream cheese, toasted, and a medium caramel macchiato with almond milk, please?" she tells the barista. Her voice has this warm, no-nonsense edge to it. I store her order away in my head, like a secret code I might need someday.
I don't know why I would ever need to know her breakfast order, but I try to convince myself that having information on one's enemies is never a bad thing. Something in the recesses of my brain asks whether that's really what she is, though. My enemy?
The idea feels off, sure, but then her opinion of me is pretty clear. Villain #1.
A few more people order before it's my turn to stand at the counter. "I'll take a double-shot, ristretto, oat milk latte with a dash of cinnamon," I say, trying not to sound as pretentious as the order itself. The barista nods without batting an eye. It's the same thing I always get, so they're used to it now.
I step over to the right to wait for my order, and there she is, Chestnut, fiddling with a cardboard sleeve as she waits for her coffee. She's dressed down today, jeans and a loose t-shirt, somehow making casual look stunning. Sunlight from the window catches in her curls, turning them to rich, burnished gold. My hands dive into my pockets, seeking refuge. This is not my stage.
I'm more Sebastian than Lawrence or Roman when it comes to social graces. Few words, less fuss. Chestnut though, she’s different. I sense she could spark up a chat with a brick wall and leave it feeling like they've been friends for years. And right now, I can't tell if I'm dreading or hoping she'll unleash that gift of gab on me.
"Fancy seeing you here," she says, her eyes skimming mine with a hint of challenge that has nothing to do with serendipity. I nod, tight-lipped, because what's there really to say? The coffee shop is small, this city even smaller.
"Think strutting around Main Street buys you goodwill?" Her voice is sharp as an autumn chill. "It's a poor act."
"It's not an act," I counter, feeling the need to defend my morning ritual. "I like coffee. Breakfast too."
A scoff tumbles from her lips, disbelief painted clearly across her face. "Lives are being turned upside down, and you're here playing resident."
That stings, more than I let on. I'm not blind to the upheaval, to the worry etched into the furrows of locals' brows. But before I can say anything, the barista holds up her order. "Here you go!"
She strides over to collect it—a steaming cup and a brown paper bag—and starts to make her way out of the store. I'm suddenly compelled, driven by an impulse I don't fully understand, to close this widening gap between us.
"Wait!" The word leaps out. "Have breakfast with me?"
She pauses, her back half-turned, indecision flickering in her stance.
My name echoes through the café, jarring. "Order for Victor!"
"One moment," I tell her, shooting a glance at the barista who's holding out my fancy concoction. "Don't go anywhere."
But, of course, she doesn't honor my request. By the time I've grabbed my cup, she's already out the door.
"Damn it," I mutter, abandoning my order on the nearest table to chase after her.
The door swings shut behind me, and I step into the bite of October's breath, scanning the street. There—Chestnut's retreating figure a few yards ahead.
"Chestnut!" It's out before I can reel it back.
She spins, brown curls snapping, fire in those eyes. "What did you call me?"
"Shit." My hand combs through my hair, a nervous tick betraying my usual cool. She's marching back now, and there's nowhere to hide on this sidewalk.
"What did you just say?" Her words are nearly lost in the city's morning hum, but the demand is clear, pressing.
"I..." How to explain without digging this hole deeper? I clench and unclench my fists, weighing my next words carefully. "It was just a nickname, in my head. I didn't mean?—"
"Nickname?" The space between us is charged, her gaze demanding answers I'm not sure I have.
"Look, we seem to keep bumping into each other," I say, my breath forming clouds in the crisp air. "And since I never got your name, 'Chestnut' just stuck. "
"Stop that," she snaps, her brows knitting together in a frown. "Just stop."
"Okay, okay," I concede, raising my hands in surrender. "Then what is your name?"
"Go ask your PR team," she retorts with a scoff, her voice laced with sarcasm. "They're probably good at that sort of thing with the money you throw at them."
She turns to leave, but I can't let her slip away again—not without something real. I reach out quickly, fingers brushing her sleeve, and she halts, shooting me a glare that could shatter glass.
"Please," I start, softer this time. "Your name?"
For a second, something flickers across her face—surprise? Annoyance? She huffs, "Avery." It's almost reluctant, but it's out there now, hanging between us like a fragile truce.
"Avery," I repeat, letting it roll off my tongue, a smile tugging at my lips despite myself. "Would you join me for breakfast? I'm not trying to buy you off—I just want to talk."
"No." Her arms cross over her chest as if shielding herself from the idea itself. "You think a meal will change what you're doing to this town? To me?"
"Maybe we can find a way to make this work for everyone," I suggest, hoping sincerity bleeds through my words.
"Leave. Take your money and just go. Build somewhere else. That's how this works for everyone." Her eyes are fierce, challenging, as if daring me to argue.
I watch her turn on her heel, her figure receding into the hustle of Main Street. My hands clench at my sides, but I let her walk away. "Avery," I mouth silently, committing it to memory, a promise of sorts that this isn't over.