Chapter 1 #2
“You're definitely bitter.”
I stubbed out my cigarette, shoving the pack back into my pocket. “I'm going over there.”
“Why?”
“To see what the hype is about.”
Lila grinned. “You mean you want to spy on the competition.”
“Call it what you want.”
She laughed, but she didn't stop me. I crossed the street, weaving between cars, my boots scuffing the pavement.
The closer I got to Walsh's Coffeehouse, the more my irritation grew.
The line was ridiculous. The windows sparkled.
Even the damn door looked expensive, all polished wood and brass fixtures.
I pushed inside, and the first thing that hit me was the smell.
Rich, dark coffee. No pumpkin spice in sight.
The interior was exactly what I'd expected: sleek black walls, wood counters, Edison bulbs hanging from the ceiling.
Jazz played softly in the background, smooth and understated.
It was the kind of place that made you feel underdressed even if you were wearing your best shirt.
And there he was, behind the counter.
Derek.
Up close, he was even more annoyingly attractive. Blue eyes, sharp and bright, locked onto me the second I walked in. His smirk returned, lazy and confident, and he leaned against the counter like he owned the place.
Which, to be fair, he did.
“Well, well.” His voice was smooth, teasing. “Didn't know the competition was sending spies.”
I stopped in front of the counter, crossing my arms. “I'm not spying. I'm a customer.”
“Right. And I'm the Pope.”
“You're too smug to be the Pope.”
His grin widened. “I'll take that as a compliment.”
Up close, I could see the tattoos on his forearm. Latte art. Actual latte art, inked into his skin. A rosetta, a tulip, a heart. It was pretentious and ridiculous and somehow worked on him, which only pissed me off more.
“So,” he said, straightening. “What can I get you? PSL? No, wait. You look like a black coffee guy.”
“I'm not getting anything. I'm just looking.”
“Looking at what? The menu? The interior design? Me?”
Heat crept up my neck, and I cursed myself for it. “Don't flatter yourself.”
“Too late.”
I hated how much I wanted to laugh. Instead, I glanced around, taking in the perfect lighting, the spotless counters, the line of customers waiting patiently. Everything about this place screamed effort. Precision. Like he'd spent hours curating every detail.
“It's nice,” I admitted, because I wasn't a complete asshole. “Very... clean.”
“Clean?” He raised an eyebrow. “That's the best you've got?”
“What do you want me to say? That it's the pinnacle of coffee culture? That you're a genius?”
“That'd be a start.”
I rolled my eyes. “How do you survive with an ego that big?”
“Carefully.”
This time, I did laugh. Just a short, sharp bark of a sound that I couldn't hold back. His smirk softened into something warmer, and for a second, I forgot why I was supposed to hate him.
Then he said, “Let me make you something.”
“I don't want anything.”
“Humor me.”
Before I could argue, he turned to the espresso machine. His hands were quick, confident, pulling a shot, steaming milk, pouring with a flourish. I watched despite myself, caught by the way he moved, the way his forearm flexed as he worked.
When he finished, he slid the cup across the counter. The foam was decorated with a design, perfectly drawn, clean lines and careful detail.
It was a dick.
I stared at it, then at him. “Are you serious?”
“What?” He grinned, all teeth. “It's latte art.”
“It's a penis.”
“Technically, it's a phallic symbol.”
“You're an asshole.”
“And you're still standing here.”
He had a point. I should have left. Should have walked out and never looked back. But instead, I picked up the cup, took a sip, and hated how good it was. Smooth, rich, perfectly balanced. The bastard knew what he was doing.
“Well?” he asked, leaning on the counter.
“It's fine.”
“Fine?” He looked genuinely offended. “That's a twelve-dollar latte.”
“Twelve dollars?” I nearly choked. “For this?”
“For art.”
“For a dick joke.”
“A high-quality dick joke.”
I couldn't help it. I laughed again, louder this time, and his grin turned smug. He looked way too pleased with himself, and I hated that I liked it.
“You're ridiculous,” I said, setting the cup down.
“And you're fun to mess with.”
“Don't make it a habit.”
“Too late.”
I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me.
“Hey.”
I glanced back.
“What's your name?”
I hesitated, then sighed. “Miles.”
“Miles.” He tested it, rolling it over his tongue like he was tasting it. “I like it. Suits you.”
“Glad you approve.”
“I do.”
I flipped him off again, but this time it lacked heat. His laughter followed me out the door, warm and rich, and I hated how much it stuck with me.
By the time I got back to Lila's café, she was grinning like she'd won the lottery.
“So?” she asked.
“So what?”
“How was it?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine?”
“He's an asshole.”
“An attractive asshole?”
I didn't answer, which was answer enough. She laughed, and I shoved past her, grabbing my apron and tying it around my waist.
“This is war,” I muttered.
“What?”
“You heard me. War.”
Lila's grin widened. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”
I didn't respond. I couldn't. Because all I could think about was the way Derek had looked at me, the way his voice had curled around my name, the way his hands had moved as he made that ridiculous latte.
This was going to be a problem.
A big one.
But for now, I had customers to serve, and pumpkin spice to pour. And if I happened to glance across the street a few more times than necessary, well. That was nobody's business but mine.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of orders and chaos. Lila was in full cheerleader mode, hyping up the upcoming Halloween festival like it was the Super Bowl.
Apparently, there was a coffee contest, a throwdown where local cafés competed for some kind of title. Best brew, best presentation, whatever. I wasn't paying full attention because I was too busy scraping pumpkin filling off the counter.
“You should enter,” she said, elbowing me.
“Absolutely not.”
“Come on. It'd be fun.”
“Your definition of fun is deeply flawed.”
“Derek is probably going to enter.”
That made me pause. I glanced up, catching her knowing look. “So?”
“So, you could beat him.”
“I'm not competing against some guy I just met.”
“Why not? You already hate him.”
“I don't hate him.”
“You called it war, like, an hour ago.”
Damn it. She had a point.
I sighed, tossing the towel onto the counter. “Fine. I'll think about it.”
“Yes!” She pumped a fist in the air, nearly knocking over a stack of cups. “This is going to be amazing. You're going to crush him.”
“Or I'm going to embarrass myself and regret every decision I've ever made.”
“That too.”
The sun was starting to set by the time we finally closed up.
Lila locked the door, flipping the sign to Closed, and I collapsed onto one of the hay bales, my back screaming in protest. Flour and pumpkin spice coated my clothes, my hair smelled like cinnamon, and I was pretty sure I'd sweated through my shirt twice.
“Long day,” Lila said, sitting beside me.
“Understatement.”
She nudged my shoulder. “Thanks for helping. I know this isn't your thing.”
“It's not.”
“But you're doing it anyway.”
“Because you guilt-tripped me.”
She grinned. “I learned from the best.”
I snorted. Lila had always been good at that, pulling me into her chaos with a smile and a plea. And I always caved. Every time.
“You know,” she said, stretching her legs out. “You're allowed to enjoy this.”
“Enjoy what? Being covered in whipped cream and existential dread?”
“Enjoy being here. Helping. Being part of something.”
I didn't answer. The truth was, I didn't know how to enjoy things anymore. Not like I used to. The city had worn me down, turned me cynical and sharp. I'd come here to get away, to help Lila, to figure out what the hell I was doing with my life. But instead, I'd just brought my baggage with me.
“I'm trying,” I said finally.
“I know.” She leaned her head on my shoulder. “And I'm glad you're here.”
We sat like that for a while, the café quiet around us, the street outside dark except for the glow of streetlights and jack-o'-lanterns. It was peaceful. Almost nice.
Then I glanced across the street, and saw Derek locking up his café.
He looked tired. His apron was gone, his sleeves rolled down, his hair slightly mussed. He ran a hand through it, sighing, and for a second, he looked almost human. Not smug or polished, just... tired.
Then he glanced up and saw me watching.
Our eyes met again, and this time, he didn't smirk. He just nodded, a small, almost respectful gesture. I nodded back, unsure what else to do.