Chapter 2
rival roast
. . .
Derek
Isaw him before he saw me.
Miles stormed past my window like a man on a mission, dark curls falling into his eyes, coffee stain splattered across his chest like abstract art. His jaw was set, mouth pressed into a thin line, and even from inside the café, I could practically hear him muttering curses under his breath.
God, he was hot when he was pissed off.
I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, letting my gaze track him down the street. The way his shoulders held all that tension. The aggressive clip of his stride. I wondered what it would take to get him that worked up over something else.
My barista, Jenna, followed my gaze and smirked.
“Staring at the competition again?”
I didn't answer right away. Just watched until Miles disappeared around the corner, then dragged my attention back to the espresso machine. “Observing.”
The word came out weaker than I wanted.
“Right. Observing.” She wiped down the counter, her grin widening. “You know, for someone who claims not to care about the café across the street, you sure spend a lot of time looking at it.”
I picked up a cup, turned it in my hands. Set it down. “I'm keeping tabs. It's good business.”
“It's good something.”
I shot her a look, but she just laughed, unbothered. Jenna had been with me since I opened this place three years ago, and she had a talent for seeing through my bullshit. Equal parts useful and annoying.
The truth was, I did care about the café across the street. Not because it was competition—though it was. And not because their chaotic, overstuffed aesthetic clashed with my carefully curated vibe—though it did.
I cared because of him.
Miles.
He'd walked into my café yesterday like he owned the place, all snark and sharp edges, and I'd been thinking about him ever since.
The way he'd crossed his arms, defiant and defensive.
The way his eyes had flickered over my café, judging every detail.
That laugh—just once, sharp and surprised, like he hadn't meant to let it slip.
And the way he'd looked at me when I handed him that latte. Like he wanted to throw it in my face and kiss me at the same time.
Yeah. Trouble.
My pulse kicked just remembering it. I straightened, pushing off the counter, rolling my shoulders to shake off the restless energy crawling under my skin.
The afternoon lull had settled over the café—just a handful of customers scattered at tables, tapping on laptops or scrolling through their phones.
Jazz played softly in the background, smooth and unobtrusive, the way I liked it.
Everything in here was intentional. The lighting, the music, the layout.
I'd spent months getting it right, turning this place into something people wanted to be part of.
And it worked. Most days.
Except all I could think about was the disaster across the street and the guy running it who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
“Earth to Derek.”
I blinked. Turned to find Jenna waving a hand in front of my face.
“What?”
“I said, do you want me to restock the almond milk, or are you just going to stand there daydreaming about your boyfriend?”
Heat crept up the back of my neck. “He's not my boyfriend.”
“Yet.”
I flipped her off. She cackled, heading to the back, and I turned back to the window. Caught another glimpse of Miles's café. Bright orange banners, jack-o'-lanterns lining the windowsills, fairy lights twinkling even in the daylight. It looked like a Halloween store had exploded inside.
And somehow, it was working. The line outside his place was shorter than mine, sure, but it was steady. People loved that cozy, chaotic vibe. The pumpkin spice overload. The warmth.
It was everything my café wasn't.
And I hated how much I respected it.
A regular, Tom, wandered up to the counter, grinning. He was in his forties, a lawyer who came in every afternoon for an Americano and twenty minutes of small talk.
“Afternoon, Derek.”
“Tom.” I reached for a cup, my hands moving on autopilot. “Usual?”
“You know it.”
I pulled the shot, steam hissing as I locked the portafilter into place. Tom leaned on the counter, glancing out the window. He was quiet for a moment—too quiet—and I already knew what was coming before he opened his mouth.
“So.” He dragged the word out, his grin sharpening. “What's the deal with you and the guy across the street?”
I nearly fumbled the portafilter. Caught it. Kept my expression neutral. “What?”
“Come on. The whole town's talking about it.” He gestured vaguely toward the window. “You two have been glaring at each other for weeks. It's like watching a slow-motion car crash.”
“There's no deal.”
“Really?” Tom tilted his head, studying me like I was a witness on the stand. “Because he was in here yesterday, and you looked like you wanted to either fight him or—”
“Tom.”
“—fuck him.”
Heat flared across my chest, crawled up my throat. I focused on the espresso machine, willing my hands to stay steady. “You're reading into things.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
Tom laughed, shaking his head as I handed him his drink. “Whatever you say, man. But for what it's worth?” He took a sip, eyes glinting with amusement. “He's cute. In a disaster kind of way.”
I didn't respond. Couldn't. Just watched him wander to his usual table, still grinning, and turned back to the window.
This time, I caught Miles looking back.
He was standing outside his café, arms crossed, staring directly at me. Even from across the street, I could see the irritation in his posture—the way his jaw tightened when our eyes met. The challenge in the set of his shoulders.
Something tightened low in my stomach.
I smirked, slow and deliberate, and raised my coffee cup in a mock salute. Just like yesterday.
This time, he didn't flip me off. He just glared—held my gaze for one heartbeat, two—then turned and stormed back inside.
God, I wanted him.
The realization hit hard, sudden and undeniable.
Knocked the breath out of me for a second.
I wanted to see what he looked like when he wasn't scowling.
Wanted to hear him laugh again, that sharp, surprised sound he'd made yesterday.
Wanted to mess up his perfectly messy curls and find out what he tasted like.
I wanted to know if he kissed the way he argued—all fire and teeth and barely controlled chaos.
“You're staring again,” Jenna called from the back.
I swallowed. Cleared my throat. “Shut up.”
“Make me.”
I grabbed a cup and started working on a latte. Not for a customer. For me. Because I needed something to do with my hands before I did something stupid—like march across the street and kiss the smug look off Miles's face.
Or maybe the angry look. Either worked.
By the time the evening rush started, I'd convinced myself to let it go.
Miles was just a guy. A hot, infuriating guy with a sharp mouth and eyes that saw too much, but still. Just a guy.
And then he pulled his first move.
I was wiping down the counter when I noticed the chalkboard outside his café had changed. Yesterday, it had read Pumpkin Spice Lattes – $5. Simple. Uninspired.
Now it read: Our coffee won't put you to sleep.
I stared at it. Felt a slow grin spread across my face, heat sparking in my chest.
Oh, he wanted to play.
I grabbed the chalk from behind the counter and stepped outside, ignoring the curious looks from customers. My chalkboard sat by the door, advertising the daily special. I erased it. Paused for a second, weighing my options.
Then I wrote in bold letters: Better coffee. Bigger . . . beans.
When I stepped back inside, Jenna was laughing so hard she had to lean on the counter.
“You're such a child,” she said, wiping her eyes.
“He started it.”
“And you're finishing it?”
I grinned, something reckless unfurling in my chest. “Damn right.”
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of orders and laughter. Customers noticed the chalkboards, snapping photos and posting them online. By the time we closed, the rivalry had gone public. People were talking. Speculating. Placing bets on who'd win whatever imaginary contest we were running.
And I loved it.
The attention. The energy. The way it felt like Miles and I were circling each other, waiting to see who'd make the next move. It was fun. Reckless. Exactly what I needed to shake off the monotony of running a café day in and day out.
I locked the door, flipping the sign to Closed, and turned to find my dad leaning against the counter.
Edward Walsh. Fifty-four, and he always looked like he'd stepped out of a menswear catalog—all sharp lines and easy confidence.
“Dad.” I crossed my arms. “When did you get here?”
“About an hour ago.” He gestured to the table in the corner, where a half-empty glass of wine sat. “You were too busy flirting with your chalkboard to notice.”
“I wasn't flirting.”
He raised an eyebrow. Took a slow sip of wine.
“Fine. Maybe a little.”
“Sure.” He stood, crossing to the counter with the kind of grace that made people turn and stare.
My dad had that effect—charisma that filled a room, charm that disarmed even the coldest person.
He was a retired lawyer who now spent his days “consulting,” which mostly meant showing up at my café, drinking expensive wine, and meddling in my life.
I loved him. Most days.
“So,” he said, leaning on the counter. “Tell me about this rivalry.”
“What rivalry?”
“The one you've been waging with the café across the street.” He gestured toward the window with his wine glass. “The one the entire town is talking about.”
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “It's not a rivalry. It's just . . . competitive business.”
“Competitive business doesn't usually involve chalkboard insults.”
“He started it.”
“And you escalated it.”
“Exactly.”
Dad laughed, low and warm. Set his glass down. “You like him.”
“I don't.”
“Derek.”
“I don't.”
He gave me a look—the one that said he saw right through me, the one that had made opposing counsel crumble in courtrooms for decades.
“You've been restless for months. Bored.
And now, suddenly, you're writing dick jokes on chalkboards and grinning like a teenager.” He paused.
Let that sink in. “So yes, son. You like him.”
I didn't respond. Mostly because he was right, and I hated it.
Dad picked up his wine glass, swirling the contents thoughtfully. “What's his name?”
“Miles.”
“And?”
I hesitated. Then sighed. “Sarcastic. Cynical. Looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.” I paused, picturing him—the way he'd stood in my café yesterday, all sharp edges and defensive posture. “But there's this . . . I don't know. Fire. Like he's holding something back.”
Something hot and dangerous, coiled tight beneath the surface. Something I wanted to unravel with my hands.
“Sounds dangerous,” Dad said.
“Sounds perfect.”
Dad's grin widened. “Oh, you've got it bad.”
“I don't have anything.”
“Sure.” He set the glass down. “So what are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“He hates me.”
“Does he?”
I paused. Thought back to yesterday. The way Miles had laughed, just once, when I handed him that latte. The way his eyes had lingered on me—irritated but curious. The way he'd flipped me off but couldn't quite hide the smile tugging at his lips.
The way his gaze had felt like a physical touch.
“I don't know,” I admitted.
“Then find out.”
Before I could respond, the door chimed. I glanced up, frowning. We were closed. But the woman who walked in didn't seem to care.
She was older, maybe mid-fifties, with graying hair and a clipboard clutched to her chest. I recognized her immediately. Janet, from the festival committee.
“Derek!” She beamed, waving. “Perfect timing. I was just about to post this outside.”
She held up a flyer, bright orange with bold black letters: Halloween Coffee Throwdown Contest.
I took it. Scanned the details. Local cafés competing for bragging rights and publicity. Judged by the town. Winner announced at the festival.
My pulse kicked up, hard and sudden.
“You're entering, right?” Janet asked, her eyes bright with excitement.
“I . . .” I glanced at the flyer, then at Dad, who was grinning like he'd just won the lottery. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Wonderful! Your competition's already signed up.” She winked.
My stomach clenched. “He signed up?”
“This morning. Said something about crushing the competition.” She laughed. “You two are going to make this festival so fun.”
She handed me a stack of flyers, waved goodbye, and left, the door chiming behind her.
I stared at the flyer. My mind raced. Miles had signed up. Which meant he was taking this seriously. Which meant he wanted to win.
Which meant I had to beat him.
Heat curled through my chest—anticipation, adrenaline, something darker and more dangerous.
Dad picked up his wine glass again, sipping slowly. “Well. This just got interesting.”
“Shut up.”
“Careful, son.” He leaned back, eyes glinting with amusement. “Rivals have a way of becoming bedfellows.”
“Not helping.”
“I'm not trying to help.” He raised his glass in a mock toast. “I'm trying to enjoy the show.”
I groaned, tossing the flyer onto the counter. But even as I did, I couldn't stop the grin spreading across my face.
A contest. Public. High stakes. Me versus Miles, in front of the whole town.
This was going to be chaos.
And I couldn't wait.