Chapter 1
TATE
PRESENT DAY
“I’m here, I’m here!” I call, racing through the door into Caffeine Couture and maneuvering past the growing line of the morning clientele in their dark suits.
“Chill, babe, it’s all good,” my friend and boss, Ashley, trills, as she winks at a businessman and hands him his coffee.
He throws back a suggestive arch of a brow and tosses a generous tip into the jar.
“See you tomorrow.” Ashley pouts as he turns and heads out into Manhattan’s rush hour.
“Is he a regular?” I ask as I rush behind the counter to the small staff area behind it, throwing my jacket onto a peg and dumping my purse on the floor.
I tie on my candy pink apron that clashes spectacularly with my auburn hair, and return to the counter, taking my place by the coffee machine and grabbing a milk jug.
“Nope.” She shrugs with an easy smile. “But he will be now. Coffee and charm.” She lowers her voice, turning to me. “A little flirt keeps that tip jar of ours nice and fat. Just how we like it.”
I chuckle as she turns back to the line with a bright smile and the next guy in line reels off his order to her. She rings it up on the register and I prepare it.
“You do this one,” she whispers, giving me an encouraging poke in my lower back when I don’t step forward.
“Oh… um… here’s your coffee, sir,” I say, holding the cup out to the guy with sandy hair, who must be in his mid-forties.
As he takes it from me, I throw what I hope is a cute smile at him.
His brown eyes sparkle, dropping to my name tag. “Thanks… Tate,” he says.
“Nicely done,” Ashley hums after he throws a twenty and a business card into the jar.
We work in unison, the radio playing in the background as we make fast work of processing the morning rush, until the only people left are a couple of female tourists taking their time to ponder over the blends, and two businessmen adding sugar to their coffees at the end of the counter.
“So, did you get it?” Ashley asks, leaning against the counter with folded arms.
“Yeah. I’m sorry I was late. The only pharmacy that had stock was a twenty-block detour,” I answer, wiping my hands on my apron and leaving cocoa powder behind on the pink fabric.
“It’s fine, things like that come first,” Ashley says, swatting her hand in the air.
She turns to the tourists, who make their selection, and I fix their order.
Ashley’s a great boss and is becoming a good friend since I began working at Caffeine Couture.
I was doing afternoon shifts for my first month.
But then her morning barista, Whitney, needed some time off, so I picked up her shifts too.
It’s a different crowd to the day. The mornings are full of people in workout gear, stopping in after their run in Central Park, followed by the suits on their commute, taking calls as they order their espressos and double shots, setting themselves up for another cutthroat day in the city.
Then come the tourists. The ones with time to stop and soak in the magic of the city. They look up from their phones and appreciate the tiny things. Like the pictures I like to create on their coffee foam using cocoa powder.
The dreamers.
Like me.
“Here you go.” I hand over the two takeaway cups, but the couple’s attention is pinned to a sleek black town car that’s pulled over on the street outside.
“The morning shot of tall, dark, and devastatingly anti-commitment just showed up,” Ashley muses as she moves to my side and looks out of the front window.
“Huh?” I glance at her, but her attention is glued to the black car, along with the two tourists. Even the two businessmen have halted their conversation and are watching.
A suited driver, who looks like he should be auditioning for a Bond film from the way he scans the sidewalk with narrowed eyes like he’s assessing for threats, exits the car. He walks around to the rear door and holds it open.
I wait for a king or queen to step out, dripping in jewels and a crown.
Instead, a guy in a suit who looks around thirty climbs out.
I swivel my head around, then glance back at him. Everyone’s eyes are on him as he buttons his suit jacket with one hand, pulls a cell phone from his pocket with the other, and presses it to his ear, beneath a head of perfectly styled jet-black hair.
As he turns, a side profile of perfect angles and sharp lines cuts across the sidewalk, making a woman who passes him stop and turn back to have another look. Her expression is one of awe, like she’s seen a celebrity.
“That,” Ashley clips with an air of suspense, like what she’s about to tell me is incredibly important. “…is Sullivan Beaufort. He has enough money to have his own coffee plantation, yet he still sends his PA to get one of ours every day, because it’s that good.” She grins with pride.
“Beaufort? Like the place next door?” I ask.
“Tate.” She snorts, rolling her eyes. “Yes! Like the billion-dollar jewelry store and head offices we’re lucky enough to be neighbors with.”
“Oh.”
The giant store next to us makes Caffeine Couture look like a speck in comparison. It’s all sleek blue and gold signs, with a doorman who wears white gloves.
“I think I saw a giant fish tank through the doorway yesterday,” I say.
Ashley stares at me, her mouth falling open. “You’ve never been inside?”
“No.”
“Oh my God.” She scoffs. “We have to rectify that. I go in there at least once a month to try on their most expensive designs. They’re gorgeous. They have the most beautiful pieces.”
“Do you own any?”
She laughs before sighing at my question. “Babe, I’d need to sell a kidney to afford even the deposit on one of the designs I like.” She picks up the tip jar and fishes out the bills from inside it. “But a girl’s got to have motivation, you know?” She winks as she hands me my cut.
I tuck it inside my bra.
She purses her lips as she flicks through the stack of business cards that were inside the tip jar.
“Real estate,” she reads. “Hmm, means he can sell you a fantasy more than he might be willing to deliver on it.” She tucks the card to the back of the pile and moves on to the next.
“Cuthbert Taylor.” She wrinkles her nose.
“Imagine calling that out as you come?” She tips her head to one side, studying it.
“Still, he’s a doctor. And I think he was the one who smelled good.
” She puts his card into the pocket of her apron.
“Ooh, here’s one for you.” She shoves a card into my hand.
“A lawyer?” I screw my nose up as I study the thick gunmetal gray card embossed with gold font.
“Yeah. Maybe he can help you with everything, you know? And you won’t have to work all these extra shifts… not that I don’t love you being here.” She smiles at me, then sighs. “I just don’t want to see you running yourself into the ground.”
“I’m fine. And I’m saving faster than I thought with all the extra flirting tips,” I say, forcing my tone lighter. I pat my bra as a cold prickle runs up my spine, like it does whenever I think about these past few months and how tough things have been financially.
Ashley looks at me like she doesn’t buy a word of my fake bravado, but keeps her mouth shut, knowing that I won’t back down. I know she’s trying to be a good friend, but I’ll hire a lawyer myself once I’ve saved enough.
“Fine.” She sighs. “Keep the card, though. Call him. Go for dinner. Get some dick. You need to go out and have fun. You’re twenty-seven. Not seventy.”
“I’ll think about it,” I tell her, knowing I’ll toss the card the minute I finish my shift.
She nods approvingly. “Good.”
“Besides,” I add. “I do go out and have fun.”
“Racing around the city after some weird guy in a mask doesn’t count.”
“You haven’t heard him play,” I point out. “…Rumor has it he’s appearing somewhere tonight.” I raise a brow at her.
She narrows her eyes. “Fine. I’ll come with you, just to make sure you don’t try and chain yourself to his piano or something that’ll land you in jail.”
“It’s not like that. No one usually gets near enough to touch him. Anyway, it’s not him I go for, it’s his music.”
“Got to be if you can’t see his face. It could be anyone under all those black outfits and ski masks.”
I grab a cloth and start wiping the counter, hoping to distract Ashley from my goofy smile.
He’s been dubbed The Masked Maestro. A guy who wears all black and pops up in random places across the city with a piano, which he plays so beautifully, like he’s been doing it his whole life.
No one knows his identity. Although social media has conspiracy theories over who he could be.
But I like not knowing. I love the mystery.
And I go to hear him play rather than watch him.
Sometimes I close my eyes and just feel the music running through my veins like the blood I need to live. It’s my sanctuary.
“I don’t care.” I shrug. “I go for his music. Not knowing which song he’s going to choose. How he’s going to play it.”
“You’re such a romantic.” Ashley sighs, opening up a drawer beneath the counter and tossing the remaining business cards into the pile that’s already inside.
“I just think society values a person’s worth based upon their beauty too often. I’d choose a guy who I felt a deep connection with over abs and biceps any day.”
“Uh-huh,” Ashley hums. “I want all that too. I’d just prefer it if my soulmate also comes with a big dick, muscles, and a handsome face. I want to look at him and have the urge to rip his clothes off and ride him into next week.”
I laugh. “Should I call Cuthbert to give him the heads up?”
She knocks shoulders with me playfully. “Piano man better be worth it. I could have been playing doctors and nurses tonight.”
“He will be.” I beam. “Believe me.”