CHAPTER 1 – THE MORNING RUSH #2
He orders the usual, a black drip, but lingers to chat about the Twins and the weather. I give him my best “you’re my favorite” smile, and he shuffles off, leaving a tip double the cost of his coffee.
I work the rush, hands flying, brain half on autopilot, the other half reliving Hunter’s mouth and the way he bit my neck that amazing night of the party.
The memory settles low in my belly, an ache that won’t go away.
I check the clock: still three hours until close. If I survive, it’ll be a miracle.
When the line finally ebbs, I wipe down the counter, damp rag cooling my overheated skin. My phone buzzes again:
Eliza: “Still can’t believe you’re fantasizing about your stepbrother, lmao.”
Eliza: “But I get it because Hunter is H-O-T.”
Me: “He’s more than hot. He’s total fire.”
Her: “Oooh, tell me more. I wish I had dreams like that.”
I grin, cheeks burning, and push the phone aside. If only Eliza knew! I catch my reflection in the display case glass—eyes bright, lips bitten. I look unhinged. Maybe I am.
But the day isn’t going to get any easier, and the tips are piling up, which is always good. I inhale coffee steam, savor the sugar rush of forbidden cravings. If I can’t have Hunter now, at least I can keep the memory on repeat, like a secret song playing only for me.
A new customer appears, phone in hand, distracted. I straighten my apron and force myself to focus, standing straight.
“Hi there,” I say, pushing my smile to full wattage. “What can I get started for you?”
The world spins on, and I keep moving, one drink at a time. But my heart’s still beating double-time, just waiting for the next fix of my gorgeous stepbrother.
The morning trickles into early afternoon, which means the customer mix shifts from frantic commuters to the oddball regulars who form my true fanbase. These are the people who ask for “the usual,” and to be honest, I love them for it.
First up is Professor Cordell—white beard, rumpled corduroy, and the bookish air of someone who still believes in Oxford commas. He orders a large black coffee and an espresso chaser, no sugar, and never fails to launch into a monologue about his latest academic crusade.
“Good morning, Professor,” I chirp, grabbing the biggest to-go cup and lining up his shots. “What’s the word on the classics front?”
He sighs, glancing around as if to make sure the NSA isn’t listening. “They’ve merged my department with Media Studies, so now I’m technically a ‘Content Curator’ instead of a Professor.”
“That’s criminal,” I say, deadpan, “but at least now you can assign TikTok as homework.”
He grins and taps the counter, appreciative. “If more of my students had half your wit, I’d still believe in the youth of America.” He slides two dollars into the tip jar—and winks as he wanders off to his favorite window seat.
Next is a young mom with twins. The babies are adorable, chubby-legged and pink-cheeked, wearing matching onesies that say “Caffeine Makes Mommy Go.” The mom herself is an exhausted goddess, hair in a headband, eyes smeared with sleeplessness.
“Double-shot latte for the bravest woman in Minneapolis,” I announce, as I hand over the cup.
The mom gives me a grateful look, and I lean over the counter to make kissy faces at the babies, who gurgle and clap their sticky hands.
I always hope they’ll remember me, even if it’s just as the lady who made milk foam smiley faces in their mom’s cup.
“Say thank you to Tara, kiddos,” the mom says, bouncing one twin on her hip.
One of the babies, the loud one, shouts “Ba-ba!” and beams at me.
I smile because I’ve always loved kids and it would be a dream to have a handsome husband with adorable rugrats underfoot.
But does that dream still hold when said handsome husband is your stepbrother?
Oh god. My face flames, and I look down quickly, busying myself counting change.
By 1:15 the place quiets. I pull the tips, counting them fast with practiced flicks of my thumb.
Not bad for a Tuesday: nearly thirty bucks, mostly singles, but they add up.
I duck behind the counter, tap open my phone, and make a quick note in my “Future College Fund” spreadsheet.
The savings account is embarrassingly small—like, “couldn’t buy a used iPad” small—but it’s mine.
The number ticks up and I allow myself one satisfied breath before shoving the phone away.
Behind me, I hear the polite throat-clear of my manager. She’s been here forever, a living myth, always in fleece vests and New Balance sneakers, armed with a clipboard and an unnerving memory for birthdays.
“Counting the loot, Tara?”
“Just daydreaming about going to school,” I say, flashing a winning smile. “If it weren’t so expensive, that is.”
She leans on the counter, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Well, if you’re trying to make money, then have you ever thought about working full-time? You’ve got the hustle. I could recommend you for shift lead, easy.”
I hesitate. The safe answer would be yes, thank you, gimme all those responsibility dollars. But the real answer sits sour in my gut: I don’t want to be at the Daisy Cafe forever. I want out. I want more for myself, although what the “more” entails isn’t totally clear yet.
“Maybe someday,” I hedge. “Right now, I’m still planning to go to school. It would be nice to have a degree, you know?”
She nods like she understands, but her face softens a little. “You’d be good at anything you do, Tara. You’ve got a way with people, degree or no degree.”
“Thanks,” I say with a smile, rinsing a carafe. “I just feel like I want to help people somehow, and a degree will open doors.”
She laughs and gives my shoulder a squeeze. “You’re probably right. You’re a good egg, kid.”
I look away, suddenly embarrassed by the compliment. I focus on scrubbing the counter, fighting the happy glow spreading up my neck. I want to be a “good egg,” I do. Even if my forbidden longings for Hunter haunt every inch of my skin.
The hours slide by, each cup of coffee a little anchor point in someone’s day.
I memorize names, orders, allergies, and the soft details that make people feel noticed.
It’s exhausting, but it’s also the only power I have.
To make someone smile, even if it’s just with a foam leaf in their cappuccino.
At three o’clock sharp, I duck into the bathroom and do a quick mirror check.
My hair’s escaped its bun and gone wild, there’s chocolate syrup on my cheek, and my lips are bitten pink from gnawing at old memories.
I wipe up, reapply some gloss, and give myself a pep talk in the streaky mirror: “You’re fine, you’re crushing it, nobody knows that you have a crush on your stepbrother. It’s okay.”
I clock out, tips stuffed in my pocket, and toss a final wave to the staff. My hands smell like vanilla and sanitizer. Outside, the air bites with winter, but my coat is thick and my brain is warm with the knowledge that at least today, I am moving forward.
Tomorrow, the world can try again to slow me down. Today, I am unstoppable. Even if I crave the forbidden at every turn.
I hit the parking lot still buzzing, coat flapping as I brace myself against the wind.
My car is a battered Corolla, sun-faded to the color of rusty blue and only held together by luck and stubbornness.
Inside, it smells like yesterday’s fries and a whiff of vanilla air freshener.
I throw my bag on the passenger seat, crank the heat, and scroll to Eliza’s number with a jittery thumb.
She answers before the second ring. Video, of course—her hair is perfect, even though she’s in sweatpants, and her makeup is a little too good for someone allegedly “studying for her entire future.”
“Am I on speaker?” she says, eyes bright and sly. “Are you driving?”
“Yes and yes, but it’s fine,” I reply, reversing out of my spot with one hand. “I’ve been driving since forever, and I’m careful, so it’s okay. But what’s new, girlfriend?”
Eliza beams and holds up her hand—left hand, ring finger shining with a blue spark that catches the last gasp of winter sun. “Okay, are you ready?”
I scream. Not a cute scream—a banshee wail that echoes off the dashboard.
“You did not!” I shriek. “Are you serious? Is that real? Tell me it’s not from Claire’s.”
She flips me the bird, then waves the ring again. “Custom sapphire, thank you very much. Jack proposed last night, and it was so romantic. I loved every part of it.”
I nod and smile because actually, Eliza’s story with her fiancé is a bit scandalous.
Jack is actually her dad’s best friend, and she took up with the older man right under Gerald’s nose.
Her parents were shocked, to put it lightly, when they found out about the age gap relationship, and not only that, but that their daughter works as a naughty cam girl with Jack’s full support.
I don’t know if Jack does videos with her, but I know my buddy’s making a ton of money and loving the life.
Still, Eliza’s my best friend and I’m excited for her engagement.
“Congrats! The ring is beautiful, and you guys are going to be so happy together.”
My pretty friend nods, staring down at her finger dreamily.
“Yes, it’s a dream come true. I’m sooo over the moon.”
I giggle.
“But girlfriend, I can’t believe you’re getting married before me! I am losing this race.”
“Who’s your competition, Tara? You have to leave the house to meet people.”
“I have work,” I say with a smile, “and technically, Jeremy and I just broke up, so I’ve only been single for a second.”
Eliza smiles.
“That’s a good thing because I never liked that guy. Jack didn’t either. We both thought he was terrible, with his high and mighty attitude and bro-y sense of humor. It was bad.” But then her expression softens. “You okay, though? You look a little fried.”
I bite my lip, eyes flicking from the road to the tiny screen. “I’m good. I just—” I almost say, I can’t stop thinking about Hunter, or I still wake up wanting, or I keep doing things I know are wrong and I can’t make myself care.
Instead, I go, “I’m just running on caffeine and chaos, as usual. Don’t worry about me.”
Then, we spend the next five miles debating venues (“elopement or bust,” “barn weddings are cursed,” “nothing with burlap ever again”), before the conversation spirals into a mess of giggles over bachelorette themes.
I get so animated picturing Eliza in a feather boa that I forget, for a hot second, that I’m supposed to be driving.
I miss the light turning yellow. There’s a flash of silver in my periphery—just a shimmer, just a warning—and then the sun jumps out from behind the buildings, sharp as a spotlight, blinding me. I squint, brake too late. Eliza’s voice is still chattering on the phone.
“Tara, are you even listening—?”
A sound cuts her off. It takes a fraction of a second to register that it’s tires, screeching, louder than I’ve ever heard. I turn my head, but the other car is already there, already everywhere, and then it’s all crash and glass and cold exploding in through the window.
The airbag hits me before I can scream. My phone flies out of my hand, cartwheels through the air, screen shattering against the dash. I try to breathe, try to think, but it feels like my whole body is underwater, cotton-stuffed and far away.
My last thought, before the world smears into black, is that I never got to tell her congratulations.
Silence, except for the distant, tinny echo of Eliza’s voice, repeating my name.
“Tara? Tara, can you hear me?”
And then: nothing.