7. Caffeine & Conversations
Chapter seven
Caffeine & Conversations
Eslin
It’s Thursday morning, and somehow, I’ve almost survived my first week as the new therapist and performance coach for the Atlanta Strikers. Almost.
The week’s been a blur of HR meetings, sexual harassment trainings, insurance enrollment forms—basically all the fun stuff that screams Welcome to Corporate America, now sign here, here, and here.
Oh, and the reporters. Can’t forget them.
A couple nosy ones cornered me in the hallway yesterday, asking what a girl was doing telling men how to play soccer.
Because clearly that’s what a performance coach does.
I smiled sweetly and told them I had about as much business doing that as I did telling their wives that size isn’t everything when they come to me complaining about their husbands’ shortcomings.
That shut them up.
Across from the building where I live, there’s a coffee bar called HollyDates. It’s known for celebrating every holiday—all year round. I’m told it really comes alive during the big ones, but even today, the place looks like a greeting card exploded inside.
I push open the door, and it feels like I’ve walked into MerryHallowKwanza Day. Christmas lights, Halloween pumpkins, Fourth of July bunting, and about ten other holidays are all represented in some chaotic harmony.
“Happy Holidays! Welcome to HollyDates!”
“Hey, Holly!” I call.
“Hey, girl!” she calls back from behind the counter.
Holly’s the owner—and my new caffeine dealer. We’re friends now, mostly because she keeps me supplied with coffee.
Sometimes twice a day. She also insists on calling me girl, which I let slide. Coffee buys a lot of tolerance.
“So how’s your morning been so far?” she asks, pulling out a cup.
“Better once you make me a Frosted Candy Cane Macchiato,” I say, grinning.
Holiday-themed drinks are also served year round here.
“Coming right up!”
Ahh, the day’s looking up already.
“Has business slowed down now that we’re past the Fourth of July holiday?”
“Yes, thank heavens!” My favorite barista says, her long locs tied back, her whole vibe pure Lisa Bonet—earthy, cool, effortless. “I was actually able to close the bar down for a few days and rest. We made so much money, I could finally breathe.”
“Oh, good!”
She slides behind the counter, pulling the ingredients for my usual.
“So, how’s it been living in that fancy Fury building now that you’ve been there a couple of weeks?"
“Honey! It’s out of this world luxury! I honestly had no clue concierge services for grocery shopping and laundry were even a thing!”
“When Logan Fury’s name is on it, you don’t need much of an imagination. Everything’s at your fingertips in those places.
“And how would you know?” I ask, leaning in, lowering my voice conspiratorially.
She hands me my drink with a sly smile. “I may have had a night or two with a certain tenant,” she says with a wink.
“You little hussy! Spill it!”
She shakes her head, laughing. “No, seriously. I can’t. NDA.”
“You had to sign an NDA for a booty call?”
She shrugs, casual as can be. “Rich people are weird.”
“You can say that again.”
I say goodbye to Holly and step out onto the sidewalk, phone in hand, scanning for my driver.
Another perk I managed to slip into my contract. Growing up in NYC, I never really had to learn how to drive, and after a few failed lessons and one time where I sort of rear-ended an old lady on foot, I figured—why start now? Having a driver just made sense.
I spot the town car parked a few yards down, engine idling. I’m about to head toward it when something catches the corner of my eye.
A man.
Not just any man.
Him.
At least...it looks like him.
Salt-and-pepper curls, a little longer on top, the kind you want to run your fingers through. That signature low, five o’clock shadow that somehow makes him look even more dangerous in daylight. And a suit. Damn. Dark, perfectly cut, hugging all the right places.
My heart jerks hard in my chest. It can’t be him. It’s not possible.
I didn’t tell him where I lived—that I was moving to Atlanta. I know I didn’t.
Did I?
I rack my brain, tracing back to that night in Vegas. No. No way. I was too careful. Too guarded. I didn’t even give him my last name.
There’s no way he could know.
Right?
But now? Now, he’s striding out of the building across the street. My building.
Shit.
Panic flares, stupid and irrational, but real. Before he can turn his head my way, I duck behind a man walking past, moving way too fast for my heels to keep up.
And in my haste, my entire coffee tips forward, straight onto his suit jacket.
“Oh my God, I am so sorry!” I gasp, grabbing for napkins from my bag, blotting uselessly at the mess. “I will absolutely pay for cleaning, or—”
The man holds up his hands, surprisingly good-natured about it. “It’s fine. Good thing I live upstairs.” He tilts his head toward my building.
Of course he does.
I manage a sheepish smile but don’t offer up the fact I live there too. I don’t know him like that!
As soon as he disappears inside, I spin on my heel and march right back into HollyDates.
Holly looks up from the espresso machine. “Forgot something?”
“Girl,” I say, breathless, leaning on the counter. “You will not believe what just happened.”
I launch into the story, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. The night in Vegas. The man—Grant—who changed everything for me.
How we’d spent the whole night together.
Walking, talking, laughing, like we’d known each other forever.
How it wasn’t just the chemistry—it was him.
The way he listened. The way he saw me. The way he opened up without hesitation, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
The way he held my hand, like I was his.
“By the time the sun came up, I was falling for him. Hard.”
“Aww!” Holly swoons.
“But before we could exchange numbers—or even full names—he pulled away. Said he couldn’t. That I was too close to his daughter’s age and it didn’t feel right. And just like that, he was gone.”
She places a hand over her chest. “Heartbreaking!”
“And now I’m almost certain I just saw him—or someone who looks exactly like him—walking out of my building.”
Holly’s eyes widen. “Wait. You think he’s here? In Atlanta?”
“I don’t know,” I say, running a hand through my locs. “But if that was him…it looks like we live in the same building!”
She lets out a low whistle. “Or he and his wife live there.”
“No,” I snap, too fast, too firm. “He told me he was a widower. It’s more likely he was there visiting a woman. Because apparently, he’s also a player.”
“Ahh! A bad boy,” she teases, waggling her brows.
“Ugh! What if he is seeing someone? How awkward would it be if I lived in the same building as one of his whores?”
She leans back, stretching her neck. “Easy, killer.”
I have no right to feel jealous. None. But something about the thought of him with another woman makes me want to chew glass.
A man I’ve never even kissed.
A man who’s ruined me for everyone else...because of the way he loves his daughter. Because of the way he made me feel seen.
Wanted.