Chapter 1 #2
"Something inspired by Rio," I admit, moving back behind the counter but positioning myself across from her so we can talk.
"Mila put me up to it, actually. She caught me doom scrolling New Year's videos at like two in the morning and decided I needed to 'channel my feelings into something productive.
'" I make air quotes with my fingers. "Her words. "
"New Year's videos? The Copacabana ones?"
"Everyone and their auntie, uncle, and long-lost cousins making it to Rio for the New Year," I confirm with a dramatic sigh. "Meanwhile, I'm watching through my phone screen like the world's saddest voyeur."
Ruby's smile widens, something knowing flickering in her golden gaze. "Well, I'd definitely have to try it."
The request settles something in my chest—shifts the weight of my earlier melancholy into something lighter.
Having Ruby here, with her impossible confidence and her easy laughter, makes everything feel less heavy somehow.
The loneliness that had been clinging to me like a second skin begins to loosen its grip.
This is why friendships matter. This is why people need people.
I take my time with the pour now, emotions settled into something far happier with Ruby's presence warming the space.
The espresso flows in a steady stream, rich and dark, the scent of Brazilian beans rising to mingle with the bakery's sweet notes.
I reach for the steamed milk, temperature perfect, and begin the pour—slow, controlled, wrist rotating in the practiced motion that's become muscle memory after years of training.
The latte art forms beneath my hands: a delicate fern pattern that gradually opens into something resembling a palm tree. Not my best work, but appropriate for the theme.
Rio in a cup. Here's hoping it doesn't taste like regret and doom scrolling.
I slide the cup across the counter toward Ruby, who receives it with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts. She brings it to her nose first—proper tasting technique—and inhales deeply.
"Oh," she breathes. "Oh."
"Good 'oh' or bad 'oh'?" I ask, settling onto the stool beside her and trying not to look too desperate for validation. I fail, obviously. My leg is bouncing with nervous energy beneath the counter.
Ruby takes a sip.
I hold my breath.
Her smile of appreciation widens—spreading across her face like sunrise over Copacabana—while her eyes seem to glint with genuine joy. The kind of reaction that money can't buy and critics can't fake.
"Now this," she declares, "tastes like Rio in a steamy cup.
" She takes another sip, eyes fluttering closed as she deconstructs the flavors.
"The Brazilian Santos as your base—smart choice.
The chocolate and hazelnut notes are coming through beautifully.
There's orange in here?" I nod. "And cinnamon.
And..." Her eyes open, golden and impressed. "Brown sugar? Not white?"
"Brown sugar caramelizes differently," I explain, warming under her praise. "Gives it that slightly molasses undertone that makes you think of—"
"Beach bonfires," she finishes. "Late night on the sand. Someone playing guitar in the distance." She giggles—an incongruously adorable sound from someone who looks like she could headline a biker gang—and points at me with the hand not holding the cup. "All you're missing is alcohol."
I laugh, the sound surprising me with its lightness. "Well, they do love their spiked drinks. Maybe I'll do a boozy version for the Valentine's menu. 'Rio After Dark' or something equally pretentious."
Ruby nods approvingly, then nudges the gift bag toward me with her elbow since her hands are occupied with cradling the coffee like a precious treasure.
"Open it."
I blink at the bag—glossy red with gold tissue paper poking out the top. "Wait. This is for me?"
"Well, I wouldn't come all the way here to not give you something, silly." Ruby's tone is affectionate, chiding. "What kind of friend do you think I am?"
The best kind, apparently.
I push aside the tissue paper and reach inside, fingers closing around smooth ceramic. What I pull out makes me gasp so loud that Ruby actually snorts into her coffee.
It's a mug—but not just any mug. It's hand-painted in brilliant blues and greens, the Christ the Redeemer statue silhouetted against a sunset, with "Rio de Janeiro" curving along the bottom in elegant gold script.
Beneath it is a whole set: coasters featuring different Brazilian landmarks, a small ceramic espresso cup with the Brazilian flag, and a tin of what looks like authentic Brazilian coffee beans.
"Wait," I breathe, looking up at Ruby with wide eyes. "Wait, wait—"
Ruby's grin is cat-that-got-the-cream levels of smug. "Yeah. I went. Thankfully."
"You went to Rio?!" I'm practically shouting now, and I don't even care that my voice echoes off the bakery's exposed brick walls. "You went to Rio for New Year's?!"
"Last minute decision." She shrugs like it's nothing, like spontaneously flying to Brazil for the world's biggest New Year's celebration is just a casual Tuesday.
"Found a flight deal on December 30th, figured 'why not,' and ended up on Copacabana Beach at midnight wearing all white and screaming Feliz Ano Novo with about three million of my closest friends. "
I am simultaneously incredibly jealous and incredibly in love with how much Ruby embodies the "fuck it, let's go" lifestyle I aspire to.
"By yourself?" I ask, still processing. "You went to Rio by yourself?"
"Yup." Another casual shrug, another sip of her Rio-in-a-cup.
"Wasn't going to wait for a pack at this rate.
Dry spell season is high right now, babe.
" She winks, the gesture somehow both playful and deeply relatable.
"All the good ones are either taken, toxic, or living in a different time zone.
So I said screw it—I had to experience Rio single because I'm manifesting my pack in time for Hot Knotty Summer. "
I choke on nothing. "Hot what Summer?"
"Hot Knotty Summer." She says it with complete seriousness, like it's a legitimate cultural event I should have marked on my calendar. "Trademarked. By me. In my head. But still trademarked."
"Girl." I'm laughing now, real laughter that bubbles up from somewhere warm and light. "You and your Knotty Summers."
"It's going to be knotty," she declares with the conviction of a prophet delivering divine revelation, "a.k.a. naughty as fuck, because I am going to be turned every way but to jail."
"What if your Alpha is a police officer?" I counter, raising an eyebrow.
Ruby pauses. Actually pauses, coffee cup frozen halfway to her lips, golden eyes going slightly distant as she considers this possibility with far more seriousness than the question warrants.
"I have a few tricks when it comes to handcuffs," she says finally, nodding to herself like she's solved a complex equation. "Plus, being fucked in a jail cell is on my bucket list."
I nearly fall off my stool. "Bucket list?!" I wheeze. "You have a bucket list for places to be fucked? And jail is on it?!"
Ruby shrugs with the casual elegance of someone who has clearly made peace with her own audacity. "An omega can dream, Rosemarie. An omega can dream."
We're both laughing now—the kind of laughter that makes your stomach hurt and your eyes water, the kind that echoes off the exposed brick and fills the empty bakery with warmth.
Outside, the January morning continues its slow crawl toward noon, pale sunlight fighting through clouds that promise snow.
"You should make one," Ruby says once we've caught our breath.
"Make one what?"
"A bucket list. Sex bucket list. Places, positions, scenarios." She ticks them off on her fingers like she's suggesting a grocery list rather than erotic adventures. "It's very therapeutic. Manifestation through organization."
Only Ruby could make sexual goal-setting sound like a TED Talk.
I think about it for a moment—really think, not just dismiss it as Ruby being Ruby. A list of things I want. Things I desire. Things I've been too scared or too busy or too burned by my past to pursue.
"I'll try it," I decide. "I mean, what do I got to lose when it comes to men?"
"Absolutely nothing," Ruby agrees emphatically. "We lose nothing by knowing what we want. We only lose by pretending we don't want anything at all."
That's... actually profound. Annoyingly profound. I'm writing that down later.
"Hey," Ruby adds, her voice softening into something more sincere, "you may find a pack before Valentine's Day. Stranger things have happened. I once found a Chanel bag at a thrift store for thirty dollars. The universe is weird."
I groan, slumping against the counter. "All I'm going to be doing for Valentine's Day is managing the special menu.
Hazel's on maternity leave with her pack of ridiculously hot firefighters.
" Ruby snorts at my description. "Reverie scored a mega brand deal from her Christmas content series with her new pack, so she's basically booked through spring.
Which means I'm holding down the fort with Mila and whatever seasonal help we can scrape together. "
"Valentine's Day is brutal in the food service industry," Ruby acknowledges. "All those couples wanting Instagram-worthy date experiences. All those singles wanting enough sugar to drown their sorrows."
"That's dark."
"That's capitalism, babe."
She finishes the last of her coffee, setting the empty cup down with a satisfied sigh. Then she straightens, something shifting in her expression—less playful, more businesslike.
"Well," she says, "I'll be here for a little bit. Got six months to learn how to ride a horse for an upcoming acting role, so I figured why not do it in a cute small town with a friend nearby?"
I blink. Process. Blink again. "Acting role? Horses?"