Chapter 4
Roni
Roni: Guess who’s not here yet…
I fire off my frustrations while I wait for a shot of Espresso to finish pouring.
Chloe: Babes.
Chloe: I love you. But you do know it’s still dark here, right?
I don’t even have time to feel bad for waking her up. She’ll be over it quick anyways. I feel like I do this to her at least twice a week.
Chloe and I were best friends the second we met at university.
She saw me wearing a My Chemical Romance tour shirt.
I saw her wearing their Black Parade album shirt.
The rest was history. It sucks we don’t see much of each other these days.
After graduation she moved home to Portland, and our schedules and tight budgets make it hard to visit.
But we text or talk every day. She’s the sister I never had growing up.
Chloe: Thankfully for her you’re talented enough to do it all yourself.
A battered sedan rolls up first, and I force a chirpy, “Good morning. What can I get started for you?”
The driver rattles off a request for an Americano and a blueberry muffin.
I scribble quickly on a brown cup sleeve, pass her change across the coffee bar, then flip back to the other window.
Another car idles, this one a gleaming Prius.
“Cappuccino and an ice water?” I predict, already scooping sugar into a cup for one of my daily orders a few cars back.
A blur of engines, receipts, and plastic lids swirls around me. No time to breathe.
Roni: Bitch, I know. But suffering in solitude is for the birds
My fingers dance over the espresso machine, automatic muscle memory taking over while my brain divides itself between tasks. Mercy should have been here forty-seven minutes ago. I tried her cell twice in the first fifteen minutes. Straight to voicemail.
Chloe: K. Going back to sleep now. You’re amazing.
I hate how even when she’s clearly annoyed with me, she manages to be positive. I love her, but there’s something wrong with people who are always optimistic and pleasant.
Ugh. I’m pathetic.
The machine hisses as I steam milk for this extra-hot latte, no foam. I can feel sweat beading along my hairline, my green apron already sticking to my back. The morning rush waits for no one.
Then I spot him. The captivating man with the black luxury SUV. He walks up to my drive-thru window again, this time with dark sunglasses hiding his eyes, and I almost drop the steamed milk. I recognize the confident tilt of his jaw, and my heart taps out a percussive beat in my chest.
“Hey,” I manage when I glide closer to the window, and my voice sounds too high. He leans forward, and a scent of cedar and citrus wafts around me.
“Good morning,” he says, and the rumble of his voice sends a shiver down my spine, and it has nothing to do with the morning chill. “Is it Roni or Veronica?”
The question catches me off guard and I’m suddenly feeling self-conscious.
“I promise I'm not a stalker; I'm just trying to be polite since we'll be seeing each other regularly.”
I flush as heat leaps up my neck at the thought of seeing him again. And again. Even if only to get his coffee.
“Roni's fine,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Most people just hurl creepy pet names at me anyway.”
His lips curve into a smile, making my stomach flutter, and when he slips off his shades, my muscles molt and I feel myself melting into a puddle. He pauses, letting the tension hang in the air between us. “I’d like what I call you to mean something.”
Fuck. Yes please.
“God.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. “That was cheesy, eh?”
I don’t even care.
Mercy’s heels click across the floor behind me as I turn. She’s finally here, hair tossed, apologizing about traffic I can’t see. I clamp my mouth shut. Now is not the time to mention the rattling parade lining the parking lot.
I twist back to him. He watches me with an easy grin, sleeves snug around strong biceps, a neatly trimmed beard which frames his smirk perfectly.
His eyes, surprisingly gentle, sweep over me again.
Behind him, I can see the line of cars growing longer, but time feels suspended in this moment.
My chest tightens before I clear my throat.
“Sorry, Sir. What can I get you today?”
“Surprise me,” he says with a wink. It’s playful yet commanding, and I feel my cheeks burn hotter. “Something matching your personality.”
I blink at him, my mind going completely blank.
What does that even mean? Sweet? Bitter?
Complicated? I'm suddenly hyperaware of everything.
The way he's leaning against the window frame.
How his presence seems to fill the entire space.
The fact Mercy is probably watching this whole interaction unfold.
“I... um...” I stammer, then force myself to focus. Professional. I can do professional. “Do you like your coffee strong or mild?”
“Strong,” he says without hesitation, his gaze never leaving mine.
I turn toward the espresso machine; acutely aware he’s following my movements. My hands move before my brain catches up, reaching for a large cup. I pour a double shot of espresso, add a splash of vanilla syrup, then on impulse, a hint of cinnamon. The whole time I can feel him watching me.
He takes a sip, his eyes closing briefly as he tastes it. “Perfect,” he murmurs, opening his eyes to meet mine again. “Sweet with just enough bite. Exactly what I was hoping for.”
My breath catches. Is he still talking about the coffee?
“That'll be three dollars, Sir,” I manage, though my voice comes out softer than usual.
“By the way, name’s Phoenix.”
I swoon while he pays, nods, and glides away before I figure out how to reply. I’m left blinking at a backed-up drive-thru lane, my pulse pounding. I don’t even remember saying good-bye.
“Uh-oh,” Mercy croons, arching one perfectly plucked brow as she hands a customer’s latte across the counter. Steam curls up around her words from the hole in the lid. “Someone’s got two daddies.”
I flatten my hand against the wall, watching the stranger drift across the blacktop. He flashes me a lazy, amused smile, sending my pulse pinging like a dropped spoon on tile, and I barely even know his name.
“Oh, shut up,” I mutter, but my voice wobbles. My cheeks feel as hot as the frother.
Mercy leans into me, folding her arms between us. “No way. That man clearly wants a taste. And everything about you right now says you want him to have it. You keep preaching about how you ‘don’t have no man’ and how Brad ‘ain’t shit.’ So what’s the holdup?”
I bite my lip, ignoring the customer tapping his steering wheel as he waits for his cappuccino.
My eyes keep sliding back to the now empty parking space, wondering where he comes from and where he goes when he leaves here.
The already cramped coffee shack narrows to a single thought.
A date with him. But then my heart stutters to a stop.
“He’s super old, though,” I protest to the unimpressed patron still waiting for me to do my one job.
Mercy sighs, her long lashes fluttering as she straightens and moves to ring up the next order.
The drawer chimes open, coins jingling as she scoops them out and stacks bills with practiced ease.
Before she turns away, she shoots me a mischievous grin and flicks her elbow in my direction.
“Look, I’d let him tickle my kidneys, hell, maybe my tonsils too, if he asked nicely. Come on, Roni. You’re not a child.”
Her confidence sticks to me like syrup as I join her beside the counter, my hands moving automatically to prepare another order.
I'm not a child. That's the whole problem.
At twenty-four, with a mother who still calls to remind me about dentist appointments, I sometimes wonder if I'll ever feel like an adult.
“He's gotta be what, forty? Fifty?” I whisper, keeping my voice low as I pump caramel syrup into a macchiato.
Mercy snorts. “Who cares. His wallet says husband and his arms scream 'climb me like a tree.' Don't act like you wouldn’t.”
“I wasn't—” The lie dies on my lips when she shoots me a knowing look. “Fine. I was looking. But it doesn't matter anyway. Men like him don't date girls like me.”
“Girl, please.” Mercy slides a pastry into a bag with a flick of her wrist. “You're gorgeous. And he was practically feasting on you with his eyes.”
I fumble with the lid of the next drink, nearly spilling it across the counter. “He was just being nice.”
“Nice? Nice is asking how your day is going. The man was serving sex dungeon eyes with a side of 'let me breed you'.” She lowers her voice to a husky whisper. “Did you catch his name?”
I nod my head, but choose not to share. For just this moment, the knowledge of Phoenix belongs to me, and only me.
Finally, I finish the last order from the morning rush and the last commuter drifts away, and my own phone vibrates again.
It’s Brad. A guy I’ve known almost as long as Chloe, but whose affection I’d like to avoid.
Ever since we met to catch up six months ago, he’s been clingy, and his desires are anything but subtle.
I haven’t been with anyone in an embarrassing amount of time; I simply don’t see Brad that way.
I thought about giving in. It was a moment of weakness.
Of loneliness. Brad is safe. Predictable.
He knows my favorite pizza order and always offers to cover the check.
But now, with the memory of cedar and citrus still lingering in my nostrils, the idea of spending another evening listening to him complain about whatever is wrong today, makes me want to gag.
“Let me guess,” Mercy says, wiping down the espresso machine. “Brad?”
I nod while answering the call.
“Hey,” I say, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder as I start wiping down the counter.
“Roni!” Brad's voice is too loud and eager. “You busy tomorrow night? Thought maybe we could grab drinks.”
I catch Mercy's exaggerated eye roll from across the coffee shack. She mouths “boring” while pretending to fall asleep standing up.
I exhale, cradling the phone against my ear. His voice is warm and familiar, and I can’t forget he’s at least closer to an appropriate age.
“Okay, fine,” I say, surprising myself. “Shoot me the details.” Then I set my phone down with more decisiveness than I feel.
Mercy throws her head back and groans. “Ugh! Really?”
I glare as she leans against the espresso machine, its hiss punctuating the silence.
“What?” I say, bracing for her assessment.
She jabs a perfectly painted fingernail at me. “You’re actually going out with Brad now that you’ve got a hunk pining for you over coffee every morning?”
“Mercy, it’s not every morning. It’s been, like, two days. It can’t be an affair after two coffees. Yes, he’s goodlooking. But he’s also more than halfway to a retirement plan. What do you want from me?”
Her grin stretches wide enough to crack a mirror. “I want my Roni to get her back blown out by the coffee daddy. And I’m pretty sure you want the same.” She cackles, then turns back to her window, humming to herself as she greets a customer pulling up.