On virtual assistant pay, it抣l be a hot minute before I can fund my own shop.
But when I do, I抣l have my drinks and baked goods paired up and ready to go.
揋od, Dad. It抯 so early and I抦 already bored.?A new, squeaky voice drifts through the cafe. It sounds too much like Gossip Girl to be Wayne.
揇estiny, sit,?a man replies gruffly.
I look up from my notebook. The whole vibe in the store has shifted.
Now there抯 a tension so thick it could curdle the air. A whole pack of suits are standing in front of Wayne抯 counter, clustered together like wolves.
What the hell?
Oh, he did mention a meeting with management and his morning helpers aren抰 here yet, which is a little strange. But I sort of imagined the usual middle-aged, soccer-mom-type manager from the franchise.
Not pure Wall Street. Though I wonder about the kid I heard and why抯 she tagging along with this school of corporate sharks?
I quickly scan the room.
A teenage girl in a black dress wanders through the tables, empty except for mine. She flops down in a seat at the table across from me with a book梡robably because the other chairs are still upside down on their tables. The place isn抰 technically open yet.
Interesting.
The gaggle of execs form a neat line in front of the counter. They stare down at everything like they抮e after world domination rather than cornering coffee markets.
My thriller brain screams mafia shakedown or CIA sting.
Wayne slides a cup across the counter with a forced smile I抳e never seen on his face.
A tall man with sandy-brown hair seems like the leader of the pack.
He reaches for the drink, flanked by a man on one side and a woman on the other. They both step away like it抯 taboo to share the same breathing space with the kingpin.
Here we go. It抯 Godfather time. I抦 gonna make you an offer you can抰 refuse...
His navy-blue jacket strains with packed muscle as he lifts the cup. For the briefest second, his eyes catch mine.
Oof.
Air stalls in my lungs.
I melt into my chair.
Forget the old, saggy middle-manager type who could stand to lose fifty pounds. This guy is younger and infinitely better looking than Marlon Brando, even if his gaze could challenge an actual mafia don.
Sculpted face. Aquiline nose. Eyes stolen from the crisp blue sky.
They hide whatever he抯 really thinking about the weird girl ducking down in the corner, startled and desperately trying not to blush.
I mean, he抯 not my type梔o I have a type?
He抯 a human bulldozer stuffed into an expensive suit.
A Franken-hottie machine who looks like he was brought to life by some mad scientist with lofty dreams of crafting the perfect destroyer of ladybits.
For a second, I wish I was that dark-blue jacket hugging the contours of those wound, chorded muscles. But only for a second.
That scowl he抯 wearing could scare the paint off the walls.
He抯 still giving the whole store the evil eye as his mouth disappears behind the cup in one brutally long sip ending in a displeased groan.
And his manners aren抰 any kinder a second later when he yanks the plastic lid off the cup, points at the brew, and says, 揧ou call this a featured roast??
Oh, God.
My heart stalls.
He sounds like a flipping prosecutor charging Wayne with running over a baby. I抦 instantly angry and worried for my friend.
He抣l probably have a horsehead in his bed tonight thanks to this bosshole.
Not fair.
The teenager across from me lowers her book, meets my eyes, and bites her bottom lip to keep from條aughing? Wincing? I抦 not sure.
The pained grin she tries to hide shows her dimples.
揇on抰 worry. He抯 in a good mood today,?she whispers.
Holy hell.
If this is a good mood, what抯 he like with a bad one?
He抯 rocking the hot villain vibe, at least, but other than that, all I get from him is a modern prick playing at being Ozymandias.
揕ook on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!?
My friend and former roomie, Dakota, would be laughing her little poet head off. I just wish I had coffee strong enough to resurrect Percy Shelley and put this guy in his place.
Godfather isn抰 the right description with the crap falling out of his mouth. Grumpfather feels more accurate.
I抦 surprised he bothers tasting the coffee again.
His posse of suits stare in absolute awe梠r is it terror? A couple young-looking intern types behind him shift their weight nervously.
Ugh.
There goes my peaceful morning.
I glance at my notebook again, teething my bottom lip and trying like hell to mind my own business.
I should just finish picking apart this coffee and slip out the back door, leaving Wayne to his fate. He抯 a proud guy and we抮e coffee shop besties, but not close friends. He wouldn抰 want me fighting his battles like an overprotective sister.
At least he抯 holding his ground against Crankyface. He has the patience of a monk, really, hidden behind this subtle, eerily calm smile that just looks tired more than anything else. He clears his throat, waiting for the inevitable death by insult.
Grumpfather sighs and pounds the cup back on the counter. 揑t抯 passable. Barely. It抯 just not what we抮e looking for going forward. It抯 remarkably ordinary at best.?
I swallow hard, averting my eyes when Wayne glances over.
It抯 basically impossible to concentrate on these notes when his boss sounds as outrageous as he looks.
Also, I抦 no fan of rudeness, but this guy is going the extra mile to piss me off.
It抯 a chain shop. What does he expect? A handcrafted slow brew pulled from a small batch of hand-roasted beans?
揙rdinary, my ass,?I whisper under my breath, rolling my eyes.
I forget that the girl is still in earshot until I hear her muffled snicker.
揥ell, yeah. You抮e right, Mr. Lancaster, but棓 Wayne pauses. 揑 can do better. I抦 excited for the new drinks, wherever you抮e taking us.?
His delivery is so deliciously numb I try not to laugh.
Come to think of it, Wired Cup is where I got my first cup of coffee when I first moved to Seattle. Wayne made it. Coffee shops have more staff turnovers than burger joints sometimes, but Wayne has been here every day for years slinging coffee with a friendly joke or a kind ear, rain or shine or梬ell, more rain because this is Seattle.
If there was ever a reliable barista grunt, it抯 him.
He does not deserve what he抯 getting.
Just who the hell does this jackass think he is? By the looks of it, he sits in some office and stares at a screen all day. He wouldn抰 know the first thing about making good coffee if it splashed him in his stupidly handsome, growly, grump-face.
He grabs the cup again and sniffs it before passing it to the woman beside him. 揔atelyn, have R & D dig up their files on this drink. I want to see what else they were doing in development, if they ever pinged on anything to spice it up.?
Oh, lovely.
So he抯 one of those guys. All corporate paperwork and prone to getting pissy when reality won抰 conform to models on a screen.
Or maybe he抯 just some district manager douchebag.
I抳e known plenty in my odd jobs over the years. I抳e dated them.
They think they poop diamonds, and that gives them the right to order around the underlings.
It makes me a little sick. It also reminds me why I抣l never take a job answering to any sanctimonious jerkwad ever again. They抮e too delusional for life.
In the grand scheme of things, what抯 a district manager of a second-rate coffee company?
He can抰 hear me thinking out loud, though.
He just slurps the coffee again and says, 揋oddammit. If our summer depends on this, the Mermaid will eat us alive.?
No joke. The big green mermaid is an international chain.
Wired Cup still owns its slice of the West Coast coffee pie, mostly because the Pacific Northwest doesn抰 worship international chains.
揊or the record, I followed the exact recipe,?Wayne says, showing some grit.
I smile across the space at him.
That抯 the style, buddy. Throw it right back.