"Yes… yes… I know, damn it. Of course I'll make the payment. Just give me a month, please. I have an interview tomorrow. A better job. It'll help me handle everything." Ivy pressed the cheap second-hand phone to her ear with her shoulder while juggling a steaming paper cup of cappuccino. One more month. Just one more month to keep the wolves from eating her alive. The bank's patience was thinning, the debt collector's calls grew uglier, and her little brother's future hung on the thin thread of her ability to keep her shit together.
"Ivy! Table six is still waiting for his order! How long does it take you to respond to a customer? If you'd just get off the damn phone for one freaking minute!" her manager, Mr. Ben, shouted from behind the counter. His pudgy fingers clattered against the cash register, sweat staining the armpits of his faded white shirt.
"Sorry, Mr. Ben!" Ivy shouted back. She slid the cappuccino across to the waiting customer with a wink and spun back to the order list taped to the counter. Her eyes scanned the messy scribbles and landed on table six. Coffee, black. No sugar, no cream. She didn't need the list to remember that one. She could prepare his order blindfolded, with both hands tied behind her back.
He came in every morning, six a.m. sharp. Always in a crisp, dark suit. Always with a haunted look in his stormy eyes. And always—always—with ten seconds to flirt with her.
But this time, it wasn't to go. Ivy frowned. Weird. Mister Coffee-Without-A-Soul always ordered to go. Maybe another customer had picked up the habit of making her mornings easier.
Her cheap phone buzzed violently in her apron pocket, its cracked screen lighting up with a number that made her blood run cold. The nursing home. Mom. Shit. Heart pounding, she shoved the coffee onto the counter with trembling hands and reached for the call. Every damn time that number popped up, she braced herself for the worst—another fall, another bill, another reminder she was failing.
"Don't you dare!" Mr. Ben's voice cracked through the air, his beady little eyes narrowing at her from across the counter.
"Please… it's my mum." She didn't even care that she was begging in front of strangers. Some things were worth throwing pride away for.
"I don't care if it's the damn pope," Ben barked, slamming the register shut for emphasis. "I am not paying you to pick up your phone all day. It's rush hour, Ivy! Customers first. Get your ass moving!"
Her throat tightened. Customers first. Not family. Not my mother's failing health. Not me. Just coffee. Just survival. Always survival. "Yes, Mr. Ben," she whispered, sliding the phone back into her apron. She told herself she'd call back as soon as she got a break
******
Winn's patience was thinning. He checked the gold Patek Philippe watch on his wrist for the third time, jaw ticking with every wasted second. Fifteen minutes. Fifteen goddamn minutes for a cup of black coffee. He could have brewed it himself in less. He could have—hell—squeezed it out of the beans with his bare hands if it meant avoiding this incompetence. His blood was already simmering, caffeine-deprived, and he had a board meeting in ten minutes that would decide whether his rivals were crushed or lived to breathe another day.
He leaned back on his seat, broad shoulders filling the space, the sharp cut of his suit radiating money, and a distinct don't-fuck-with-me aura. Around him, women cast sidelong glances, biting their lips, pretending not to stare at the ruthless man with the sharp jaw and sinful mouth. He noticed. He always noticed. But he didn't give a damn. He wanted his coffee, not thirsty eyes.
He thought of the secretary he'd fired over the weekend—a lazy bastard who couldn't draft a decent report but somehow always brought Winn his morning salvation exactly right: hot, bitter, no cream, no sugar. Black and fierce. A tiny ritual that mattered more than anyone knew. Now, stripped of that, Winn found himself in this dingy café, surrounded by chaos and mediocrity, waiting for someone who apparently couldn't handle the basic art of pouring liquid into a cup.
He ran a hand through his dark hair, a sharp curse leaving his lips. "Un-fucking-believable," he muttered under his breath. Incompetence, everywhere he went. If this was what the world had come to, maybe he should buy the damn café, fire everyone, and run it himself. At least then, he'd get his coffee hot, hard, and exactly how he liked it.
He'd noticed the barista—a woman with chaotic hair, wearing a uniform that somehow managed to look both too tight on her hips and too loose on her chest. She was a mess. The exact opposite of every perfect, plastic woman he dealt with daily.
He was just about to push his chair back, muscles taut with impatience, when he finally saw the waitress hurrying toward him with a cup in hand. Long legs stumbling, apron hanging lopsided around her waist. Christ. She looked like a walking disaster. "About fucking time."
"I'm so sorry!" she blurted before he could unleash his temper. "It's a crazy morning. Mondays are always this way. I swear, it's like the universe wakes up and decides I'm the butt of some cosmic joke. Hard to catch a breath." She set the cup in front of him with a little flourish, her rambling spilling over.
Why did strangers always think they could talk to him? Winn's brow twitched as he stared at her. He never understood this logic—picking a random person and babbling like he was some kind of free therapist. He wasn't. He was the last fucking person to spill your messy life onto. Irritation wrapped around him as he looked down at the steaming cup she'd set before him and sighed heavily.
"What's this?" he asked flatly, eyes narrowing.
(This Book is in the Cupid's Quill Competition. So please, add to library, give power stones. Support in every way you can and i promise to give it my best.)