As Curtis stepped out of Coppa, the night air felt cooler than usual, sharp against his skin. City lights blinked across the street, people moved in waves around him, but his mind was chaos.
Confusion.
That was all he could name the feeling.
He couldn't believe he hadn't even noticed the barista before — the one who'd leaned close, smiling like sunshine, blurting out the answer to his crossword as if she'd been waiting her whole life to say it. When had she started working there? How many times had she handed him coffee without him ever looking up?
The thought irritated him. He prided himself on being observant, controlled, always a step ahead. But lately, his life felt like a puzzle with pieces swapped around.
Love is a damn distraction, he muttered under his breath. A hard one.
And yet, quitting wasn't an option. He wanted to understand it — understand her.
Nadine.
The girl who had somehow pops out of nowhere with a mission to change his whole life: the one who kept trying to include him in conversations he didn't know how to have or makes him feel he matters. It was because of her that he'd started questioning himself, trying to change, trying to connect.
She was the reason he wanted to become more approachable and outgoing—someone less robotic, less detached.
He told himself that's what this was. That what he felt was simply admiration, maybe love. Unsure.
Still, it was the first time in his life he'd cared enough to want to be seen.
The next morning, Curtis went through his routine as if nothing had happened—shower, breakfast, headlines, the same measured steps. He'd almost convinced himself to forget the café incident.
Until he walked into Coppa.
She was there behind the counter, smiling as if the world were on her side.
The happy barista.
Their eyes met for half a second before he looked away, pretending not to notice her. He fumbled slightly with his phone, pretending to check something, suddenly aware of how loud the café felt.
He ordered his usual, forcing his tone steady. "Large dark roast."
She handed it over with that effortless grace that made her seem born for sunlight. "Have a good morning."
He managed a quick, quiet, "Thanks," and left before his brain could misfire again.
By the time he reached work, he was mentally exhausted.
Numbers make sense, he told himself. People don't.
At KAIA, Nadine passed him in the hallway, coffee cup in hand. "Good morning!" she called cheerfully.
He opened his mouth to respond, but a coworker intercepted her with a question, and she turned away. Curtis shut his mouth, heading straight to his desk.
At lunch, he noticed her again —chatting with a few analysts, laughing easily. He pretended to be busy, staring at his monitor, but when she knocked lightly on his glass door, his phone rang at the same time.
"Mr. Harper," his boss's voice boomed through the line.
Nadine peeked in. "I was wondering if you wanted to join us for—oh." She noticed the phone, whispered the rest of the sentence, then smiled apologetically and slipped out.
Through the glass, Curtis watched her walk away, her shoulders dipping just slightly.
A sigh escaped him. Perfect. Another social disaster.
That evening, he debated skipping the café. He'd had enough human interaction for a lifetime. But Coppa was his sanctuary—his one constant.
He went.
To his quiet relief, the lively barista wasn't there. He sat in his corner, finished his crossword, and convinced himself that everything was finally back to order.
For a few days, it was.
"Any progress on your 'social skills experiment'?" Jonah asked while lining up his golf shot the following weekend.
Curtis adjusted his grip on the putter. "Nothing works."
"Have you tried a professional coach?"
"I did," Curtis said flatly. "Felt like they were trying to program me. Everything was too mechanical—follow these steps, say this, smile here."
Jonah chuckled. "Maybe you just need the right teacher."
Curtis didn't answer, sinking the ball with more force than necessary.
That night, he returned to Coppa with a self-help book tucked under his arm. The café buzzed softly with the late-afternoon crowd. He'd just opened his book when he heard it — light laughter, a familiar voice that rang like the clink of glass in sunlight.
Her.
She was back.
The nosy barista.
Curtis froze mid-sentence, eyes flicking up from the page. She was behind the counter, chatting animatedly with customers, her hands moving in rhythm with her words. She laughed easily, the sound disarming.
He watched her for a moment too long. She had a way of filling the space — radiant, confident, completely herself. At first, he told himself it was just part of her job, that kind of customer-service brightness everyone puts on.
But then he noticed the little things: the way she leaned forward to listen, how her laughter softened instead of forced, how she remembered names. None of it was performative. It was her.
And he couldn't look away.
Over the next few days, he caught himself timing his visits to when she worked. He'd sit quietly in his corner, observing—how she greeted the regulars, joked with the delivery guy, even how she wiped down tables, humming under her breath.
She made connection look effortless.
And suddenly, Curtis realized something startling.
This was what he'd been searching for. Not another book or workshop.
Her.
If he could understand her—learn how she moved through the world so naturally — maybe he could fix whatever part of him felt broken.
It was ridiculous. But it also made perfect sense.
The next evening, he formed a plan.
He would hire her.
Not romantically — professionally. Sort of.
He dressed carefully—not his office suit, but still neat and more relax: a crisp button-down, rolled sleeves, chinos, and leather shoes polished just enough to look intentional. He wanted to seem approachable yet serious.
By closing time, he was sitting at the counter, waiting.
Allie looked up from wiping the espresso machine. "One last order?" she teased, smiling.
"One coffee to go," he said, steadying his nerves. Then, after a pause, "And whatever you'd like—my treat."
Her brows rose in surprise, but she nodded, grabbing a cup. "Thanks. I guess that makes you my last customer tonight."
When she handed him the drink, Curtis took a slow breath. "Would it be okay if I talked to you for a moment?"
She hesitated, glancing toward her coworker, Zack, still sweeping in the back. He was humming off-key, completely oblivious. Curtis looked harmless enough—awkward, maybe even a little nervous.
"Sure," she said finally. "Just for a bit."
They sat at a small corner table. The café was nearly empty now, the lights dimmed, soft music floating through the air. Zack's tuneless singing echoed faintly from the kitchen. Curtis froze. The words he'd rehearsed on the way here vanished.
Allie, sensing his unease, broke the silence. "Is this about me… prying into your crossword the other day? Because I swear I didn't mean to snoop. I honestly thought you'd never talk to me again, so — please don't complain to the owner or, you know, blacklist the shop or something."
Curtis blinked—then laughed.
Allie stopped mid-ramble, startled.
"No," he said, still smiling. "It's not about that. You don't have to worry."
She relaxed a little. Wow, she thought, taken aback by how warm his laugh sounded. His voice had that low, steady timbre that settled under her skin. Okay, hot voice — cancel that, focus.
Curtis cleared his throat. "Actually… I wanted to ask you for help."
Allie blinked. "Help? From me?"
He nodded, offering a small, sincere smile.