Eleanor's POV
7 a.m., and finally the delivery truck rolled up. My coffee beans—ordered days ago, called about endlessly—were finally here. My café depended on them. Customers had been asking for this blend for weeks, and without it, I'd lose business, lose reputation, lose time. My arms already ached from dragging the heavy bags, my back screamed from bending and lifting.
I signed the papers and hefted the first bag onto my shoulder, another tucked in my arm. Manhattan was alive already—horns blaring, engines roaring, people rushing past me. I focused on the crosswalk, thinking a few steps more and I'd be safe.
Then a black luxury car came around the corner.
It was moving fast—not reckless exactly—but fast enough to make my heart jump into my throat. I froze for a split second, then tried to step back. Too late.
The tires squealed. The bag in my arms split open. Coffee beans spilled across the asphalt, rolling under tires, bouncing into gutters. My takeaway coffee tipped over, soaking my shirt.
I hit the ground, stunned. My mind went blank for a second, all senses screaming. Horns honked. Shouts rang out. The smell of tires and exhaust hit my nose. Then I heard the click of the car door.
A man stepped out. Dark suit. Dark hair. Calm. Too calm. Infuriatingly calm.
"Are you kidding me?" I scrambled to my feet, brushing myself off as best I could.
He looked down at me, expression flat. "You stepped into traffic."
I blinked. He's blaming me? "You almost ran me over! Do you even see people when you drive?" My hands gestured wildly at the car.
He tilted his head, studying me like I was a problem to solve. Studying me? "You stepped into traffic."
I clenched my fists. My heart raced. "Maybe if rich men didn't drive like they owned the city, people could cross the road!"
A flicker of amusement crossed his face, like I said something entertaining. Entertaining? I could have died.
"Maybe if you knew how to cross a street properly, this wouldn't have happened," he said, voice calm but sharp.
I froze. Did he just… "Those beans were expensive!" I jabbed at the pavement, grinding my teeth.
He reached into his wallet and dropped several hundred-dollar bills toward me. Replace them.
I stared at the money. No. Not this. I shoved it back. "Money doesn't fix everything!"
He tilted his head slightly, unimpressed. Most people would have grovelled, muttered something, maybe taken the money and run. Not me. Not today.
I grabbed my torn bag, spilled beans crunching under my shoes, and stormed off. "Try driving like a normal human being next time!"
People glanced at me. Murmurs. Manhattan didn't care. I didn't care. My thoughts churned as I stomped toward my café. That man. The arrogance. The calm. The smirk when I yelled.
I finally reached the café, dropped the bags inside, leaned against the counter. My heart still pounded. Coffee beans everywhere. My shirt ruined. My morning destroyed.
I shook my head. I had to focus on opening. Customers would arrive soon. But my mind kept replaying it: his smirk, his calm tone, the flicker of amusement in his eyes. Who is this man?
I muttered under my breath, frustration bubbling. "Why is it always something?"
Every detail stayed in my mind: the smell of tires and coffee beans, the way his eyes followed me, the way he dropped the money. Infuriating. Intriguing.
I couldn't shake the feeling that this was not the last time I'd see him. Somewhere, somehow, our paths would cross again.
Giovanni's POV
The call with Luca was already getting under my skin. Investors whining, deadlines slipping, complications at every turn. Typical Monday chaos, and I didn't have time for distractions.
I turned the corner, phone pressed to my ear, voice calm but firm. "Then they can walk away. I'm not renegotiating."
Luca's voice droned on, but I barely heard him. My attention shifted to the traffic ahead. Manhattan streets, honking, chaos, people rushing. Nothing unusual. Until…
She stepped into the road.
A flash of dark hair. Bags in both hands. Heart racing. One step—then the screech of brakes. I slammed the brake pedal, tires squealing, stopping inches from her.
Her arms were full of bags. Coffee beans flew from one like tiny missiles, scattering across the asphalt. Her takeaway coffee tipped, splashing over her shirt.
She froze, stunned.
I opened the car door and stepped out. Calm. Controlled. "Do you have a death wish?"
She scrambled to her feet, brushing herself off. "You almost ran me over! Do you even see people when you drive?" Her hands flailed toward the car.
I tilted my head. Really? "You stepped into traffic."
Her fists clenched, eyes blazing. "Maybe if rich men didn't drive like they owned the city, people could cross the road!"
I smirked slightly. Bold. Too bold. "Maybe if you knew how to cross a street properly, this wouldn't have happened."
Her jaw tightened. "Those beans were expensive!" She jabbed at the pavement where they had spilled, and a few rolled under my tires.
I reached into my wallet and dropped a few hundred-dollar bills toward her. Replace them.
She shoved the money back at me. "Money doesn't fix everything!"
I frowned. Most people would have cowered, muttered something, taken the money, scurried away. Not her. Not this one. Not today. She stood there, unafraid, glaring at me like I was the problem in the world.
My irritation spiked—but so did curiosity. Who was this woman that dared yell at me, push back, refuse my money, and still storm off like she owned the street?
She grabbed her torn bag, beans crunching under her shoes, and stormed off. "Try driving like a normal human being next time!" she yelled over her shoulder.
I slid back into the car, Luca still babbling on the phone, oblivious. "Giovanni? What happened?"
"Nothing," I said flatly, eyes fixed on the café door she had disappeared into.
Every detail stayed with me: the smell of tires, the smell of coffee beans, the weight of the bags she carried, the frantic way she stumbled and glared. Her voice, bold, angry, commanding.
Most people smooth over their mistakes with an apology. Not her. Not today. She was defiant, stubborn, and infuriating.
I exhaled slowly, muttering under my breath in Italian. "Testarda…" Stubborn. That fit her perfectly.
I noticed the way her hair fell across her face as she stormed toward the café. Messy, unkempt—but it suited her, gave her character, made her real. She wasn't polished, didn't pretend. Most people polished themselves for me. She didn't.
I thought about the way she shoved the money back, slammed her fists, shouted over me. Bold, unafraid, infuriatingly alive. And somehow, strangely… intriguing.
I watched her disappear behind the café door, the bell silent, as if she had vanished into thin air. The city roared around me, indifferent, but I couldn't shake her image. The fire in her eyes. The way she carried herself despite chaos.
My phone vibrated again. Luca. I ignored it, leaning back in the seat, letting the engine idle. I ran through the moment again and again.
Every step she took. Every word she spat at me. The flicker of fire in her eyes. Her voice, loud, unfiltered. Her hands clenched. Every detail etched into my memory.
Normally, this would have been nothing. Another minor pedestrian incident. A minor irritation. But she had a way of making it… personal. She made irritation sharp, precise, unforgettable.
The spilled beans, the tipped coffee, the torn bag—they were insignificant. Yet they weren't. They were part of her energy, her chaos, her defiance. And I found myself noting every piece of it.
I smirked lightly, leaning back in the car. Bold. Stubborn. Infuriating. And I knew—without knowing how—that our paths would cross again.
I had no idea who she was. Didn't matter. I would find out. And next time… I would be ready for her.