PROLOGUE
Two Years Ago:
"Yeah!" A fierce cry rips itself out of the woman's throat, and she throws her 300 pound opponent to the mat. She wraps her legs around him in a headlock and squeezes. For a long minute, they struggle.
And just when she is beginning to despair, he punches his fist on the mat, one, two, three times.
He has conceded defeat.
There is dead silence for a solid minute, before the world erupts around her in a cacophony of sound. And when she looks, she can see a few trophy wives, their face shining with tears. Very few women enter the world of professional martial arts, much less win in the competitions. She just did what several of them probably longed to do for years and had to give up in order to marry rich. She gives a sharp nod at the closest one she can see, and the referee yanks her up by her wrist, holding her hand in the air.
"The winner of the national championship, Gabrielle Teller!"
•
Two Years Later:
"A red eye." She shortly says to the tall, handsome American manning the counter. He looks like the sort that could get you into a lot of trouble, she thinks.
"Just one moment." He nods at her, tilts his head back to peer at something that she cannot see. "One red eye!" He bellows, and there is an affirmative grunt somewhere in the back. Someone was behind all of these machines, then she thinks slightly sardonically. Honestly, what a cluttered little shop, full of little coffee making trinkets. But she hears that they were good, so she is willing to pay.
"That will be 342 rubles and 20 kopecks, please." The cashier rattles open, and she stuffs 500 rubles in his hand. "Keep the change," she mutters.
He blinks at his hand, then smiles. "You're very kind. Feel free to have a seat."
•
Illya wipes his hands on his dirty apron. It's not a tough life, being a barista, but he does despair of ever stopping smelling of roasted coffee beans. He grabs the small glass. "One red eye," he calls and sets it on the counter.
"Thank you." He looks up at the owner of the voice and thinks that he knows for the first time what it means to fall in love at first sight.
There is a very long moment as he looks at her. Later he recalls smaller things, like the soft wool of her white dress and the length of her earrings, but it is the look in her wide, dark eyes that enchants him. Why, he cannot say- some things are too personal, somehow to explain. Only, that there seemed to be a dark fire in them, burning.
The moment is broken, unfortunately when Napoleon calls out the next customer's order. Still looking at her as if he has never seen anything like her before, he quickly spills a gruff: "You're welcome," before disappearing into the back once more.
•
Gaby's not quite sure why, but she returns to the coffeeshop.
And she brings a book to read.
•
"Is the coffee good?" The voice comes from above her, gravely.
Blinking, she emerges from the depths of her novel to look above her at the giant who seems to have emerged from the back, at long last.
"Very," she admits. "Are you busy?"
He smiles a little, and ducks his head. There's something boyish about it that warms her. "Not right now," he says, and before she knows it, she's smiling back. "Do you want to sit with me?" She asks, and he replies, "I would like to, very much."
So he does.
•
They talk, but it's not very long before the American is closing the front doors. "We're closing now, Illya." He calls, and Illya himself closes his eyes in frustration. They'd been only talking for... Fifteen minutes. Long, but not long enough.
"Will I see you again?" He asks.
She nods.