Kyra had just started pulling a double shot when trouble swaggered through the door in the shape of a woman: tall, dark-haired trouble, broad-shouldered trouble, trouble wearing a business suit so perfectly tailored that Kyra could smell the money on her all the way from the other end of the bar.
The woman ambled up to the counter without so much as a glance at the menu board, instead letting her gaze sweep over the shop, from the regulars camped at the couches by the windows, to the empty tables in the center of the space, until her eyes finally came to rest upon Kyra herself.
Kyra put on a smile that was at least eighty percent fake and said, "I'll be right with you."
That made the woman nod, a measured movement not at all like the distracted nods most customers gave when told they'd have to wait, and something about it made prickles race across the back of Kyra's neck.
The shot was finished brewing, and Kyra cut the pull and returned her attention to the pitcher of steamed milk resting on the counter. She picked it up and gave it a gentle swirl, then took the cup with the shot from the drip tray and started pouring the milk into it. When the cup was nearly full, she began layering the foam so the ripples of white formed the body and upswept wings of a swan, finishing with a flourish that left a curving neck and the suggestion of a head and beak. There. A Leda in memory of love won and lost.
Kyra brought the cup to the register end of the bar, where she placed it on the pick-up counter and said in a loud voice, "Barney. Get your damn drink." It was three in the afternoon on a Tuesday, and the shop was empty except for the usual suspects — and the woman standing on the other side of the counter, who didn't seem the type to wilt before a curse word or two. A raised eyebrow and a quirk at the corner of her lips proved Kyra right.
Barney popped up from the couch with a grin. He liked it when Kyra played grumpy, and he practically danced up to the counter to claim his prize while the woman stepped aside to make room for him.
His eyes took in Kyra's creation, swan and all, and he placed his hand over his heart and said, "Kyra, you honor me," as he always did during his three o'clock moment of happiness. Their little ritual.
The woman watched their exchange with interest. Her stance was wide-legged and relaxed as she waited for Barney to shuffle away with his drink cradled in his hands. Then Kyra turned to her, and when their eyes finally met, another prickle swept across Kyra's neck and down her spine.
Hot. The woman was hot — and not just that but gorgeous, as trouble for Kyra always was. Her hair was tied up in a braid, and the muscled lines of her neck emerged from the crisp collar of her shirt to meet a strong jawline. Full lips. High cheekbones. And light brown eyes flecked with gold, piercing as a raptor's, studying Kyra in a very deliberate display of attention.
She was the kind of gorgeous that made Kyra do stupid things, and an irritated heat rose from Kyra's belly up through her chest, some of it slipping out her voice as she said, "What can I get started for you?"
"I'd love a latte as beautiful as that one," the woman said, her eyes flicking over to the couches, "but unfortunately I need mine to go."
A safe and timid choice, incongruent for someone who radiated confidence and power, but if Kyra had a dollar for every time she'd seen people make odd choices while standing under the hot, track-lit glare of her coffee shop's menu, she'd have enough money to stop worrying about making the rent. "What size?"
"Grande," the woman answered automatically, but then she seemed to catch herself and said, "No, wait. Make it a twelve ounce, please."
Kyra could have unpacked a lot from that collection of answers, but she didn't want trouble to linger in her thoughts any longer than necessary. At least the woman had said please. "That'll be three fifty."
The woman reached inside her jacket and pulled out her wallet, but it was less a wallet than a thin stack of credit cards sandwiched between two similarly-sized plates of metal, with a wad of cash clipped to it. She peeled off a bill and pushed it across the counter. Her nails were short and well-shaped. No wedding ring, but the crown of a watch, large and masculine, peeked out from the cuff of her suit jacket.
Kyra punched the order into the register and made change for the twenty, sliding the coins and bills back across the counter. "I'll have it ready shortly," she said, and she walked back up the bar, picking up a paper cup from the stacks along the way.
Kyra's beloved La Marzocco awaited, its polished stainless steel shining in the light, a marvel of coffee engineering. Three group heads, two steam wands, and enough room that she and Pete could work the morning rush without bumping elbows. The machine had cost her as much as a nice car. It also fed her and put a roof over her head. It was her baby, and working with it brought her joy with every pull.
She felt herself smiling as she twisted the portafilter from the head and knocked the spent coffee grounds into a bin. Then she measured out the beans and started the grinder, wiping the basket in the filter with the cloth that hung from her belt while the grinder whirred.
The woman was watching her, and the weight of that gaze bore down on her and made her shiver despite the warmth thrown off by the machine. She focused on the dose. On the tamp. Not too much force, not too light, the grounds smooth and even, waiting for the heat and moisture and pressure that would combine separate parts into one, delicious moment.
While the espresso shot was pulling, she poured milk into a clean pitcher, then purged the wand and dunked it inside the milk to steam, the pitcher's cold steel warming against her skin as the liquid swirled and foamed. And when it was too hot to touch, she set it on the counter so the foam could rest while she wiped down the wand and lost herself in the familiar motions of crafting a latte.
A minute later, Kyra set the cup in front of the woman, next to the pile of change that sat untouched where Kyra had left it. "Enjoy," she said.
The woman took a sip, and her eyes widened. Then she sipped again, and a slow smile spread across her lips. But instead of taking her drink and leaving, she looked at Kyra and asked, "How long has this place been here?"
"Ten years."
It was interesting, the way the woman's face told Kyra two different stories: her features were open and friendly, but her eyes held calculated intent. "And how's business these days?"
Wariness uncoiled itself from its slumber around Kyra's belly and lifted its head. "Better than it looks at the moment."
"You're a bit far from MLK."
"MLK" was Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, and like every MLK in a big city in the US, the name had been bestowed on a street in what had once been an industrial wasteland fifty years ago but was now a busy thoroughfare today. When Kyra first signed the lease for this shop, there was only one brewpub in the neighborhood, and her neighbors were a vacuum wholesaler and a logging equipment distributor. Ten years later, there were seven brewpubs within walking distance and nearly as many distilleries. "This isn't a Starbucks drive-through. Distillery Row brings in a lot of folks on tasting tours. So do all the brewpubs, and there's a streetcar line just up the way. But what would a barista know about foot traffic metrics or exposure value, right? Your eyebrows are already sky-high."
The woman smiled and matched her gaze. "All right. Let's talk about exposure value. What's the premium in cost per square foot for a high visibility retail space in this neighborhood?"
Kyra lifted her chin. "Does that work on everyone?"
"What?"
"The eye contact. The smile."
The smile in question widened a fraction. "And just what do you think I'm trying to do?"
"You're bullshitting me. And I don't know why."
"I'm new in town and I'm curious about this area. And who better to ask than the person who delivers the daily caffeine fix to everyone in the neighborhood. I didn't expect to get my head bitten off." Oh, she was good, how her voice had slipped into a hurt pout at the end. But her eyes gave her away, the hard glint within them almost predatory.
"Are you going to ask to see my manager?"
"Should I?"
"It won't get you very far."
Realization dawned. "You are the manager."
"Think bigger, lamb. I know I don't look like much." With her flannel shirt and black skinny jeans cuffed above a pair of Docs, Kyra knew she looked like every barista in Portland.
The woman took a breath as if she were tasting it, then she grinned and said, "You own this shop."
"Now you're catching on."
"Is this how you treat all your customers?"
"No, just the ones who come in under false pretenses." The words hung in the air between them, and Kyra crossed her arms. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"
"You haven't helped me at all, but the drink was delicious."
"If you're still sore about it after you get back to your Mercedes, you can put that down as your one star review on Yelp."
The woman laughed and raised her cup in a mock toast. "Well, this has certainly been exciting," she said, heading for the door. "I can't wait to see what happens the next time I come in."
"Next time? I'll be surprised if I see you again," Kyra said, but as she eyed the pile of change sitting untouched on the counter, her gut told her she'd better start preparing for trouble to return.
"Is that wishful thinking I hear?" The woman looked back with a smirk as she reached for the door. "Oh, you'll be seeing a lot more of me, I promise," she said. Then she winked at Kyra and left the shop.
Kyra rolled her eyes and tossed the money into the tip jar.
A whistle pierced the air, then Ellen's voice piped up from the couches. "Who the fuck was that?"
"Someone who just paid twenty bucks for a latte."
"Ooh, Kyra's lucky day. And even after you were such a bitch to her."
"That woman is bad news."
"You say that about every beautiful woman who walks in here."
"This time I'm worried about business, not pleasure." She'd never be able to explain the wariness she'd felt the moment the woman had started asking questions. Kyra had learned long ago to listen to that feeling whenever it stirred.
"That wasn't just a business transaction. She was into you."
"No she wasn't. She came in here looking for something, and that something wasn't me or a drink."
"You're so fucking paranoid sometimes."
One person's paranoia was another person's survival skill. Kyra had spent a childhood predicting the liquor-fueled winds of her father's rage, and that had made a home for wariness to live within her gut, along with host of other tools she used to discern a person's intent, to read the signals they gave off before they acted.
Her father was long dead, but his legacy lived on. These days, she used it to give customers what they wanted when they had no idea what that was. But it also helped her read certain situations, like whenever someone tried to pitch her a new business opportunity, or whenever a man entered the shop in the empty minutes just before closing.
"Ellen, leave her be," Harold said gently. He was the third of Kyra's trio of regulars, a retired history professor who fancied himself a sage. "Kyra has much to do, and I doubt she wants to spend it worrying about the unknowns on the horizon."
He was right, though. Kyra didn't want to think about trouble or her questions, or the fact that her hand-tailored suit probably cost more than the shop's rent each month.
Kyra reached down for the rag she used to clean the countertops, and shivered.