Thanks again for the feedback! I always appreciate the reviews. Please let me know if you are enjoying the story so far :)
Best, Inspirelly
"Pick up the pace, Meg! We're falling behind," yelled their manager, a middle-aged man with more piercings than an anarchist on crack.
Stick it up your ass, Meg thought darkly, moving from the espresso machine to the counter and back again – ten times, a thousand times, until the motion blurred together in one frantic never-ending lunge.
Andre's Beans was packed with the usual crowd, west-coast hipsters and their absurd fanny-packs and man-buns, their prissy disapproving, little mouths. They ordered non-fat and oak milk and extra shots and decaf and a dash of nutmeg and a touch of sea salt and organic, well organic was a given, bitch.
God forbid you get one thing wrong.
The last person didn't tip her after she told them they were out of their new chlorophyll shake – as if anyone truly wanted to drink that, the scraped-out insides of some poor unsuspecting plant. Secretly, she thought vegans were as twisted as their meat-eating counterparts.
Lucky for her she was fast, and she learned fairly quickly too. Her feet were already sweaty and aching inside her shoes by eleven in the morning, but she'd opened at 4 am so surprise, surprise.
She worked at a pizza place back in Chicago, a dingy place in a bad neighborhood. She used to walk to work with a tube of mace in one hand, so even if Andre's was stupid busy, it was still an improvement, she reminded herself cheerfully. Her parents couldn't afford to send her to a fancy arts school like Christine's, but even if they'd been able to, their deaths in a car accident her freshmen year of high school would have thrown a wrench in it anyway. So, she barely passed her classes at some random public school, trying to steer clear of drugs, and working as much as she could to stay out of her foster family's way.
She grabbed a mixer, dunking it in the sink and pausing to look out the window that faced downtown. The Space Needle grazed the sunny blue sky and she found herself smiling.
Foot traffic stopped suddenly, the morning deluge finally over. Her boss cracked his knuckles restlessly, pulled his apron over his head. "Gonna go get some lunch. Keep up the good work, Meg."
She nodded, leaned indolently against the counter, slipping her phone out to scroll through IG. She'd be off in another hour.
A few minutes later the small bell hanging over the door chimed. Meg reluctantly moved towards the register, ready to help another Chad with his fifty-item order.
What she saw made her pause momentarily. It was man, taller then her own 5'8'' by a few inches. Dark hair framing a defined jaw, and eyelashes so dark it looked like he was wearing eyeliner as his eyes flicked up to hold her own. His skin was to die for, a few shades deeper than caramel, arms obviously toned under his leather bomber jacket. He smelled like cologne – not the cheap, gross kind, but quality over a hundred dollars a bottle stuff.
"What's good?" His voice was deep, his teeth flashing white against his full lips.
"Hmmm," Meg said, leaning on the counter so her cleavage looked it's best in her peasant-style blouse. "Depends what you're looking for."
"I have eclectic taste," he replied, resting his hands on the counter and leaning towards her ever so slightly. His sleeve rode up to reveal a gleaming new Rolex on his wrist. How fancy.
"You a bold kind of man?"
"I hope so."
"Negro relámpago," Meg said, letting it roll off her tongue as sensually as possible. "Black lightening. It's three shots of espresso, a spoonful of South American cocoa and a dash of cayenne pepper. Think you can handle it?"
The stranger smiled, head tilted down slightly, making his eyes look bigger and puppyish under the fringe of his hair. "Guess we'll see."
"Here or to go?
"Here, please."
"You got it," she said, turning around to make the drink, suddenly self-conscious of the way her ass looked in her jeans. They were high-waisted, not her usual-style, but Christine told her they were cute when they went to the second-hand store together last week and Meg believed her. Too soon the spicy little caffeine concoction was finished, and Meg had to bring it out to Mr. Hotty's table. He had settled into the window seat of the large bay window overlooking the street, a book in his manicured hands.
He looked hotter concentrating on that book – if that was possible.
"Thank you," he said as she set his drink down, rewarding her with a full smile this time.
"You're welcome - ?" She let the sentence hang there, raising an eyebrow.
"Ah, my name's Nadir," he replied, extending his hand to shake hers.
"Meg."
His hand was warm but dry, enfolding her own for a second longer than necessary. The gaze he directed towards Meg was direct, almost too intense and she glanced down for a second, catching sight of a hefty, little signet ring on the baby finger of his right hand. It was old, burnished gold – weighty and expensive looking with a Lapis Lazuli disc imprinted with the design of raven in obsidian stone. It pressed down cold and impersonal as ice against her skin.
She wondered if he was old money, the son of some Lake Tahoe magnate or San Francisco banker.
"You must be new. I'd definitely remember a barista like you."
"Been here about a month," she said, brashly taking a seat opposite him. He smiled, close mouthed. Raised a brow, but looked pleased – a wolf-like pleased, the lupine appetite shining in those dark eyes.
"How do you like working here so far?"
"The coffee's always good. The clientele, eh – it's hit or miss most days."
"Today a hit or miss kind of day?" he inquired, shutting his book and setting it next to the drink. She was surprised to see he was reading Alexander Dumas' The Count of Monte Cristo.
"Definitely the hit kind. Good day."
He smiled. "Glad to hear it.
"You're new too," she observed. "I've been working here every day – even weekends – and I've never seen you before."
"I don't live in Seattle full-time. My job requires me to travel often – I work in… consulting."
Meg took this to mean he was the well-connected, fabulously wealthy type. Consulting meant some work here and there, chit chat with mommy and daddy's connections, and the rest of the year in Aspen on the slopes or hiking in the Alps, maybe a little yachting off Capri. Still, her asshole-radar wasn't going off yet – if he was rich, he seemed like the down-to-earth type of rich. Nothing about him hinted at arrogance. Thank God. Meg hated arrogant men.
"And let me think," he said, planting his elbows on the table so he could cradle his face in his hands and really give her a discerning stare, like a jeweler holding a diamond up to the light. "You must be a mixologist, correct? An artist with beverages and the like?"
"Absolutely. The best there is."
"Hmm," he said and took a sip of the drink. He blinked a few times, really considered it. "My, that's good."
"Glad to meet a man who can handle the heat," she said with a quick laugh.
"My family's Persian," Nadir said, taking another sip. "So, spices are everything when it comes to culinary endeavors."
They continued to talk for a long time. It wasn't until the anarchist-looking manager returned that Meg said a hasty goodbye, lunging behind the counter to grab her backpack and jacket. She'd left her phone number on a napkin where she'd been sitting – hopefully he'd see it before he left. Nadir waved to her as flew out the door, picking his book back up. When she checked over her shoulder, gazing back towards the bay window he was watching her – his face suddenly quite still, calculation heavy in his gaze. Meg's heart skipped a few beats, but for the usual reasons and suddenly cold, she slipped into her jacked and pulled the hoodie up – her feet carrying her towards the bus stop.