Don't trust anyone just because they're nice.
Jenna hadn't been nice. She'd been efficient, blunt, slightly annoyed. Somehow that felt safer than kindness. Kindness came with expectations.
Never, ever let someone think they own you.
"You good?" Jenna was staring at me again.
I realized I'd been standing motionless, pitcher in hand, staring at foam that had already separated.
"Yeah. Sorry. Just concentrating."
Jenna dumped my failed foam into the sink. "Concentrating looks different than spacing out."
She grabbed a fresh pitcher, demonstrated again. The steam wand hissed—a sharp, controlled burst—then silence. Foam bloomed across the surface, thick and glossy.
"Your turn. And pay attention this time."
I mimicked her movements. Steam screamed through the milk, too loud, too violent. The foam came out thin and bubbly, more cappuccino than latte.
"Better. Keep practicing." Jenna moved to the espresso machine, pulled the portafilter free with a sharp twist. "Openers get here at five. You'll be one eventually, so watch."
She walked me through the opening checklist—a laminated sheet taped beside the register, items numbered one through thirty-seven. Start the machines. Check the milk dates. Brew the first pot of drip coffee. Stock the pastry case with whatever the delivery guy brought, assuming he remembered to show up. Count the register. Fill out the log.
"You write down every discrepancy," Jenna said, tapping the logbook with one finger. "Missing five bucks? Write it down. Extra twenty? Write it down. Management's paranoid about theft."
I nodded, memorizing the sequence.
"Closing's worse." She grabbed the mop from the corner, thrust it at me. "Floor gets mopped every night. Machines get broken down, cleaned, sanitized. You'll smell like burned coffee and bleach for a month before you stop noticing."
The mop handle felt sticky under my palms.
"Game days are different," Jenna continued, restocking napkins with mechanical precision. "Doors open two hours before puck drop. You'll get slammed—and I mean slammed. Lines out the door. Everyone wants beer, hot dogs, nachos, all at once. No time to breathe, no time to pee, no time to think." She pulled out a laminated chart, pointed to highlighted sections. "Players come through about an hour before game time. They'll want their usual orders. Don't fuck those up. They get cranky when they don't get their routines."
"And after?"
"After, you clean up the war zone and go home." Jenna shoved the chart back under the counter. "Sometimes fans hang around hoping for autographs. Not your problem. Security handles it."
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it.
"Questions?"
A thousand of them crowded my throat. Instead, I shook my head.
"Good. Because we open in ten minutes."
Chapter 2
Rhys
I woke to silence.
Not the peaceful kind. The heavy, echoing kind that settled into the corners of my apartment and refused to leave.
I stared at the ceiling—plain white, no art, no personality, no distractions. Exactly how I needed it. The bedroom matched the rest of the space: minimalist, ordered, uninviting. A single, low dresser. Mattress on a platform frame. Black sheets. Gray blanket. No photographs. No clutter. Nothing soft.
Nothing anyone would want to stay for.
Good.
