Page 26 of Lethal in Pink

The espresso machine at Beaned & Brew’d screams like it’s being murdered, which feels appropriate for a Wednesday afternoon.

The sound cuts through the shop every few minutes, followed by the violent churn of the grinder and the hiss of steamed milk. None of it ever seems to stop. Conversations overlap beneath it all, dozens of voices reduced to a steady, indistinct murmur. The air is warm with the smell of roasted beans, caramelized sugar, and milk heated just past the point where it becomes comforting.

The place is packed.

Of course it is.

Afternoons turn this particular coffee shop into a holding pen for students, freelancers, and people who apparently have nowhere else they need to be. Every table is occupied. Every chair is claimed. The line stretches nearly to the door.

The line inches forward. I inch with it. My phone is in my hand, emails scrolling past my thumb at a pace calibrated to make me feel productive while actually accomplishing nothing.

Weekday volume at Beaned & Brew’d is its own special hell. The grinder goes off every forty-five seconds with the violent enthusiasm of a wood chipper that’s found religion.

My thumb catches on an email—a dark romance book I’ve been stalking has finally dropped. I’m in the Kindle Unlimited app before I’ve fully processed the decision, the purchase confirmed in two taps. I make a mental note to wish the author a happy release day.

The line moves. I move. This is the rhythm of my day: forward momentum measured in half-steps, patience extracted from a reserve that was already running on fumes Monday evening.

A voice behind me says, simply, “You.”

Not my name. Not hey or excuse me or pardon me. Just…you.

I turn.

The fucking fucker that likes to put his knees in my personal bubble is standing there. Dark hair slightly too long, sharp jaw, those espresso eyes landing on me with possibly the same mild displeasure I’m already feeling, which feels unfair because I was here first and my displeasure has seniority. He’s wearing a charcoal Henley with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, dark jeans, and…no glasses today.

“Are you following me?” I ask, unamused with his existence.

He blinks like the accusation has physically struck him between the eyes.

“Following you,” he repeats, and his accent makes the word sound heavier than it has any right to. “No. I live three blocks from here. I come to this coffee shop regularly.” He gestures at the space around us with one hand, a movement that somehow manages to convey both exasperation and a complete unwillingness to justify himself further. “There are many coffee shops in this area. This one is the best. That is why I’m here. Not because of you.”

The line moves. I don’t.

“Convenient,” I say.

“Not convenient. Factual.”

I turn back around without another word.

He stays in line.

I can feel him behind me—not in a creepy way, not in the way that makes my skin prickle with danger-assessment, but in the way that makes my shoulder blades tense because I know exactly how far apart we’re standing and it’s approximately two inches closer than the social contract typically allows for strangers in a coffee line.

The barista at the register is the one with the nose ring and the purple hair. She looks up at me and her hands are already moving toward the espresso machine.

“Brown sugar vanilla, coconut milk, extra whip?” she asks.

Not a question. A confirmation.

“You know me so well,” I say cheerfully, which annoys me slightly because I didn’t mean to reward this man’s presence with evidence that I’m capable of human warmth.

She nods, taps the screen, and I slide my card. I leave her a tip and step to the pickup end of the counter. The space here is narrow, bodies pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, people who are all waiting for the same thing but pretending not to notice each other. The heat from the espresso machine radiates against the side of my face. Somebody’s backpack bumps my hip. I don’t move.

Behind me, Jae steps up to the register.

“Black coffee,” he says. “Medium. To go.”

I turn.