Page 46 of An Espresso Machine’s Guide to Love & Mischief

“Hey, you can’t be here,” a man in pirate garb shouts.

“I can’t, but maybe my friend William Lyon Mackenzie King can.” I slip out my wallet and pull out a fifty dollar bill. “I need to borrow a spyglass… and the crow’s nest.”

He glances around to make sure no one is watching and sticks the bill inside his hat. Then he places it back on top of his head. One jab to the throat, and I could have him choking, the hat in my hand, and the money back in my wallet. Just like I did to that Somali pirate who betrayed me when he was supposed to smuggle me into Mogadishu. That’s not likely to happen here, but I need to be ready if it does.

The faux pirate unhooks a spyglass from his belt and hands it over. “Don’t fall or I’ll be in trouble.”

“Thanks, man.” I slip the spyglass into the inside pocket of my leather jacket.

The mast sports a rope ladder, and I have plenty of experience with those. As I climb, I inwardly cringe at the amount of money I just handed off. I promised my little sister, Freyja, a trip to Chapters Indigo for new books—and now the money for that is gone.

Growing up, I thought secret agents made bank. Then I got recruited and realized I barely make enough to support my parents and siblings.

There would have been a bonus in it for me if I’d killed the heir of the Del Ray fortune like I’d intended. But then my espresso machine mate showed up and distracted my carefully laid out plan.

I focus on climbing. My arms burn as I pull myself up the ladder. I got weights in my basement, and I use them, but no amount of lifting can make a climb in human form as easy as one in raccoon form. It’d be a relief to shift, but it would draw too much attention when I’m in the open like this.

With a grunt, I pull myself into the crow’s nest and flick the spyglass open. Holding it up to my left eye, I peer out over the lake and scan the boats.

There! I feel a wave of triumph when I spot the water taxi carrying my fated mate. It’s halfway between where I’m at and the islands, so I track it until it motors into the marina on the other side of the harbor and docks next to a big-ass yacht.

Of course the kidnappers are heading to the yacht club. Assholes probably made their fortune taking whatever they want, but now they’ve gone and crossed the wrong raccoon.

I see a flash of red as the dark-haired driver hauls the espresso machine out of the water taxi. Even through the spyglass, there’s something beautiful about her—the way her red metal sparkles in the sunlight, and the way I’m sure she’s hurling insults at her abductor, demanding to be set free. I feel a certain sense of pride at how brave she’d been during the kidnapping ordeal. My mate’s got guts.

I close the spyglass and scramble over the edge of the crow’s nest and down the ladder to the deck. “Thanks, man,” I tell the pretend pirate. I toss him the spyglass and race down the gangplank to the quay.

My running shoes pound against the pavement as I run toward the ferry terminal. There aren’t any other water taxis along the quay, just party boats, and the ferry is much less conspicuous. If I blend in with the crowd, I’ll have the element of surprise.

As I get in line at the ticket booth, my breath slow and steady despite the jog, my gut tells me that something isn’t quite right.

What was my espresso machine doing at the Del Ray offices in the first place? She and her friend helped me then, which is definitely a good sign, but the mishmash of kidnappers I’ve seen so far doesn’t sit well with me.

Clown, bodybuilder, a water taxi driver, and a homeless woman who could pass a lie detector…

Someone must have hired them all. Someone with a lot of money and power. Someone who can cause me a lot of trouble when I still have a family to support.

My gut says I need backup, but if I contact my handler, she’ll tell me to stand down. So if I’m doing this, I have to do it on my own. If I don’t help my mate, no one will.

When I get to the front of the line, I slide a bill across the counter. “One ferry ticket, please.”

A heavy feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. For the first time in my life, I choose not to listen and get in line for the ferry.

Chapter 22

Trevor

I drop the espresso machine onto the yacht club’s dining room table. “Fuck, you’re heavy.”

“Fuck, you have weak arms,” she snaps back.

I can’t help but be impressed by her. If I was stuck in an espresso machine, I’d probably be flipping the fuck out right about now. But this one’s got spirit—and corners for days.

“Wait here,” I tell her even though she can’t move.

“Haha, very funny, Bozo the Clown,” she says dryly.

“Right back at you, Hamilton Beach.” Cheapest fucking coffeemaker there is.