Page 18 of Minnie: Double, Double, Toil and Trouble

Tanner cocks his head to the side and deadpans. “Very James Bond of you.”

Gorg grins.

I still don’t move.

Tanner and Gorg exchange a look. Finally, Gorg says, “I thought you said you were an excellent barista.”

And, since Formula M is always up for a challenge, I finally manage to get to my feet. Head held tall, I round the counter. “One chai with two shots of espresso coming right up.”

Gorg grins. “I thought for sure it had olive brine.”

Tanner snorts, and my heart laughs right along with him. Did Gorg just make a joke? Maybe he’s got a sense of humor hidden under his somewhat annoying exterior. And why not? There’s a lot more to me than meets the eye.

I hurry up with Tanner’s drink, and the moment he’s gone, I settle back in my seat across from Gorg.

I raise my Unicorn Hot Chocolate to my lips. I barely even taste it before Formula M forces me to put it back down. No empty calories for this girl. I sigh internally and think of some way to get to know Gorg. “So, what’s your favorite food?”

He stares at me for what feels like an eternity. “Beluga caviar.”

Everything inside me recoils. Beluga caviar has always been Maude’s favorite. So either the pink magic is just another trick of hers, or my fated mate prefers the world I’ve spent my whole life hoping to one day escape.

I tap my nails on the table, the annoying clicking echoing through the cafe in time to the classical music playing softly from the speakers.

Gorg shoots me a sweet smile. “What’s your favorite food, Minnie?”

I should be glad he wants to get to know me, but I can’t even reply. I can’t say that I love burgers, fries, and hotdogs—basically all the foods my mother and Formula M would never let me talk about, let alone eat. “I’m quite partial to beluga caviar myself.”

My mother would be proud.

Me? I feel a little sick.

If I’m ever able to date, and I were to accept Gorg as my fated mate, would I just be trading one prison for another? My mother’s rich world for his, and the same confining rules that would require a lifetime on Formula M to navigate?

My heart hurts, and I try to focus on anything other than the conversation slowly chipping away at whatever hope I had left.

There must be something we have in common, like maybe the love of animals? “Tell me about your snakes.”

“My snakes?” he repeats as if he’s forgotten they live on his head. Or are they just a part of him? Would I be equally confused if he said ‘so, tell me about your hair?’

Or did I just offend him? I probably did. I should just disappear and stop trying to talk to people altogether.

Instead, Formula M forces me to stare at my bored reflection in his sunglasses until he reaches up, as if to pet the snakes, and quickly jerks his hand back. “Look, you’ve got a customer.”

An athletic-looking man with purple hair steps into the cafe. “I thought that was you, Phil.” He grins. “What’s up.”

“That’s not Phil. That’s Gorg.” The words leave my lips a split second before I realize I’ve been duped. Gorg—I mean, Phil—has been lying to me this whole time.

My insides cringe. My mate’s a liar named Phil. Minnie and Phil. Mill? Phinnie? Does it really matter when he’s a big, fat liar?

Grape Head snorts. “Gorg? Are you trying out bad nicknames? And since when do you drink espresso?”

Phil or Gorg or whoever he is takes a page out of my book and shrugs.

“What’s gotten into you, man?” Grape Head examines him carefully. “And what’s wrong with Marie?”

Shit, he has a girlfriend named Marie?

Or maybe not, since Phil-Gorg frowns, “Who’s Marie?”