Page 64 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

I arranged my face into thoughtful confusion, tapping one finger against my chin. “I did?” I frowned harder. “When exactly did that happen? Because I have absolutely no memory of handing my coffee to anyone.” I reached for the intercom, barely suppressing the smile threatening to betray me. “Naija, could you come in here for a moment?”

She appeared a few seconds later, and I got straight to the point. “Naija, did I give you my coffee earlier?”

She took one look at me, then at Cassian, and played her part without missing a beat. “No, boss. I don’t think I’d forget something that important.”

I tilted my head, fixing Cassian with a look of pure, manufactured disappointment. “Huh. Why would you lie to me? You could have just said you forgot. There was no need to lie.”

His eyes bounced between Naija and me.

It took him all of two seconds to figure out exactly what I was doing.

Instead of protesting, he straightened his shoulders. “My mistake. I forgot. I’ll go get it for you now.” He moved toward the door.

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

“Aren’t you going to ask how I take my coffee?” I called after him, pouring every ounce of artificial sweetness into the question. “You wouldn’t want to make another terrible mistake, would you?”

He paused with his hand on the door and glanced back at me. “I don’t need to ask,” he replied, his confidence bordering on smugness. “I know how my wife takes her coffee.”

I gave him a razor-sharp grin. “Too bad your wife isn’t in this room right now.” I leaned back in my chair, enjoying the growing suspicion on his face, and began ticking off the instructions on my fingers. “I’ll have a venti cup with four ristretto shots. Two pumps of sugar-free vanilla, one pump of caramel sauce—not syrup, the sauce. Add oat milk to about halfway, just enough to take the edge off the espresso, then top it with extra-dry steamed oat-milk foam. I want the foam thick enough to hold its shape, but don’t scorch it. Around one hundred and forty degrees is fine.”

I paused, watching his expression deteriorate. “Then a very thin layer of coconut-milk foam on top. Unsweetened. No coconut syrup. I want the coconut flavor to come from the milk.”

His brows drew together.

I smiled wider.

“Finish it with a light dusting of cacao powder, not cocoa mix. And three Ethiopian coffee beans on top. Not four. Three. And make sure the cup has a recycled, unbleached sleeve. Okay. Thank you.”

I turned to my computer screen, my fingers already dancing across the keyboard as if he had vanished into thin air.

The room fell into silence.

I looked up to find him staring at me, utterly frozen, his eyes blinking rapidly as he struggled to process the monstrosity I had just asked for.

“What, is that too much for you?” I rolled my eyes. “Fine, I’ll just—”

“No!” he practically yelped. “I’ll get it. I’m getting it.” He nodded, though he looked utterly lost. Then, after a hesitant pause, he asked, “Could you… maybe… repeat that?”

I let out a long sigh. “Sue me for thinking you were actually listening.”

“I was listening,” he defended, a desperate edge to his voice.

“I have it written down,” Naija interjected smoothly, not looking up from her tablet. “I just sent it to you.”

Cassian fumbled for his device, giving her a grateful nod. “Thank you.”

I sank deeper into my chair and released another heavy, theatrical sigh. “If only I could get my coffee just by wishing for it.”

“I’m on it,” he said, and practically fled the room.

“You don’t feel bad for him, do you?” I asked, not looking up from my screen.

Naija was silent for a moment. “You don’t remember your marriage, but I do.” She paused, choosing her words with care. “I do feel things for him. None of them are pity. Or anything positive.”

A slow smile touched my lips. “Good.”

I walked back into my office after the team meeting, the strain of pretending my memory was intact weighing heavily on me. It had taken everything I had to keep up the performance without slipping. I never could have managed it without Naija.