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I open the coffee lid and sniff, noticing the coffee is the exact color I want, the perfect distribution of creamer to coffee. Taking one sip, I can confirm it’s my order. Americano from Gold Roast with half an inch of cream, one pump of caramel.
If he found out I like one pump of caramel, Cameron wouldn’t let me live it down.
Pressing my fingers into the Danish, I confirm it’s warmed and my mouth waters.
Who found out my Wednesday order? Who is responsible?
I put the investigation to the side to take a large bite of the Danish, letting my eyes roll to the back of my head. I drank way too much bourbon last night, and my stomach is so hollow and empty it creaks.
Damn, these pastries are good.
My Wednesday order is usually reserved as a mid-week reward for busting out a pain-in-the-ass task. I wait for the breakfast rush to pass, when Gold Roast naturally has a lull around nine-thirty, and I walk behind the buildings on Main Street to avoid prying eyes.
Now I don’t have to, because of a coffee guardian angel. This breakfast gets at least two groans from me, because I don’t have to go out in public and because it’s free.
“Did I get your order right?” a light voice asks from behind me. I jump at least a foot off my chair.
It’s eight o’clock, well before Shiloh’s scheduled shift at eleven. Who let her in? What traitor divulged my order?
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I decided to get you breakfast. I know Wednesday is your usual day and you don’t go until nine, so I made sure to get here before you.”
“How did you get in?”
“A coffee fairy godmother never reveals her secrets,” Shiloh says, folding her arms. “Is it good? I didn’t know you got a pump of caramel in your Americano. I should try it.”
I point a finger before I realize it’s rude, and I lower it immediately. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
“Just because you like something sweet?”
“It’ll ruin my image.” I have one bite left in my pastry, and I shove it in my mouth.Don’t groan, it’ll give her some satisfaction.“You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know. I just thought it would be nice. Bribe you into liking me.”
“It’s a little try-hard, don’t you think?” I brace for a scoff, a reaction that I offended her when she so kindly provided me with my Wednesday breakfast.
I’m such an asshole.
“No, it’s try-just-hard-enough. You’re a tough nut to crack,” she says, shaking her head. “But I’m going to bust that shell wide open.”
I wipe the crumbs from my mouth with the napkin she left for me. I’m fully aware I’m playing into her spiderweb. “Not today, coffee fairy godmother. I’m not your Cinderella.”
“At least you’re talking to me. My access point said that my plan would not work. But I make small goals. Reasonable goals. I was hoping for three sentences.”
Dammit, she won.
“I’ve said too much,” I say, spinning my chair back to my computer. I will never admit this out loud, but I love a good swivel chair.
“Your swivel chair is so smooth. I love swivel chairs.”
This is getting creepy.
“Shiloh, I mean this in the nicest way possible: Thank you for the Danish and the coffee, but please get out of my office.”
“Are you going to the end-of-season party?”
God, another party. This one planned for the day after Labor Day to say thank you to the staff and close early. They usually get way too much pizza from Booker’s Pizza and let the beer flow from the tap. It’s an accounting nightmare, especially when I come into my office with a mound of greasy receipts and tallies that look like chicken scratch.
