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I check the barista for a name tag, but he’s not wearing one.
The Suit’s a regular. And guessing by the way Carlos leaps into action to prep his order, he tips well.
Dammit.
“Kiera’s usual as well?” the barista asks.
I raise my eyebrows, surprised a woman would put up with this man long enough to develop a “usual” at his favorite coffee shop. Then again, the dating field in New York is abysmal, as I know first-hand. Whoever the poor woman is, I can’t judge her too harshly.
“No,” the Suit says shortly. “And I’ll cover whatever this one is having.” He gestures vaguely toward me like I’m a bug he doesn’t care enough to swat.
“No,” I say, annoyed. “He will not.”
I’d hoped standing up for myself would involve less complaining, and more, you know,winning.
But if I can’t win, the Suit doesn’t get to either. I’m not letting this man assuage his guilt for being a grumpy asshole. I’m notthateasily bought.
When I hear the price for my coffee and pumpkin spice bagel, I almost regret my pride. My plan to take a well-paying job at a soulless marketing firm, so I can save up enough to start my own graphic design business, is going to backfire rapidly if I keep having mornings like this.
I join the Suit waiting at the end of the counter to pick up our drinks. Like most New York cafes, the space is small, and I’m standing close enough to smell his cologne, or soap, or whatever it is that makes him smell like Eucalyptus and sandalwood. I make a note to tell my friend Maddy, who works for a sex-toy company and keeps a running list of the sexiest things a man can smell like.
Not that I think the Suit smells sexy.
Carlos puts a drink on the bar, and I snatch it before the Suit can.
Victory, I think. And immediately I feel a little stronger, tougher, more formidable. I wonder if this feeling is why men are obsessed with winning.
“Hey,” the Suit says, his voice low and stern enough to give a woman fantasies. Not me though. I am fantasy free.
“That’s mine,” he says.
“No, it’s mine,” I say, taking a swig of coffee. And then I’m coughing and gagging because of how black and bitter it is.
So much for the victory tasting sweet.
“Never mind,” I croak, as Carlos sets my bagel and coffee on the counter. I pass this coffee to the Suit. “This one’s yours.”
He looks down at the lipstick stain on the coffee lid with distaste. Then his phone buzzes, and he swears.
He takes the coffee from me, and my stomach does a weird buzzy thing when our fingers touch. Probably leftover adrenaline from standing up to Mr. Tall and Powerful.
“You better not have any communicable diseases,” he says. Then he guzzles the caffeine, his mouth where mine was a second ago. He strides out of the coffee shop, the door swinging closed behind him. The bell hanging above the door chimes like it’s sayingGood Riddance.
I realize my phone is vibrating, letting me know my ride is here. I rush out the door.
At least I’ll never see him again. That’s the nice thing about New York—you never run into the same stranger twice.
The sleek blackrideshare is parked in the street, leading the cars behind it to honk and swerve. I yank open the passenger door and let out a startled, “gah!”
The Suit is sitting in my seat.
I don’t havetimefor this.
“Get out,” I say. “This is my ride.”
“No,” he says. “This ismyride.” He reaches for the door handle and tries to slam it. I resist, from the other side.
The struggle is not exactly dignified, as we both tug back and forth on the door. He clearly goes to the gym more often than I do, but he’s sitting down in a plush car, whereas I am standing and can put my whole weight into keeping this goddamn door open. I hear him grumble something that sounds likeWhat the hell is wrong with you?
