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The far wall has open shelves displaying coffee mugs, assorted coffee beans, and the shop's merch. Low murmuring voices blend with the soft indie music playing overhead. And the smell of freshly-roasted beans permeates the air.
I wait in line and order myself a large iced chai, looking at the sign behind the counter with all the different latte specials they have this month.
The barista is nice enough when he takes my order, but I wouldn't call him friendly. I pull a ten dollar bill out of my back pocket and hand it to the guy behind the cash register. His name tag says Trevor, Barista of the Month, andask me my favorite drink.
I nod toward his name tag. “What's your favorite drink?”
“A special k,” he answers without really looking at me, too busy getting my change.
“Oh. I don't know that one. What's in it?” I don't even know why I'm asking, other than polite conversation, I guess. I always like the idea of trying new drinks more than I actually like the new drinks.
“One pump white mocha, one pump regular mocha, one pump peppermint. Served in a small cup, over ice with skim milk,” Trevor says in a tone of voice like he's already recited it twenty times today and hands me my change.
“Oh, sounds fun.”
“Name?” he asks, his attention focused on pulling a cold-drink cup from underneath the counter and grabbing a marker from his apron.
“Evangeline. E-v-a-n-g—”
“Wait. Like Evangeline Carter?” he interrupts me, giving me a wide-eyed stare.
I tuck my hair behind my ear and lean forward a little. “Uh, yeah.”
“Oh shit,” he mumbles. “Shit, shit, shit. He's gonna kill me. Shit.” He's talking under his breath, hurried whispers drenched in anxiety.
The back of my neck starts to sweat a little and I pitch my voice low. “Is there a problem?”
His head snaps up to look at me now, like he forgot I was standing there. The fakest smile I've ever seen spreads across his face, but the edges are pinched with worry. “Problem? No problem. Just shit—hold on.”
He presses some buttons on the cash register, the till popping open a second later. He pulls out a ten and hands it to me. “Please don't tell him.”
My brows crash together as my hand closes around the bill. “Tell who?”
He takes a hasty step backward, his hand outstretched. “Nothing, no one,” he says, his words tumbling together. “I'll be right back with your drink.”
“Wait,” I say, shaking my head. “I haven't paid.”
He takes two steps to the left, placing him in front of the big espresso machine. “Yeah, I, uh, forgot that the person in front of you wanted to pay. One of those pay-it-forward things, ya know?” He forces a laugh, puts his head down and busies himself.
“Okay.” I drag the word out slowly, letting my confusion bleed into the sound.
I glance over my shoulder, raising my brows at the woman behind me. She doesn't react, her attention glued to her phone. I turn around to face the barista again, but he seems determined to ignore me.
I shuffle down to the end of the counter with a strange sense of unease settling in my stomach. I don't know what all of that was about, but it feels off.
I shake my head and lean my shoulder against the wall. I shove one hand in the back of my jean shorts, crossing one ankle over the other. My phone vibrates inside my other back pocket, and I slip it out.
My worries melt when I see a text from Nova on my home screen. I flick open my phone, my smile growing when I see what he wrote.
Nova: What are you wearing
Amusement and adrenaline ignite, one after the other, my body remembering what happens when Nova sends flirty texts. Fuck it, I played then, and I'll play now. I have a sneaking suspicion I'll always play when it comes to Nova.
Me: Clothes
His reply is instant, like he was watching his phone and just waiting for me to respond.
Nova: Take them off
