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Chapter one
Maddie
“Here we are,” someone yells as the bells on the door jingle and a gust of wind sweeps through the coffee shop. I look up. A group of men in suits enters, and by the looks of them, they’ve had one too many.
“We made it through the storm,” a guy wearing a suit that costs as much as I make in a month says and laughs.
“We can conquer anything,” another one agrees.
“Especially anyone,” the first one shouts, and everyone laughs.
I roll my eyes–why can’t people learn to drink just enough to get them tipsy? Why do they always have to reach the phase where they become unbearable?
I look down at my laptop again. I don’t need a rowdy bunch of guys right now. I need silence. I have to put the final touches on my marketing plan. Well, it’s not a real marketing plan. It’s an assignment I need for school–I’m taking an entrepreneurship and small business management course—but I tell myself it could be real if I ever open my own yoga studio. It will take me years to build a clientele and save enough money, but it could happen. Will happen, I correct myself. After all, the cafe where I’m sitting started as someone’s dream business.
I look at one part of the plan I’ve been reworking a couple of times simply because I’m not sure the budget I’ve allocated for ads is large enough. A loud voice almost immediately breaks my train of thought. “I want an espresso. Make it as dark and gorgeous as you are.”
I look up in the direction of the voice. Sure enough, it’s three of the drunken men in suits. The two others are sitting down.
The guy in front, a sweaty-looking and somewhat overweight man in his fifties, chuckles. “Yeah, I’ll have the same, but make mine sweet.” The barista, Kate (aka awesome human being and the manager of this place), is rolling her eyes. I’m sure she’s heard worse.
“I want in on the action,” one of the guys at the table shouts. “I want mine dark, sweet, and naked, with some whipped cream on top. Espresso con panna.” He laughs at his own joke, and the other guys join in.
Seriously. What the hell is it with men who can’t hold their alcohol?
I return to my laptop, but the words are starting to blur. It’s almost eight thirty, and I’m tired as hell. I have to get this done, though. Tomorrow I have an interview and tryout for a new nanny job, and then I have to teach a yoga class at night. So, I have to finish this now.
I sip coffee and try to get back to what I was doing when I hear a loud crash; I jump in my seat. One of the suits has dropped his coffee on the floor.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he asks, looking at the bewildered barista standing next to him.
Anger flashes in the barista Jen’s eyes. “I didn’t do anything. You just held the cup, and then you dropped it.”
“You gave it to me the wrong way. Now my suit is ruined. I will send you the fucking bill.” Mr. Hot and Bothered says, standing up and glaring at Jen. He’s tall, blond, and decidedly drunk, judging by the way he’s swaying.
“Cool it, man,” an olive-skinned guy sitting beside him says. “It was an accident. We’ll get another, right, cutie?” He smiles up at the barista, white teeth visible. He’s as good-looking as the blond but older–there are silver streaks in his black hair and beard.
“Sure,” Jen snaps as Kate cleans up the mess.
The older guy gives Jen a $50 bill, and she turns on her heels. I guess tips do buy you cooperation. God knows I could do with an extra $50 every so often.
“It was her fault,” Mr. Hot and Bothered says as he sits down, sulking.
“Whatever,” the chubby dude says. “We just need some coffee, and we can get going. Besides, she’s really hot. So, if I were you, I’d behave long enough to get her into bed.”
They all laugh at this, and I shake my head. These are the kind of guys who give middle-aged men a bad rep.
Looking around, I can see some of the other patrons looking as uncomfortable as I’m starting to feel. I’m a regular–this cafe, with its burgundy-colored walls, mismatched furniture, and soft jazz playing in the background, is an oasis among the fancy bars and restaurants around here. So, naturally, I feel protective of the people working here.
In fact, I think this place (Seven Turtles Café) makes managing the “work two jobs, raise your little brother, and study routine” a little bit easier. It’s my calm in the storm–my place to relax and rejuvenate.
And the men in suits are ruining the vibe.
As Kate walks over with the new coffee and Jen starts cleaning the floor, one of them studies Kate. “If I could have someone like you, why would I go home to my wife?”
“Look,” Kate says, “I think it’s time to quiet down. A lot of our patrons are here to work or study or simply catch their breath. Please go to the bar next door if you want to be loud.”
I hope for Kate’s sake that they’ll do as she asked, but I’m not holding my breath. Talking sense to drunk men? It’s harder than getting a three-year-old to stop asking for candy. A lot harder. And I know. I work part-time as a nanny, and I’ve raised my brother since our parents died.
