2. Juliana

TWO

JULIANA

"You WHAT NOW?!"

My palm shoots to my lips, far too late to stop my shriek now echoing through the little coffee shop. Fortunately, The Caffeine Cove is well past its morning rush, leaving the judgment of two side-glancing customers as my only consequence. Although they're seated on the farside of the store, it's enough to set my cheeks aflame, since the shop's the size of a shoebox.

That's The Big Apple, for ya.

Sporting a matching apron, Mei smirks from across the table, noting my blush. "Juliana— Juliana. Girl, breathe. It's seriously not that big of a deal."

"Not a big deal?" I hiss under my breath. "Since when is signing your best friend up for online dating in secret—and against her will, might I add—not a big deal? Here I was, thinking that pic you took of me yesterday was for one of your cutesy scrapbooks. You know how I feel about those apps. I'm not trying to meet a guy that way. Besides, I'm too—"

I stop my rant short, as a sticky gooeyness clings to my skin. My head snaps downward, to my poor ham-and-cheese sub I'm squeezing to death. Sighing heavily, I release the mutilated sandwich, snatching some napkins with aggression.

So much for my peaceful lunch break.

"Busy?" Mei finishes my point with pursed lips, her lash extensions somehow amplifying her sass tenfold. "Yeah, you always say that, Miss No Time For A Relationship. Which is why you should entertain something fun. Keep things light. Flirty. Spontaneous. No commitments..." She leans closer with each buzzword, her eyebrows raising higher and higher, like they're reeling me in on a fishing line. When I don't bite, she shrugs, flashing her signature dragon shoulder tattoo. "I mean, everyone needs a quickie now and then."

My face scrunches up.

I don't do quickies. In fact, I don't do anyone. Mei knows that, always has since we met years ago at Columbia University, but that's never hindered her efforts. See, Mei doesn't judge my virginal status. Instead, she takes it as a challenge, a problem in need of fixing, as if ignoring my V-card may just poof it from existence.

Not that I can blame her determination—Mei is the older, more edgy sister I wish I had. But she's never gone this far.

"Thanks, but... I think I'm good for now."

I avoid her stare and retrieve a hefty laptop from my backpack. The beast takes up half our bistro table, and with one press of the power button, fans roar beneath the keyboard, loud and wheezing, the sound as familiar as it is cringy. Look, I wouldn't call my laptop a hunk of junk; it's just the cheapest model that can do what I need it to do. Which is allowing me to program and manage the most important project of my life—my second source of income, the leech of all my free time, and the culprit of my non-existent social life:

Cosmic Kitty Defense.

Yes, you read that right. No need to pass over a second time. It won't prove any more enlightening than the first.

From the corner of my vision, Mei folds her arms as I shift into autopilot mode and boot up my necessary programs. The notorious indie game developer trifecta—Github, Visual Studio Code, and Unreal Engine.

The first to track changes and backup my code to the cloud, so five years' worth of blood, sweat, and tears isn't lost when this baby inevitably dies on me. The second to, well, code. And the third allows access to a massive toolbox of game dev features, all of which help make Cosmic Kitty Defense—or CKD, for short—the mobile app that it is today.

Initializing the testing environment, I switch to the mobile viewer and click play...

Take, for example, the graphics rendering feature, which loads up the visuals at the start of each match. A pixelated grassy field, a cute farm in the center bustling with dozens of kitty cats, and a frazzled grandma in her nightgown, encircling her home with a pitchfork. In seconds, the scheduler kicks in, spawning a wave of alien foot soldiers around the perimeter, who all begin creeping toward the farm, with the horrendous intentions of— audible gasp —abducting kitties.

And they will, one by one. Unless Granny Mabel, controlled by the player, stops them. But don't fret over dearest Mabel. Although she may appear outmatched against the ever-growing wave of alien kitty-nappers, she possesses an arsenal of her own, one that expands with every extraterrestrial she foils. Granting her—and her beloved kitties—weapons like the paw-some plasma cannon, the catnip cluster bomb, the purr-fect laser pointer, and soon, the new feature my small-yet-devoted fanbase has been waiting weeks for...

The kitty litter sand trap.

Excitement sings through me as I pull up the code responsible for the sand trap. I've been testing it over the last week or so, tweaking and making minor adjustments, and I'd say it's about ready for—

"Aren't you the least bit curious about who you matched with?"

My fingers stall, hovering over the keyboard. Matched...? My head snaps up. "I thought you only made my profile."

A mischievous grin blooms across her lips—she's got me hooked. Another shrug. "Let's just say, I vetted your playing field."

More bait.

I bury my head once more. "Not interested."

"No? Not even about..." she hums, her acrylic nails tapping against her phone screen. "Hunter?" She whistles—actually whistles —at the sight of him. "Wow, look at that hair. And those forearms. Bet he could really throw you around..."

I grind my teeth, all but failing to tune her out.

"Then there's Sean. He's got that tall, dark, and handsome vibe going for him. With that bone structure, he might as well be a young Henry Cavill..."

Curiosity sparks in my gut, but I keep typing.

Mei rests her chin in her palm as her nails tap dance once again. "Next up is Lucas." She sighs longingly, and it takes every fiber of my being to stare straight ahead, my lines of code slowly turning into gibberish. "Then Lamar... And, oh my, how could I have forgotten Xavier? One look at him and you'd be sprawled between his bed sheets after half a glass of wine—"

"Alright, fine." I abandon my work, finding Mei's eyes sparkling with delight. "I'll take your word for it. I matched with some hot people." The notion tastes sour on my tongue, as I'm ninety-nine percent positive Mei's over-exaggerating the quality of my matches. "So what? It's not like I'm going out with any of them. You might as well—"

"Yes, you are."

I blink. "Huh?"

"You're going on a date, Juliana."

My heart thumps anxiously. "No, I'm not—"

"Tonight."

"What?" My cry echoes through the café yet again—that's to my luck, now empty—as my chest heaves up and down. "That's not possible. I haven't messaged a single one of them."

"You're right. But I did."

My jaw drops, threatening to slap against my keyboard.

"Oh, come on. Don't give me that face. Like you would've ever messaged them."

My lips purse. "You're right. I wouldn't have. Maybe because I never would've been on the site in the first place. Let me reiterate—I want to meet someone the old-fashioned way."

Her hand lands on her hip, signaling the onset of one of our customary bouts of wit. "Sure, sure. Keep spouting that nonsense. What about that guy who gave you his number while we were on shift last month?"

Oh, boy. Not this again...

I refrain from rolling my eyes, even though, deep down, I sense the tsunami of truth that's moments from crashing over me. Because I did receive a customer's phone number—a really attractive customer, too—on a napkin he slid across the counter before exiting The Caffeine Cove with a wink.

My latte flower was cute, the note read, but the barista who brewed it is even cuter. Call me, if you'd like to share another.

Maybe the whole pickup line on a napkin thing was a little silly. But it worked. I wanted to call him—and I almost did that same night. Had his number dialed and everything. Until those slimy, intrusive thoughts came rushing in, right on queue, and convinced me otherwise.

He only wants one thing from you, they said, like little devils on my shoulder with no angels to match. An attractive guy like him, with the way he made the first move so confidently? He's definitely had practice. And you have none.

I brushed their words off with a forced laugh. I have too much on my plate right now, anyway, I told them, before the napkin—and the potential of a new connection—was lost in my wastebasket.

Mei seizes my hesitation, using it to push her point further. Humming, she taps her chin. "Braxton was his name, yes? He was a bit older, but what's not to like when he was so easy on the eyes? And even better, a spur-of-the-moment meet-cute in a cozy coffee shop, with a sweet napkin icebreaker that's straight out of a Hallmark movie? Well, I couldn't conjure up a more old-fashioned scenario for you, unless I had the producers right here next to me."

My mouth opens on a retort... then snaps shut. Dammit. "Okay, I know when to admit defeat—but that doesn't mean I'm going on a date tonight."

"Oh, you're going." She rests an arm across the backside of her chair, wearing an expression that says her queen is already in checkmate. "Or else."

My eyes narrow. "Or else, what?"

"Or else I'm not covering any more shifts for you."

I audibly gasp. Now that's playing dirty.

And Mei knows it, too, because she quickly adds, "Not until you go on some sort of date. You don't have to bag the guy, but at least make an effort to advance your love life. Or give Braxton a call. One or the other."

I don't have the heart to tell her where his number ended up, but that doesn't simmer the annoyance splintering across my skin. "This is getting ridiculous. I don't have to—"

"What do you think you two are doing?" A hiss sounds behind me, the shrill voice raking up my spine. Mei's eyelids droop slightly, her face flatlining in the presence of our manager, Meghan, whose presence alone rolls in a dense smog, clouding the joy of those caught up in it. She stops two inches from our table, crossing her arms.

Even though I'm not doing anything wrong—I still have another ten minutes of my lunch break—my blood pressure spikes. I hate confrontation. Always have, always will.

With my gaze downcast, I watch her kitten heels tap impatiently. "I'm taking my lunch break," I mumble.

"Are you now? Well, I would've never guessed. To me, it looks like you're working on that stupid game again."

My eyes flicker from Mei, who's silently debating whether to throw hands, to our manager. Only two years our senior, Meghan really is an attractive girl—or would be—if it wasn't for the scowl permanently marking her lips.

Lifting my head, I hold her stare as my small act of defiance. A fire ignites within me, begging me to go on the offense for once. But it's unwise to pick a fight with my boss, so I hold my tongue. When in reality, it's just cowardness, a lack of guts. In my fuming silence, I anticipate her next round of insults. Something along the lines of you're only wasting your time, or who would play something so childish? Or, her personal favorite, you'll work here forever...

When I break her stare, she smirks. "People come here to enjoy a cup of coffee, Juliana. Not to watch some astro cat disaster." Snickering, she flicks her head toward Mei. "And is this where you're supposed to be? Your break isn't for another hour."

Mei surveys the room, her gaze wandering between the clusters of vacant chairs and barstools. "Sorry, Meghan," she murmurs, but her apology lacks any genuine remorse. "I was just—"

"No. I'll stop you right there. If you have time to chitchat, you have time to clean. Now get back to work." The second she twists on her short heels, Mei scowls, flipping her the bird until she disappears into the backroom—where she'll do short of nothing. Unfortunately, Meghan's laziness will never be reprimanded, not when her parents bought out the place and let her run it the way she sees fit. Must be nice.

Standing, Mei rolls her eyes. "You really want to spend more time with her?"

I nibble on my lower lip. Hell no.

"Fine. I'll go."

She smiles brightly. "Good."

Sighing, I outstretch my hand. "Let me see who I'm going with."

But Mei whips her phone to her chest, hiding the screen like it's some precious relic. "No can do. That's the best part. It's a blind date."

"I'm going on a blind date ?" I ball my hands into fists beneath the table, stilling their nervous tremble. One thing I hate more than confrontation? Surprises.

"Well, a one-sided blind date," she corrects, as if that does anything at all to calm my anxiety. "I did say I vetted your playing field, didn't I? Just think of me as your personal matchmaking service." She winks, tapping on her screen. "Let's just say, out of all the hot guys you matched with, none of them came close. And I got a suspicious hunch he's rich—you know how fine-tuned my radar is with that kinda thing. You'll thank me later."

I scoff. I couldn't care less about what this mystery man has in his pockets, but curiosity gets the better of me. "And what makes you say that?"

She twirls a strand of hair, clearly loving that she's landed me in such a predicament. It's been her number one goal for years. "Well, for starters, most matches on this particular app choose casual first date spots. Grab coffee at a café, take a walk in Central Park, meet up at a bar, that kind of thing. But your match must really want to impress you—he's taking you out to a restaurant, a nice-ass looking one, too." Her gaze turns dreamy. "Can't say I'm not a twinge bit jealous.

I'm going to throw up.

"Can I at least know his name?"

"Hayden."

My stomach drops. "Uh... Hayden-who?"

"The app doesn't show last names, for obvious reasons." She gives me a puzzled look. "Why? Do you know a Hayden?"

"Oh, no," I lie, concealing the truth that I spent my childhood alongside the son of one of the wealthiest families in the country. "I was just curious."

Well, that's an odd coincidence, I think, as a swarm of images flood my brain, all replaying the last time I was alone with Hayden Kingston. My brother's best friend. Who certainly has more experience than the charming man who slipped me a napkin, maybe more than anyone in this entire city. But luckily, common sense swoops in, banishing the thoughts at their root. Because, in a city of over eight million strong, that's all it is.

A coincidence.