8. Hayden

EIGHT

HAYDEN

Juliana is anything but discrete.

Standing at the empty counter, I check my watch again. I'm just like any regular café customer awaiting service. Aside from the fact that, from the corner of my vision, I make out two heads peering through a little window. Do they not realize how thin that door is? I can hear every word they're saying.

It's him.

No, it's not.

Yes, it is. Look at him! Who else looks like that?

A smile twitches my lips, and when I remove my sunglasses, I earn a squeal.

Go take his order.

What? No way! Why me?!

Because he's obviously here for you.

It's just a coincidence.

Right, right.

I'm serious!

It's going to be fine. Just put your hair down and—

I flick my gaze, catching Juliana's stare. With mortified shrieks, they duck their heads.

Oh my god, oh my god, he totally saw us!

No, he didn't.

Girl, are you blind? He looked right—

I clear my throat loudly.

There's a pause in their discussion. Black hair creeps up the circular window, higher and higher, until I meet a pair of hooded eyes wearing false lashes, who I presume is Mei. With another gasp, she disappears quickly. A girlish pep-talk follows, which Juliana counters with strong objections. Then a decision is made—which Mei makes on her own, by shoving her friend out the door.

Juliana stumbles into the bar area, narrowly tripping over a wet floor sign. Eyes wide like an owl, her hair's a frazzled mess, and her glasses slip half-way down her nose. A snarky comment is seconds from darting out of my mouth, when it's rudely interrupted by the most offensive noise.

EEEEE, ERRRRR, EEEEE, ERRRRR...

We only stare at each other, as the entire café slows to a standstill.

The ambient music fades, transitioning to the next track. Chatter dies out on a whisper. Coffee buffs turn their heads. Even the constant hum of the city outside seems to hush. And in walks that cringe-inducing, socially paralyzing, skin-crawling awkwardness. A feeling so suffocating and foreign that I find myself praying the floor turns into quicksand.

The instant the squeaking subsides, I practically choke out my order. "I'll have a vanilla latte with a shot of espresso."

At the edge of my vision, Mei peeks through the window, driving my pulse higher. It's still so fucking quiet, which is no thanks to Juliana, who only looks at me with a million thoughts bombarding her brain. Just... blank. I'm on the verge of a heart attack, before the music picks up slowly, as does the chatter.

As if zapped by lightning, Juliana springs into action. She bats her hair and fixes her glasses, suddenly unable to meet my gaze.

"Is it always so hard to get service at The Caffeine Cove?" She glares at me, shooting a thrill down to my bones. "Well hello to you, too."

"Why are you here?" she hisses under her breath, wary of her friend's obvious eavesdropping.

"I was in the area."

She deadpans, to which I reply with a polite smile. Rolling her eyes, she grabs a paper cup off the stack—

"My order's not to go."

Her hand freezes midway. "Why not?" she clips out.

"I'd like to enjoy the atmosphere," I say, my tone oozing sarcasm.

With a bored sigh, I lean against the counter, forcing my head on a swivel, only to come to the horrifying realization that I might actually like what I see. Although it's the polar opposite of my typical scene, The Caffeine Cove has its charm. A vintage charm, to be precise, with a truly impressive attention to detail.

Unique tiles grace the flooring, boasting a black-and-white checkered pattern with streaks of marbled gray, and dark oak woodwork accents the bistro tables, cross-back chairs, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that house hundreds of leather-bound novels. The place is like a thousand-piece puzzle—the longer I look, the more discoveries I make. Small knickknacks, brick accent walls, hanging wall china, taper candles, period artwork, Tiffany lamps, floral curtains...

I manage to pull myself away.

Did I just let some dusty old books win me over...? Shit, I think I need to cleanse my eye sockets at a nightclub.

Clearing my throat once more, I curve my lips back to their permanent smirk with a wink. "And I'm here to enjoy your company, of course."

She huffs in annoyance, selecting a ceramic mug. "Our meeting isn't supposed to be until tomorrow."

"Is that so? Gosh, I think I got the days mixed up."

"Well, maybe you wouldn't have, if you'd actually cared to text me back these past two days."

Guilty as charged. Radio silence is my M.O. Maybe because...

Rule #4: A playboy never texts back.

Poor girl should know that by now.

When I don't reply, she secures some metal thing into the espresso machine, cranking so hard I'm surprised the handle doesn't snap in two. The machine's hum soon masks her voice. "You can't show up unannounced after five years, drop a bomb on me, and then ghost me."

"Woah, woah. I didn't ghost you. I did text back."

Her eyelids fall, as she breathes deep. "Oh, you responded alright. To my walls of text with the letter K."

"I neither confirm nor deny such claims."

She mumbles what I presume to be a string of curses, only for the machine to quiet and confirm my assumptions. Rolling my lips, I bite back a laugh at her obvious restraint. She's like a little volcano on the verge of eruption.

I know I probably sound like an asshole—well, I definitely do, seeing as I am one, more often than not. And if someone were to overhear, I couldn't deny them my real reason for grabbing a cup of coffee at this particular coffee shop. To fuel my amusing habit of terrorizing Juliana.

Well, at least that's what I told myself on the drive over here, instead of needing to make the photo I've been staring at for two days straight a reality.

As she pours my coffee, I take my time giving her a once-over. Just like her Charmr profile, she wears a modest amount of makeup, glasses, and a basic tee beneath a striped apron. A far cry from how she looked at dinner, but no less distracting.

She twists on her heel, aiming for the back wall, and my lips part. Those are new. My gaze falls lower as I appreciate her yoga pants. Tight and gray, they hug her hips and perfect ass, which jiggles with every step. My jaw locks as she stands there, working on something I can't care to look at. By some miracle, I pull myself from my hypnosis, right before she turns back around.

"That'll be seven-fifty." She passes the cup across the counter.

I raise an eyebrow to the perfect white tulip drawn on the surface. "Impressive. That has to be the best coffee art I've seen," I say, and I mean it.

To my surprise, she thanks me with a shy smile, sweeping a loose bang behind her ear. "Cash or card?"

Flipping open my wallet, I offer her a card. Without a glance, she grabs it instinctually, but pauses once she carries its full weight. Her gaze flicks to the card, her arm still outstretched, suspended midair, and when her eyebrows arch upwards, satisfaction pools low in my gut.

Although my family's fortunes are no secret to Juliana, she's been keeping her distance, but a Black Amex is a powerful reminder. You see, when people refer to the status symbol of a black card, they don't mean just any black card, but the black card. The American Express Centurion Card. Exclusive and invite-only, the Black Amex is offered to high-net-worth individuals who meet a certain spending and income threshold. A level which isn't actually specified but my trust fund stipend covers.

A modest two-hundred thousand.

Per month.

So, I'm not all that surprised by Juliana's common reaction to seeing a Black Amex in person. But, for some reason... as I cock my head... it looks good between her fingertips.

Snapping out of her daze, she speeds through the payment process, working the tablet in front of her. I watch her intently as she nibbles her lower lip, until the tablet chimes, finishing the transaction.

"I like the sight of that," I murmur.

Peering up at me through her thick lashes, she taps her glasses into place, drawing attention to the freckles dotted along her nose and cheeks. "Of what?"

"You, swiping my card."

She flinches, her mouth plopping open on a silent exclamation. As her jaw snaps shut, my eyes search her green ones, capturing the shock flashing in them. "U-uhm," she stammers. "Here's your check." She slides the paper across the counter, my card placed on top.

"Thank you, Jules."

Turning quickly, she bee-lines straight to that awful door, which still harbors a lurker behind the window.

"Wait." She halts at the sound of my voice. Eyebrows cinching, I inspect the check, then the counter, finding no jar. "Is there nowhere to tip?"

"... No, there's not." There's a hint of ire in her tone.

No tips? At a coffee shop?

"Well, that's kinda odd. Why the hell not?"

She swivels, all remnants of her awkwardness disappearing as she folds her arms. "The owner thinks tips deter customers from returning."

I scowl. What the fuck??? How does she make any money, then? She's supposed to work retail, in the city, without any tips? "What kind of backwards, twisted shit is that?"

She shrugs, seemingly saying it is what it is.

I fish out my wallet again. "Then I'll tip with cash, and tell your punk-ass boss I'm returning with more." I press three bills flat on the counter.

"Thank you, I'll make sure to tell her." She giggles, reaching for them. "But you really don't have to—" She stiffens. "Uhh... did you mean to do that?"

"Do what?"

"Hayden, those aren't singles." She hands them back, a genuine laugh echoing between us. "Seems someone is used to tipping at other establishments."

I look at the bills with confusion. "I don't see the problem."

She blinks. "You tipped me three-hundred dollars, in cash, for making a latte... You're aware I'm not a stripper, right?"

"I am. Because if you were, I'd let you keep my Black Amex instead, only if you promised to leave on your apron."

To say the way she gapes at me is like I hit her with a ton of bricks would be an understatement. More like I threw the entire house. But as much as I'd like to stay around and soak it up a little longer, I need to keep her wanting more.

"Is your lunch break soon?" I ask her stunned expression, taking a sip of my coffee. Slurping sounds bounce between our silence. "Oh, good. Let's bump our meeting to today, then." Another taste test, this one coupled with a smoldering gaze. "I'll be expecting you at my table."