Chapter 4
When you pull an all-nighter to write, the next morning feels like being hit by a truck made entirely of regret and coffee cravings. At 6:47 AM, I’m staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, trying to decide if the dark circles under my eyes make me look more like a raccoon or an indie film protagonist having an existential crisis.
“Both,” I mutter to my reflection, attempting to cover up the evidence of my late-night writing session with concealer that’s probably too old to still be effective. “Definitely both.”
My phone buzzes on the bathroom counter, nearly vibrating itself into the sink.
Aaron: On my way to the shoot. Where are you? You sent me a message at 3 AM.
Me: I’m at work. I was writing Chapter 2 until 3 AM.
Aaron: You’re nuts.
Me: I know.
Aaron: Right… Anyway, catch you later.
Me: See ya!!!
I’m too damn tired. I didn’t sleep at all, too wired from writing and too anxious about checking my story stats. Which still sits at two. Not good. I put the phone into my pocket and leave the bathroom.
The early morning light filters through Power Beans’ front windows, painting stripes across the empty tables and chairs. It’s peaceful in a way the place never is during operating hours, like a theater before the show starts. Monica’s here, humming “Tale as Old as Time” while she counts the register.
“Hey, there,” she says without looking up, because apparently she has eyes in the back of her head. Or maybe she just recognized the sound of me almost tripping over my own feet while trying to tie my apron. “You look terrible.” How can she tell without even looking at me?
“Thanks, Mon. You really know how to make a girl feel special.”
“I mean it in the nicest way possible,” she says, finally turning to face me. Her silver curls are especially bouncy today, defying gravity in a way that makes me deeply suspicious of her hair care routine. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The ‘I stayed up all night doing something I’m probably going to regret’ look.” She narrows her eyes. “Please tell me you weren’t drunk texting Marcus again.”
“That was one time!” I protest, even though it was definitely more than once. “And no, I was writing.”
Monica’s face lights up like I just told her I’m secretly a Disney princess. “Writing? You’re writing again? Is it another ghost romance? Please tell me it’s another ghost romance. The last one made me cry for three days straight.”
“No ghosts this time,” I say, starting the opening routine on autopilot: wiping down counters, checking syrup levels, and making sure the espresso machines won’t stage a rebellion during the morning rush. “Just... a story about a coffee shop.”
“A coffee shop romance?”
“Why does everyone assume it’s a romance?”
Monica gives me a look that somehow manages to be both pitying and amused. “Honey, everything you write is a romance. Even your grocery lists read like meet-cutes waiting to happen.”
I’m saved from defending my grocery lists (which, okay, maybe do occasionally include notes like “peaches—the kind that remind you of summer picnics” and “coffee beans—dark and mysterious like a thunderstorm”) by the arrival of our first customer. Mr. Peterson walks in at exactly 7:05 AM, right on schedule, wearing a bow tie covered in tiny coffee cups—his lucky test day tie. Some things in life you can set your watch by, and Mr. Peterson’s morning coffee run is one of them.
“The usual, Charlotte,” he says, already pulling out his perfectly crisp five-dollar bill.
“Coming right up, Mr. P,” I say. As I work, I can’t help but think how this moment would translate to the page—the way his bow tie slightly tilts to the left, how he always taps his foot twice while waiting for his change, the soft smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle when he takes his first sip.
These are the details that make up a life, aren’t they? The tiny, ordinary moments that somehow add up to something extraordinary when you string them all together. Like how I know that on test days, Mr. Peterson will grade papers at his corner table until exactly 8:15, occasionally muttering encouraging comments under his breath as if his students might somehow hear them through the red ink.
When I finish making his coffee, I hand it to him, and he goes to sit down. I focus on my morning routine, letting the familiar motions ground me. The espresso machines need wiping down, the syrup pumps need checking, and the pastry case needs to be stocked before the morning rush hits.
I start with the espresso machines, these temperamental divas that need to be coaxed into cooperation every morning. The one on the left—which we’ve nicknamed Gertrude—requires an especially gentle touch. She’s like that aunt at family gatherings who needs to be approached with just the right amount of deference and flattery, or she’ll spend the whole day making passive-aggressive comments about your life choices. In this case, those comments come in the form of burnt espresso shots and mysteriously tepid steam.
And then there’s the one on the right, Bernice, who’s more like that charming but slightly forgetful grandmother who tells the same stories over and over. She’ll work perfectly fine for hours, steady as a clock, until she suddenly “forgets” how to steam milk and starts making sounds like she’s trying to recreate a jazz solo with steam wand squeals. But I can’t help but be fond of her—she was the first machine I learned on, back when every latte art attempt looked more like abstract expressionism than anything resembling a heart or rosetta.
“Good morning, ladies,” I murmur, wiping down their chrome surfaces with the kind of care usually reserved for priceless artifacts. The cleaning routine is meditative: circular motions, gentle pressure, making sure to catch every water spot and coffee splatter from yesterday’s shift.
Next come the syrup pumps. Each one needs to be checked, cleaned, and primed: vanilla (our most popular, because people are fundamentally basic at heart), caramel (running low, I note mentally), hazelnut (which always makes me think of fall afternoons), and our seasonal specials that Monica insists on keeping way past their intended season because certain customers would riot if we ever took away their peppermint white chocolate capability, even in the middle of July.
The pastry case is my favorite part of the morning routine, though I’d never admit it out loud. There’s something deeply satisfying about arranging the morning’s offerings just so—the geometric precision of croissants lined up like delicate golden waves, muffins creating their own little mountain range of blueberry and banana nut peaks, cookies standing sentinel at attention. It’s like creating an edible art installation, one that will be decimated by hungry customers within hours.
I’m halfway through arranging a new batch of chocolate croissants when my phone buzzes in my apron pocket. The screen lights up with a text from Aaron: On location. Light is perfect. Sending coffee gods thoughts and prayers for your survival of the morning rush.
A smile tugs at my lips as I type back one-handed, my other hand placing pastries: Shouldn’t you be focusing on making the happy couple look happy?
His response is immediate: They’re disgustingly in love. My job is basically to point and shoot at this point. Also, their coffee order for the shoot was *gasp* Starbucks.
I press my hand to my chest in horror: Unfollowed. Blocked. Reported for crimes against coffee.
Marcus: Speaking of coffee crimes, did you check your story stats yet?
Me: No.
I lie, even though I definitely checked at 2 AM, 4 AM, and while brushing my teeth this morning. Still holding steady at one view. It’s fine. It’s totally fine. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither was... whatever this is I’m trying to build.
Marcus: Tell me if something changes. Gotta go.
Me: Bye.
I put my phone away. The early morning crowd will be here soon—the corporate warriors with their pressed suits and complicated drink orders, the college students running on deadlines and dreams, the freelancers who’ll camp out at the corner tables until their laptops die or their coffee gets cold, whichever comes first.
Monica’s still humming, but she’s switched from “Tale as Old as Time” to “Part of Your World.” Her Disney soundtrack progression throughout the day is like a meteorological report of her mood—we all know to watch out when she hits the Mulan numbers, because that usually means someone’s about to get a lecture about life choices and living up to their potential.
I check my phone one more time, but the stats haven’t changed. One view. Probably from some insomniac who stumbled across my story by accident. Maybe he or she didn’t even read it entirely. Maybe they just clicked on it, read the first 100 words, and closed it.
“Stop it,” I mutter to myself, earning a raised eyebrow from Monica. “Not you,” I tell her quickly. “Just... having a conversation with my inner critic.”
“Ah,” she says. “Is she being particularly chatty today?”
“When isn’t she?” I adjust a muffin that’s trying to make a break for freedom from its perfectly arranged row. “Did you know that apparently, it’s possible to overthink the placement of baked goods? Because I’m doing that right now. I’m overthinking muffin aesthetics while also spiraling about my nonexistent readership.”
“Oh, be patient, honey. You can’t rush this. It will come when it comes.”
I’m about to tell her that’s easy for her to say—she has the kind of quiet confidence that comes from knowing exactly who you are and what you’re doing with your life—when the bell above the door chimes.
I turn toward the door, expecting to see one of our regulars—maybe Linda from the real estate office, who always looks like she’s one commission away from buying a yacht, or Bruce the chef from the restaurant across the road. Instead, I find myself staring at a stranger, and not just any stranger.
He’s tall, very tall. Maybe six-foot-eight. His dark hair is short and cropped. He’s wearing a charcoal gray suit that is probably very expensive, and he’s carrying a leather messenger bag. Also expensive.
But it’s his hands that catch my attention—because, of course, they do; I’m apparently the kind of person who notices hands now. They’re elegant but strong, the kind of hands that look like they belong wrapped around a coffee cup in an artsy Instagram photo or maybe playing piano in some dimly lit jazz club. Not that I’m creating an entire backstory for a stranger based solely on his hands. That would be weird. And unprofessional. And exactly the kind of thing I would write about in my story.
“Welcome to Power Beans,” I say, aiming for my usual cheerful professional tone but landing somewhere closer to ‘teenager trying not to sound nervous at their first job interview.’ “What can I get started for you?”
He approaches the counter with the kind of confidence that makes me wonder if he was born in a suit, practicing power walks in the hospital nursery. His eyes—a shade of brown that makes me want to invent new coffee-based metaphors—scan our menu board, where I spent an embarrassing amount of time perfecting my chalk art last week.
“I’ll take...” he starts, then pauses, studying the menu like it’s a complicated legal document. “Actually, what would you recommend?”
Oh no. Oh no, no, no. This is not the time for the Recommendation Question. The Recommendation Question requires personality assessment, taste prediction, and the kind of psychological insight that I’m not equipped to handle before 8 AM. It’s like being asked to read someone’s palm, except instead of life lines and love lines, you’re trying to divine their perfect coffee order.
Monica, who has suddenly developed an intense interest in organizing sugar packets, is trying and failing to hide her amused smile. She knows about my complicated relationship with the Recommendation Question, having witnessed multiple instances of me spiraling into existential crises over whether recommending an oat milk latte to someone who turns out to be lactose intolerant anyway could be considered a form of cosmic intervention.
“Well,” I say, falling back on my usual script, “that depends on what you typically like. Are you more of a traditional coffee person, or do you prefer something more...” I wave my hand vaguely, trying to encompass the entire spectrum of coffee possibilities without actually saying ‘extra’ out loud.
He leans against the counter slightly and smiles. It’s the kind of smile that probably convinces jury members to reconsider their life choices or gets parking tickets dismissed with a warning. “Surprise me,” he says. “Whatever you think is best.”
Right. Okay. This is fine. This is just coffee, not a personality test that will define my entire future career as a barista and possibly my worth as a human being. I turn to our espresso machines, acutely aware of both Monica’s poorly disguised interest and the weight of Suit Guy’s gaze on my back. Gertrude hums to life under my hands, and I try to channel some of her diva confidence.
What do you make for someone who looks like he probably has business meetings in the kind of offices that have floor-to-ceiling windows and views of the city skyline? Someone who wears a watch with which I could pay off my student loans if I sold it?
My hands move almost on autopilot, falling into the familiar dance of coffee creation. Two shots of our house espresso blend (because he seems like someone who appreciates complexity), steamed oat milk (because anyone who wears a suit that well probably cares about sustainability), a hint of lavender syrup (because sometimes you have to take risks in life), and just a touch of honey (because underneath that power suit, there might be someone who appreciates sweetness).
I focus on the latte art, letting the steamed milk flow into a delicate pattern that starts as a heart but evolves into something more intricate—layers of petals unfurling like a flower blooming in fast motion. It’s probably the best design I’ve done all week, which is totally because I’m a professional who takes pride in my work and not at all because I’m showing off for a handsome stranger.
“Here you go,” I say, sliding the cup across the counter. “A lavender honey latte with oat milk. I call it the ‘Trust Fall’ because you either love it or you’re about to question all my life choices.”
He picks up the cup with those unfairly photogenic hands, and I find myself holding my breath like I’m watching a judge taste a dish on one of those high-stakes cooking shows. I notice his cufflinks—simple silver squares that probably have some meaningful family history behind them.
“This,” he says after taking a sip, his eyebrows rising slightly, “is not what I expected.”
My heart does a complicated gymnastic routine. “Good unexpected or ‘I’m about to ask for your manager’ unexpected?”
He laughs, and it’s the kind of laugh that makes you want to collect it, bottle it up, and save it for a rainy day. “Definitely good unexpected. The lavender is subtle... and the honey brings out something in the espresso that I can’t quite name.”
I try not to look too pleased with myself, but it’s hard when you’ve just pulled off what might be the perfect coffee recommendation. It’s like nailing the dismount in an Olympic coffee-making routine—not that such a thing exists, but if it did, this would definitely score a 10 from even the Russian judge.
“It’s the combination of the floral notes with the deeper espresso flavors,” I explain, falling into what Aaron calls my ‘coffee nerd mode.’ “Our house blend has these subtle caramel undertones that the honey just kind of... amplifies. And the lavender adds this unexpected layer that makes you slow down and actually taste what you’re drinking instead of just...” I stop myself, realizing I’m probably one sentence away from writing a dissertation on coffee flavor profiles to someone who just wanted a morning caffeine fix.
But he’s nodding, actually nodding, like what I’m saying makes sense and isn’t just the caffeinated ramblings of someone who spent too much time reading coffee blogs at 2 AM. “It’s like a story in a cup,” he says. “Each sip reveals something new.”
Monica, who has given up all pretense of not eavesdropping, makes a sound that might be a cough but is definitely a poorly disguised laugh. I resist the urge to throw a sugar packet at her.
“That’s quite poetic for 8 in the morning,” I say. “Most people just grunt and point at the menu board until they get their caffeine.”
He smiles again—and really, there should be a limit on how many devastating smiles one person is allowed before breakfast—and sets his cup down. “Well, I’ve always believed that the best things in life deserve a moment of appreciation.” He glances at his watch. “Speaking of time, I should probably...”
“Right,” I say. “That’ll be $7.35.”
He pulls out his wallet—leather, because of course it is—and hands me a crisp ten-dollar bill. “Keep the change,” he says, picking up his cup. “And thank you for the...” he pauses, a hint of that smile playing at the corners of his mouth, “...Trust Fall.”
I watch as he makes his way to the door. He pauses at the door, takes another sip of his coffee, and then he’s gone.
“Well,” Monica says, appearing at my elbow like she’s been summoned by the power of gossip, “that was interesting.”
“That was a coffee order,” I say. “A perfectly normal coffee order.”
“Mmhmm,” she hums, in that way that suggests she’s already planning what to wear to my wedding. “And I suppose you didn’t notice how he kept looking at you like you were about to tell him the secrets of the universe instead of just coffee flavor profiles?”
“He was being polite,” I say, busying myself with wiping down the counter that’s already spotless. “That’s what people in nice suits do. They’re professionally charming. It’s probably covered in Business School 101, right between ‘How to Write Intimidating Emails’ and ‘Power Stances for Corner Offices.’”
“Professionally charming,” Monica repeats, rolling her eyes. “Is that what we’re calling it? Because from where I was standing—which was right here, enjoying every second of whatever that was—it looked a lot like the kind of scene you’d write in one of your stories.”
She’s not wrong, which is exactly why I can’t admit she’s right. Because if I start thinking about how perfectly that entire interaction would translate to the page—the unexpected poetry of his coffee commentary, the smile that made me forget how words work for a solid three seconds—I’ll end up spending my entire shift crafting dialogue in my head instead of actually making coffee.
“Speaking of stories,” Monica continues, because apparently, she’s decided that today is the day to play fairy godmother to my nonexistent romance, “how many chapters are you planning to write before the barista and the mysterious coffee shop stranger realize they’re perfect for each other?”
“Oh my god.” I groan, leaning my forehead against the espresso machine. Gertrude whirs sympathetically. “Let’s just get to work.”
The next hours pass in a blur of orders and names and the kind of organized chaos that makes me grateful for muscle memory. I fall into the familiar rhythm: steam, pour, swirl, serve, repeat.
But between orders, my mind keeps drifting back to the handsome stranger. I find myself glancing at the door every time the bell chimes, which is ridiculous because a) he’s definitely not coming back, b) even if he did come back, he’s just a customer, and c) I really need to stop treating my life like it’s a story waiting to be written.
By the time my shift ends at 3 PM, I’ve convinced myself that the whole interaction was probably less romantic and more routine than my writer’s brain made it out to be. After all, I once wrote an entire meet-cute scene about dropping a blueberry muffin, so clearly, my standards for romantic moments are questionable at best.
I hang up my apron, check my phone one last time (still one view), and head for the door. The afternoon sun has turned our brick walls into burnished gold, and the ivy that creeps up the side of the building is starting to show hints of new growth. Spring in the city always feels like the first chapter of a story—full of possibility and promise and the kind of hope that only comes with new beginnings.
“Same time tomorrow?” Monica calls after me, still humming Disney songs, though she’s moved on to “A Whole New World,” which feels a little on the nose.
“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away,” I call back, pushing open the door. “Mostly because rent is due next week and I need the tips.”
Outside, the spring air is refreshing. It’s time to head home, edit Chapter 2, and post it.
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