One Bossy Dare: Chapter 1

Some people imagine their life has a soundtrack.

A background score of meaningful songs to pulse and highlight and push along every drama that touches their lives.

Not me. My life has always had a smell trailing it like sweet perfume, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

I never get down to business until I’m adrift in coffee-scented heaven.

“Thanks for letting me in early, Wayne. It’s easier to focus before you’re officially open.” I brush a thick strand of dark hair out of my eye.

“Anytime, Eliza. I’m a sucker for good company.” Wayne slides a steaming cup of Wired Cup’s latest brew across the counter, picks up a dish towel, and swipes it across the gleaming espresso machine.

It’s a comforting, familiar routine I’ve watched a hundred times.

Bringing the cup to my mouth, I slowly take a sip. This isn’t just chasing a caffeine high. Ever since I had my grandmother’s stovetop insta-coffee, this is my waking ritual.

“Dark roast.” I take another small sip, smacking my lips. “…with notes of cacao?”

“Close! It’s a Sumatran roast,” he tells me, scratching his thick beard.

“Heated at one eighty?”

He gives me a derisive look. Obviously, lady, what kind of newbie punk do you think I am? He doesn’t even have to say it for me to hear him thinking out loud.

When it comes to coffee, it takes one to know one.

I narrow my eyes at him anyway.

“Oh, you’re serious? Yes, all our drinks in this class are heated at one eighty. Company policy.”

“That’s what I thought. This is just…well, better than the usual. I can taste the layers. It’s pretty decent—” I pause, giving him an exaggerated shrug. “For a chain, anyway.”

Wayne throws his head back and barks a laugh.

“Coffee snob. I knew I kept you around for some reason.”

I smile. “I’m not. You know how open-minded I am. Good brews are like fingerprints—they give a time, a place, a memory. You never know where you’ll find yourself until that next cup. Magic.”

“Shit, lady, don’t put me on a pedestal. I’m no coffee wizard, just a guy making a living.” He starts organizing tall bottles of flavored syrups on the back counter.

When Wayne looks back at me, there’s a grimace on his face.

“It’s like the evening crew never even works,” he mutters. “If you want magic, you won’t find it in this crapsack. Maybe try Sweeter Grind. Their coffee slaps and I hear those big-ass cinnamon rolls they’ve got are to die for.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Dude. You’re not supposed to be pimping the competition.”

“Eh, they don’t pay me enough not to. But listen, I can’t talk as much as I’d like today. I have this meeting soon with management. I’m probably gonna get a second asshole ripped in my skin if I don’t get this place in shipshape. Evening crew always makes us look bad.”

I nod politely and take another long pull from my perfectly decent brew.

I understand.

What you’re seeing is what Wired Cup has done best for decades—good, easy, reliable coffee without any frills or hipster wackiness. It’s entrenched as the second strongest coffee chain in Seattle for a reason.

The people are a lot like the coffee, too.

Wayne, for instance. He’s a good barista—always remembers my coffee order and graciously gives me this quiet space to think and breathe and experiment—but he takes his job seriously. He’s almost like a battle-hardened soldier who’s numb to the daily grind.

I’d better leave him be. Grabbing the hot cup with one hand and my purse with the other, I slink over to a table against the wall where I’ll be out of the way.

My handbag swings off my elbow, big enough to command its own zip code, banging my hip with every step. As soon as I sit, I let it tumble to the floor and pull out a notebook and pen, along with a small mason jar that holds the goods.

I know.

It isn’t polite to bring other drinks into a place like this—not even beverages I made.

Good thing Wayne doesn’t care.

And Wired Cup is just corporate enough not to make any moral muscles twitch.

I discreetly open the mason jar holding my latest blend for research and take a long, thoughtful sip of the dark, potent liquid inside.

Hello, flavor town.

Population: me.

I’m legit proud of how my fire-roasted coffee tastes smoother than velvet, and it’s about a hundred times stronger than the Wired Cup offering. Smoky, loud, and intense enough to make my toes scrunch up in my shoes.

God.

I’m either way too addicted to playing coffee chemist or in desperate need of getting laid.

My eyes fall to the Wired Cup brew again. Their new featured flavor is definitely good, for a chain. But there’s still something too generic about it.

I pull out a water bottle to clear my palate and then sip from the paper cup for comparison.

Yep. Hints of cacao, faint as a whisper.

That’s the big difference between this new “featured flavor” and their usual drip. The cacao is nice and smooth for a dark roast, playing at being mocha-lite. But you’d better believe the average person still needs two cups of this to get through a morning. I’m sure I’d need four.

It gives me an idea, though…

S’mores coffee.

If I combined my latest creation with just the right sweetness, it could actually work.

I’ve been working on this campfire brew for months, ever since a guy in a homeless camp introduced me to the original version. It gives the beans a unique buzz no chain like Wired Cup could ever replicate if they ever even worked up the appetite for risk.

What if a little cacao is the missing ingredient I need to make this a mouth-gasm?

I smile. A few cacao beans added to the campfire blend, plus caramelized sugar and vanilla. Pair it with a cookie from a Belgian chocolatier to stand in for a graham cracker.

Hell. Yes.

My muse is on fire today. Even if the coffee doesn’t work—and let’s face it, some of my concoctions are pretty out-there—it won’t be hard to find tasters in this town with Belgian cookies attached.

I take a hefty swig from the mason jar, trying not to moan.

So good.

It tastes like a summer camping trip with old-school coffee brewed by a couple of hot lumberjacks in flannel. As a s’mores coffee, it could be devastatingly awesome.

I just need to work on the name.

S’mor’ofee?

Meh, it’s a work in progress.

But it is a summer morning. A peaceful one.

I don’t have any deadlines staring me in the face, so I’m not desperate for caffeine to be functional. And the Wired Cup brew is still warm. I go to the condiment bar, drop in sugar and cream, and sit down to savor the warm coffee with a few add-ins to change the taste.

It’s not Eliza Angelo campfire good, but it’s nice enough.

I start jotting down notes in my worn black leather journal that holds the last three years of my coffee recipes. Someday, my pretties will live for a bigger audience than yours truly and a gaggle of tasters.

On virtual assistant pay, it’ll be a hot minute before I can fund my own shop.

But when I do, I’ll have my drinks and baked goods paired up and ready to go.

“God, Dad. It’s so early and I’m already bored.” A new, squeaky voice drifts through the cafe. It sounds too much like Gossip Girl to be Wayne.

“Destiny, sit,” a man replies gruffly.

I look up from my notebook. The whole vibe in the store has shifted.

Now there’s a tension so thick it could curdle the air. A whole pack of suits are standing in front of Wayne’s counter, clustered together like wolves.

What the hell?

Oh, he did mention a meeting with management and his morning helpers aren’t here yet, which is a little strange. But I sort of imagined the usual middle-aged, soccer-mom-type manager from the franchise.

Not pure Wall Street. Though I wonder about the kid I heard and why’s she tagging along with this school of corporate sharks?

I quickly scan the room.

A teenage girl in a black dress wanders through the tables, empty except for mine. She flops down in a seat at the table across from me with a book—probably because the other chairs are still upside down on their tables. The place isn’t technically open yet.

Interesting.

The gaggle of execs form a neat line in front of the counter. They stare down at everything like they’re after world domination rather than cornering coffee markets.

My thriller brain screams mafia shakedown or CIA sting.

Wayne slides a cup across the counter with a forced smile I’ve never seen on his face.

A tall man with sandy-brown hair seems like the leader of the pack.

He reaches for the drink, flanked by a man on one side and a woman on the other. They both step away like it’s taboo to share the same breathing space with the kingpin.

Here we go. It’s Godfather time. I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse…

His navy-blue jacket strains with packed muscle as he lifts the cup. For the briefest second, his eyes catch mine.

Oof.

Air stalls in my lungs.

I melt into my chair.

Forget the old, saggy middle-manager type who could stand to lose fifty pounds. This guy is younger and infinitely better looking than Marlon Brando, even if his gaze could challenge an actual mafia don.

Sculpted face. Aquiline nose. Eyes stolen from the crisp blue sky.

They hide whatever he’s really thinking about the weird girl ducking down in the corner, startled and desperately trying not to blush.

I mean, he’s not my type—do I have a type?

He’s a human bulldozer stuffed into an expensive suit.

A Franken-hottie machine who looks like he was brought to life by some mad scientist with lofty dreams of crafting the perfect destroyer of ladybits.

For a second, I wish I was that dark-blue jacket hugging the contours of those wound, chorded muscles. But only for a second.

That scowl he’s wearing could scare the paint off the walls.

He’s still giving the whole store the evil eye as his mouth disappears behind the cup in one brutally long sip ending in a displeased groan.

And his manners aren’t any kinder a second later when he yanks the plastic lid off the cup, points at the brew, and says, “You call this a featured roast?”

Oh, God.

My heart stalls.

He sounds like a flipping prosecutor charging Wayne with running over a baby. I’m instantly angry and worried for my friend.

He’ll probably have a horsehead in his bed tonight thanks to this bosshole.

Not fair.

The teenager across from me lowers her book, meets my eyes, and bites her bottom lip to keep from—laughing? Wincing? I’m not sure.

The pained grin she tries to hide shows her dimples.

“Don’t worry. He’s in a good mood today,” she whispers.

Holy hell.

If this is a good mood, what’s he like with a bad one?

He’s rocking the hot villain vibe, at least, but other than that, all I get from him is a modern prick playing at being Ozymandias.

“Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”

My friend and former roomie, Dakota, would be laughing her little poet head off. I just wish I had coffee strong enough to resurrect Percy Shelley and put this guy in his place.

Godfather isn’t the right description with the crap falling out of his mouth. Grumpfather feels more accurate.

I’m surprised he bothers tasting the coffee again.

His posse of suits stare in absolute awe—or is it terror? A couple young-looking intern types behind him shift their weight nervously.

Ugh.

There goes my peaceful morning.

I glance at my notebook again, teething my bottom lip and trying like hell to mind my own business.

I should just finish picking apart this coffee and slip out the back door, leaving Wayne to his fate. He’s a proud guy and we’re coffee shop besties, but not close friends. He wouldn’t want me fighting his battles like an overprotective sister.

At least he’s holding his ground against Crankyface. He has the patience of a monk, really, hidden behind this subtle, eerily calm smile that just looks tired more than anything else. He clears his throat, waiting for the inevitable death by insult.

Grumpfather sighs and pounds the cup back on the counter. “It’s passable. Barely. It’s just not what we’re looking for going forward. It’s remarkably ordinary at best.”

I swallow hard, averting my eyes when Wayne glances over.

It’s basically impossible to concentrate on these notes when his boss sounds as outrageous as he looks.

Also, I’m no fan of rudeness, but this guy is going the extra mile to piss me off.

It’s a chain shop. What does he expect? A handcrafted slow brew pulled from a small batch of hand-roasted beans?

“Ordinary, my ass,” I whisper under my breath, rolling my eyes.

I forget that the girl is still in earshot until I hear her muffled snicker.

“Well, yeah. You’re right, Mr. Lancaster, but—” Wayne pauses. “I can do better. I’m excited for the new drinks, wherever you’re taking us.”

His delivery is so deliciously numb I try not to laugh.

Come to think of it, Wired Cup is where I got my first cup of coffee when I first moved to Seattle. Wayne made it. Coffee shops have more staff turnovers than burger joints sometimes, but Wayne has been here every day for years slinging coffee with a friendly joke or a kind ear, rain or shine or—well, more rain because this is Seattle.

If there was ever a reliable barista grunt, it’s him.

He does not deserve what he’s getting.

Just who the hell does this jackass think he is? By the looks of it, he sits in some office and stares at a screen all day. He wouldn’t know the first thing about making good coffee if it splashed him in his stupidly handsome, growly, grump-face.

He grabs the cup again and sniffs it before passing it to the woman beside him. “Katelyn, have R & D dig up their files on this drink. I want to see what else they were doing in development, if they ever pinged on anything to spice it up.”

Oh, lovely.

So he’s one of those guys. All corporate paperwork and prone to getting pissy when reality won’t conform to models on a screen.

Or maybe he’s just some district manager douchebag.

I’ve known plenty in my odd jobs over the years. I’ve dated them.

They think they poop diamonds, and that gives them the right to order around the underlings.

It makes me a little sick. It also reminds me why I’ll never take a job answering to any sanctimonious jerkwad ever again. They’re too delusional for life.

In the grand scheme of things, what’s a district manager of a second-rate coffee company?

He can’t hear me thinking out loud, though.

He just slurps the coffee again and says, “Goddammit. If our summer depends on this, the Mermaid will eat us alive.”

No joke. The big green mermaid is an international chain.

Wired Cup still owns its slice of the West Coast coffee pie, mostly because the Pacific Northwest doesn’t worship international chains.

“For the record, I followed the exact recipe,” Wayne says, showing some grit.

I smile across the space at him.

That’s the style, buddy. Throw it right back.

“Did you?” Grumpfather frowns.

“Like I said, I can do better,” Wayne starts. “If you want me to throw together a new one with the customizations we like in the shop, I’ll just—”

“To hell with your customizations.” Asshat doesn’t even let him finish. “You’re one barista in one store in Seattle. The Sumatra roast itself is the backbone, and you can’t improve on boring, no matter how well you craft drinks. This bean has already been bulk shipped as far as Boise. I doubt it would taste much better anywhere else. Shit is still shit.”

Yikes! The coffee isn’t that bad.

Squeaky teenager makes a sad hissing sound and shakes her head, flipping her long dirty-blond hair over her face to hide. She drops her book on the table and pulls a phone from her stylish pink purse.

I take that as a cue to grab my own bag and stand.

We’re done here.

There’s no way I can focus with this drama flying around, but before I head out, I march up to Coffee Lucifer himself.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” I wait until blue-eyed death sees me. “What the hell is your problem?”

Wayne’s jaw drops.

I smile at him. Don’t worry, buddy. I’ve got your back.

Grumpfather cocks his head, staring down at me like he wishes I’d drop through the floor.

“Depends. Who the hell’s asking?”

I snort. “I’d like to ask you the same question. I’m just wondering what kind of rich ass-clown gets off on starting his mornings by verbally torturing a barista?”

“The kind who owns the place,” he bites off.

“Oh. Right, right, right.” I laugh harshly. This guy thinks he’s something else, doesn’t he? Talk about exaggerating your title.

Like the owner of the entire Wired Cup franchise—a multi-billion-dollar corporation—shows up in random stores just to grump at people making minimum wage plus tips.

No way.

I’m sure Mr. CEO has flawlessly pressed espresso served on silver platters, all while lying poolside at some exotic villa, somewhere far, far away from here.

“Are you finished? You don’t have to self-insert into business that’s not yours,” he growls.

Somehow, it feels like he grows another inch, towering over me higher with every snappy remark.

“And you don’t have to be a huge jackoff to this barista. The coffee’s fine. It always is when Wayne’s at the helm. He’s easily the best guy here,” I say matter-of-factly.

He stares through me.

“I have nothing to prove to you—whoever the hell you are,” he mutters.

I hold up my paper cup.

“Look. I just had a cup of the same new drink you did. The coffee’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with it. For a big chain, it’s pretty dang good. Now, I’m sorry the coffee isn’t up to your high and mighty tastes, but don’t those come from your recipes?”

His glare hardens, so venomous I have to clear my throat to keep breathing.

“All I’m saying is, you don’t have to scapegoat. Why take it out on the person grinding away to sell your product while he deals with rude customers and scalding hot liquid all day?”

Grumpfather is so not impressed with my feedback.

His eyes never flinch.

The fact that the man could win a staring contest with an owl hints that I should probably shut up and go.

Guess there’s just no reasoning with some people.

Too bad I’m not done.

“Also, I kinda doubt you’d know a good cup of coffee if the beans pelted you in the face.” I fold my arms, stretching on my toes to reach closer to his eye level.

“You already nailed it. Everything that’s wrong,” he says slowly.

“I—what? I’m not sure what you’re—”

But the way his face lights up cuts me off mid-sentence.

When the Grumpfather smirks, he looks like a god.

“‘The coffee’s fine.’ ‘There’s nothing wrong with it.’ ‘For a big chain.’” He throws my words back at me with an icy calmness that sends shivers up my back before he continues. “Very astute observations for someone with no filter. Sales are slumping with the younger crowd. ‘The coffee’s fine’ won’t cut it in a few more years. Nobody under thirty wants to be caught dead with a drink from a big chain in Seattle and Portland. They’re I-G-ing cozy little shops.”

“I-G-ing?” I repeat.

The teenager behind him laughs. “He means Instagramming, but it’s stupid, right? No one in their twenties Instagrams much anymore.”

“Dess, enough,” he snaps.

“Wow. I apologize, mister. Looks like I had you all wrong,” I say softly, my blood heating.

He gives me a questioning look.

“I thought you were just a suit having a bad morning. But you don’t stop at chewing out Wayne. You just have to yell at a kid because she’s right, huh? Oh, and by the way, I’m under thirty and I biked across town just for my big chain featured drip this morning. You’re welcome.”

He flashes the girl an annoyed look. “Everyone’s on Instagram. The metrics don’t lie. If our sales are ever improving, the product has to lead the way.”

My turn. “While you’re stuck on improvements, can we talk about your attitude?”

His lips part, and he stares at me, speechless.

Burn.

“Usually, my ‘attitude’ saves me from taking hideous advice from strangers who feel a burning need to interject themselves into private business.” He scoffs. “Just this once, though, I’ll give you a chance to enlighten me. Where does everyone hang out online?”

“TikTok,” the girl—Dess—and I say at the same time.

Grumpfather glares at me.

In one second, he’s gone from angry demigod to warrior. He turns his head and glances at Wayne before looking back at me.

“The clock app? Why am I not surprised you share a fifteen-year-old’s taste in social media?” He shakes his head.

I roll my eyes right out of my head.

“Someone has to. Just like somebody needs to give you an attitude check. It sounds like everybody else lets you go stomping, snarling at problems. And I haven’t heard a single solution since you started your spiel.”

Uh-oh.

He stares Wayne down again, his nostrils flaring. “I hope she’s not an employee, and if she isn’t—why is she here? This store was supposed to be closed for our meeting.”

Wayne turns beet-red and hangs his head.

“I, uh…may have forgotten to lock up again when I came in this morning. I meant to, of course, but once the doors are open, habit kicked in.” He scratches the back of his neck loudly. “If it helps, Eliza’s a friend. One of our best customers. I didn’t think it would hurt for her to have her coffee here. Uh, don’t fire me?” Wayne throws a nervous look around the room, tugging at the end of his gnarled beard.

Grump-zilla looks me over like he’s examining some squished animal his limo just ran over. “Hmph. Your ‘friend’ might be right about the attitude adjustment needed at our stores.”

Wait, what?

I didn’t say the stores needed an attitude adjustment.

I said he did, but now might not be the best time to point that out.

Because Wayne? He looks like a hardboiled egg dyed pink. And ruining his entire week isn’t what I’m after. I wanted to help him—not get him fired.

“—there needs to be more respect for the rules, for starters,” the Grumpfather says when my ears ping back on the conversation.

The kid behind us mutters something, but I can’t make out what.

I almost regret jumping in and hate that it’s too late to bow out.

I can salvage this, though.

“Excuse me, but Wayne is a gem. He’s the reason this store stays open and keeps half the neighborhood coming back. He’s like a coffee superhero. Don’t tell me you’re going to lay the hammer down on your best barista? If you want to boost business, this is the worst way to do it.”

The stuck-up suit presses his lips together. “I’ve met feral raccoons less frustrating than you.”

I fake a startled gasp, slapping my hand over my mouth. “Oh! Did they bite you, too? Because I have urges.”

He squints in confusion, then lets out a hefty sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re annoying as hell.”

“Cool. You’re Mr. Arrogant.”

He shakes his head slowly. “I should give you a lifetime ban from every store.”

My heart skips a beat. I don’t know whether to laugh or worry or smack this Neanderthal across the face.

“Go ahead. Right after you do, I’ll hop on the Tok and review your ‘perfectly fine big chain’ coffee. I’ll be sure to mention why I’m banned. You want to see big numbers on social media? Just wait for that drama.”

His lip curls, baring a hint of polished white teeth as I inch closer, breathing in his ear.

My entire body bristles.

I want to believe it’s just hot rage as I brush his shoulder—but damn him, those biceps are ripped.

“Are you fucking done yet?” he whispers back.

“No. While we’re waiting for TikTok to blow up, I’ll call corporate for good measure. Someone needs to tell the powers that be that some little pencil-dicked district monster goes around impersonating the owner and harassing customers and senior employees. How does that sound?”

For the girl’s sake, I try to keep it down.

Apparently, it doesn’t work.

A couple shaky gasps spill out of the crowd around us.

He raises one eyebrow. He’s either disgustingly amused or about to shove me to the floor.

Also, he has the bluest eyes God ever made. Annoying.

I wish those eyes weren’t attached to a throat with a tone that’s condescending enough to curl my hair when he says, “When you do that, you’ll talk to Katelyn Storm, my lovely assistant. She handles my incoming calls to corporate. She will tell you that pencil-dicked monster signs his papers with an instrument bigger than an oak branch. Because I’m the owner.”

Eep. I swear, it’s just the anger that’s making me blush redder than poor Wayne.

“You can cut the crap. No way do I believe a CEO of a company this large just walks through into some downtown store. You’re a bad liar.”

For a moment, he stares at me. I’m just waiting for laser beams to shoot out of his eyes.

“You really don’t believe me, lady?” His voice is a rumbling storm.

“Lady? Is that how you talk to your customers? I thought the northwest was more progressive.”

“Huh?”

“You don’t even know me,” I throw back.

“Yeah, and I wish we’d never met,” he whispers with a cutting glance. “You’re right about why chains fail—we don’t know our customer. Where are you from?”

“San Diego, originally. I came here a few years ago.”

“That would explain it. Seattleites aren’t so in-your-face.”

I stare at him, trying to decipher what sounds like a backhanded insult.

A couple of other baristas just trailing in for the morning rush appear behind the counter. They stand around Wayne awkwardly, their eyes flicking to the corporate sharks, wondering what they’ve walked into.

Whatever. I don’t have time to worry about them.

I need to deal with this jerk and scram. We’ve both got better things to do than carry on a grudge match in a coffee shop.

“So you’re saying it’s totally cool to harass customers? That’s not the Seattle I know.” My lip juts out as I hit him with my best resting bitch-face.

“When the customer decides to involve herself in corporate matters she knows nothing about—”

“Oh. Okay. Because you don’t plaster your stores with signs welcoming feedback.” I turn and gesture to one on the opposite wall. It has a smiley face with lightning bolts for eyes and says, Share the Spark! Review us today.

The kingpin stares like he’s trying to decide just how much he’ll have to pay some hitman to chuck me into the Puget Sound.

I’m in this far, so why stop now?

“What? No nasty comeback?” I snap. “Do you have a PhD in coffee chemistry from the U of Ego to go with your area manager role?”

“Eliza—” Wayne clears his throat loudly.

“I’m not a damn manager.” Suit cuts him off. “If you were listening, you’d know I own this chain. I halfway grew up on a coffee farm. So yes, I know more about coffee than some dramatic SoCal girl who grew up lounging around on Carbon Beach and training her mouth to choke on conflicts with strangers.”

Holy shit.

My jaw drops before I reel it in and set my mouth so tight my teeth hurt.

He didn’t.

But he did.

He also made one big fat mistake that’s going to cost him dearly.

“Eliza—” Wayne warns with a choppy wave.

I put up a hand to quiet him. It’s all right. I’ve got this.

Wayne doesn’t need to fight my battles with this rattlesnake of a man who shouldn’t even be in charge of dusting the place.

“Okay, chain owner, if that’s truly what you are,” I say slowly. “I get it. No need to rub it in. You were so busy mastering coffee that you didn’t learn geography, right? Because San Diego is over a hundred and twenty miles from Carbon Beach, genius.”

A collective gasp fills the room, starting with entourage and spreading behind the counter.

One of the young girls on Wayne’s crew bolts, covering her mouth to hold in terrified laughs before she flies out the back exit.

The shop goes dead silent.

All except for the teenager in the corner letting out slow, strained laughter through her fingers.

“Eliza!” Wayne’s eyes are bulging now. His barrel of a chest rises and falls in shallow breaths behind his apron.

Oops. I’ve crossed the line where I’m doing more harm than good.

The Grumpfather clears his throat like he’s been chewing broken glass, drawing my attention back to him.

“Okay, okay.” I hold my hands up defensively. “That came out a little harsh. I’ve submitted my feedback, so if you don’t mind I’ll just—”

“You’re going to rue ever having this conversation with me, I think, when you finally learn the truth,” he rumbles, his brows pulled low like storm clouds.

Hey, at least I tried.

I let out a hissing sigh.

“You want the truth?” I ask quietly. “I’m guessing not, but apparently everyone who works here is way too scared to say it. I don’t have anything to lose except Wired Cup access for life. So, here it is—you, sir, could sink in a pool of perfectly pressed dark roast and not know you were drowning in good coffee. This—” I hold up the cup again. “This serves its purpose, and I know my coffee—”

“And what do you think its purpose is?” he clips.

“It makes Wired Cup what it’s supposed to be.”

He tosses his head impatiently, as if to say, spit it the fuck out.

“Familiar. Comfortable. Easy,” I say. “It’s a decent brew of a decent bean that’s easily accessible to busy and decent middle-class people.”

He exhales sharply. “Forgive me if I don’t find a college kid calling my family’s legacy ‘decent’ until the word loses its meaning high praise.”

I don’t bother telling him to drop the act again. That ship has sailed.

“I’m not a college kid.”

“And I, apparently, am not the owner of this business.”

“Eliza…” Wayne sounds defeated, like a man begging for his life after he’s already been crushed up in a wreck.

Ouch. Now I remember why we’re doing this as I look at him.

He gives me a miserable look and says, “Sorry. I should have spoken up sooner. Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Cole Lancaster, the owner of Wired Cup Incorporated—and our CEO.”

Every eye in the room sticks to me.

I wonder if they can hear the floor crumbling under me.

“CEO? Him?” I hiss, pursing my lips.

Wayne nods heavily.

“Chief Executive Officer,” Lancaster says. Like I don’t know what it stands for.

My eyes follow his voice and land on his atrociously grumpy face again.

Only, this time, he holds out a business card with the Wired Cup logo on it—an elegant-looking coffee cup plugged into an outlet.

I don’t take it. I just read.

Underneath it, plain as day, are the words COLE LANCASTER—CEO.

Before he even speaks, I realize with some horror why I’ve heard the name Lancaster before. When you’re so obsessed with coffee you’ve read the Wikipedia entry for every major brand, certain names stick. The Lancasters are basically caffeinated royalty.

I’m sure he can hear my gulp.

“If you’re any bit the expert you claim to be, I trust you’ve heard of us. My father was the CEO before me. My family founded this company long before it was ever called Wired Cup.”

The woman who stands beside him covers her face with one hand. I can’t tell if she’s trying to hide mortified laughter or disappear.

It doesn’t work. All the other suits burst into laughter at the way she looks.

Umm—well—crap.

Way to screw things up, I think to myself, already dreading what happens if the monster in the suit retaliates by taking it out on Wayne.

Poor Wayne has a sick mother, too. He’s told me about her a dozen times. He needs this job to take care of her.

Yeah, I think I hate myself.

The adrenaline rush from telling this jerk off is infinitely more effective than anything coffee has ever done for me. But knowing I’ve made things worse for someone else turns it into a sickly jitter.

I really, really hope Wayne doesn’t get fired over my outburst.

I stare at his judge, jury, and executioner. Lancaster’s clenched jaw and the crease in his forehead only seem to make his features stronger, more defined.

Does that mean more vengeful, too?

And his body—his wall of angry muscle—tenses the way I imagine men must when they’re stepping onto a battlefield.

Gah, I’m so stupid.

I can barely face this guy now that the consequences are too real.

I don’t know how I can say anything else, but I gather the courage. Even as my face burns ghost pepper hot.

“I should, um—I should get out of here.” My voice is so weak. “Please don’t go firing anyone, Mr. Lancaster. This was all me. Heck, your staff deserves a huge raise for making Wired Cup what it is.”

And certainly for dealing with you, I don’t say.

The suits are still either laughing or staring in abject horror.

Lancaster whips around, throwing an acid glance over his shoulder. “Enough. She said she was leaving. Party’s over.”

They sober up fast.

He made them quit laughing. But why?

That’s almost a decent thing to do, getting a handle on a social situation gone pure train wreck. Nothing about this man seems decent, and why should he be decent to me? I just ambushed him at his business and accused him of lying.

Confusion swirling, I start moving.

“I hope there will be no unhinged rants about Wired Cup online later today?” Lancaster calls after me.

God.

Why haven’t I left already?

It’s the only way to end this conversation and maybe mitigate the carnage. I’ve made a big enough fool of myself already.

What would I even say online?

I’m about to shake my head when I realize this is my chance. I stop, slowly facing him again as I straighten my back and square my shoulders.

“We’ll see. As long as no one’s fired…no rant.”

“You’re negotiating, now?” The way he chuckles drips disgust. “You have no power here, Mystery Mouth.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the deal. Keep your house clean and so will I,” I say, biting my cheek so I don’t sass him harder.

He nods. “Any chance I could convince you to stay the hell out of my stores while I’m at it?”

I shrug. My oversized purse bangs my hip.

“I drink at least six cups of coffee a day. When I’m not home to make myself more, I pop into whatever café is closest. I’m not sure I’ll promise to never visit another Wired Cup again—not unless you ban me.”

“Perish the thought, Miss Mouth. I’ll gladly keep taking your money.”

Apparently, he can play the stupid nickname game too, I guess.

I can’t decide why that riles me up so much as I nod briskly and head for the door.

“Have a good day,” he calls as I lunge outside. I swear, he sounds almost triumphant.

At least a cool breeze soothes my searing skin.

God, Eliza.

How stupid can you be?

Stupid enough to almost get Wayne fired.

But I held back just enough to stop that. I think.

I hope I did, or he’ll definitely be hearing from me again by viral video on clock app.

If it didn’t mean Wayne’s livelihood on the chopping block, I almost wish he’d give me a good reason to go nuclear on TikTok.

Coffee royalty or not, Prince Lancaster needs a class in manners.