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抰 polite to bring other drinks into a place like this梟ot even beverages I made.
Good thing Wayne doesn抰 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抦 legit proud of how my fire-roasted coffee tastes smoother than velvet, and it抯 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抦 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抯 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抯 the big difference between this new 揻eatured flavor?and their usual drip. The cacao is nice and smooth for a dark roast, playing at being mocha-lite. But you抎 better believe the average person still needs two cups of this to get through a morning. I抦 sure I抎 need four.
It gives me an idea, though…
S抦ores coffee.
If I combined my latest creation with just the right sweetness, it could actually work.
I抳e 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抰 work梐nd let抯 face it, some of my concoctions are pretty out-there梚t won抰 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抦ores coffee, it could be devastatingly awesome.
I just need to work on the name.
S抦or抩fee?
Meh, it抯 a work in progress.
But it is a summer morning. A peaceful one.
I don抰 have any deadlines staring me in the face, so I抦 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抯 not Eliza Angelo campfire good, but it抯 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抣l be a hot minute before I can fund my own shop.
But when I do, I抣l have my drinks and baked goods paired up and ready to go.
揋od, Dad. It抯 so early and I抦 already bored.?A new, squeaky voice drifts through the cafe. It sounds too much like Gossip Girl to be Wayne.
揇estiny, sit,?a man replies gruffly.
I look up from my notebook. The whole vibe in the store has shifted.
Now there抯 a tension so thick it could curdle the air. A whole pack of suits are standing in front of Wayne抯 counter, clustered together like wolves.
What the hell?
Oh, he did mention a meeting with management and his morning helpers aren抰 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抯 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梡robably because the other chairs are still upside down on their tables. The place isn抰 technically open yet.
Interesting.
The gaggle of execs form a neat line in front of the counter. They stare down at everything like they抮e after world domination rather than cornering coffee markets.