Page 10 of David

It’s rare to spot a Bentley here, not because the area lacks well–off people or the coffee house is not perfect for enjoying a hot drink, but because they usually indulge in their drinks in serene surroundings with people wearing starched uniforms when serving them.

This could be a visitor.

Someone new to town.

Some visitor he is, moving around in a chauffeured black Bentley.

“A medium iced Americano,” a voice filters out of the luxury car.

The voice is smooth and flavorful like whiskey, seasoned with a husky tone, yet I can’t stop myself from thinking it must belong to some entitled dick.

How hard can it be to get his butt out of that comfy seat and get his own coffee instead of asking his chauffeur to do it for him?

I stare at the man listening to his boss’ instructions.

He doesn’t flinch, onlyflicks his chin down before turning around and making a beeline for the entrance.

The doors slide open, and I get a better glimpse of the car while the window promptly moves up.

What did I expect?

And isn’t Americano just black coffee?

A few moments pass before the driver reaches the counter. The girl greets him, and he places the order, making sure the barista follows his boss’ exact instructions.

Apparently, Americano isn’t just black coffee.

Luckily, she is more knowledgeable than I am.It’s espresso with hot water–-well, iced water in his case.

Surreptitiously shaking my head, I move my focus back to my laptop.

If I had almost no inspiration before, now I have even less. If that’s even possible. This privileged, suit–clad man was exactly what I needed to completely lose my focus.

I look down but can’t stop thinking about him, imagining him fiddling with his phone while waiting for his coffee… And that’s if he is alone and doesn’t have some company.

He’s maybe running his fingers through his hair, smiling to himself, impressed with how good he has it while waiting for another grown up man to bring him his coffee.

The swirl of thoughts takes me to a dark place, so I close my laptop and try not to think about the stranger.

Writing a good male lead is like writing science fiction for me these days.

Maybe I should switch genres and write that.

The car door getting slammed makes me move my eyes back to the view that’s killed the last shred of inspiration and my will to work on my book.

The chauffeur is still at the counter, waiting for his boss’ coffee.

In the meantime, his employer has stepped out.

His back is turned to the wall of glass, his phone clutched in his hand and pressed to his ear.

His other hand is tucked in his pocket.

I was right, wasn’t I? About the phone?

I study him with increased interest. Despite having a pang of animosity toward him, a few things make me pay attention.

His suit is divine.

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