Page 12 of Coffee Break with the Billionaire

Tiger is out of luck.

My first stop before my walkabout is Coffee for the Sole.

The heady aroma of coffee greets me, along with the chatter of customers waiting in line or seated at the tables. Two of the leather armchairs are empty by the window, which would be perfect to curl up in, but sit in a coffee shop by myself? That’s something I would do with Lavinia or Rupert. This whole alone thing will take more than a minute to get used to.

The hum of the coffee machine breaks over the background music as I take my place in line. Every single person I make eye contact with—and the place is pretty full—smiles at me.

That will also take some getting used to.

It’s unnerving, but they’re not the smiles of recognition, just pleasant, polite people saying good afternoon. I’m sure it’s a small-town thing, but I can’t be sure.

Behind the counter, Silas moves with an ease that suggests he’s been doing this for a while. He’s got a geek/boy-next-door vibe going on, and the flannel shirts make him seem outdoorsy. The whole package is not really my thing, but he’s certainly nice to look at. Tall and shaggy with hair that needs a cut and some product to put it in place, and green eyes that always look like he needs a nap.

Something certainly keeps that boyup at night.

He-who-is-cute runs his hand through his hair, tousling it like he just woke up and grins at the short girl behind the counter with him. His whole face lights up like she’s the most important person in the world.

I want him to look at me like that.

And I shouldn’t. Why should I want that?

It’s been a week since my discovery that Tiger was a lying, cheating jerk. He sent me sixty-seven texts, full of explanations and remorse, but no real apology. I blocked his number, and unfollowed him on social media—the usual stuff.

Tiger told TMZ that he didn’t understand the exclusivity restraints of our relationship. You give a girl a ring; that means you’re exclusive.

He was in it for the publicity. I know that now.

I’d know it even if everyone didn’t tell me that fact.

Being seen with me can boost a fading career, or jumpstart a new one. I once made Rickie Fowler the darling of the PGA tour for six weeks, showing up at three tournaments and causing fourteen people to be escorted off the green. I don’t know if it was me as his good luck charm, or if he just decided to step up his game, but Rickie made it to the Masters that year. He didn’t win the Green Jacket, but it doesn’t matter because we broke up before the tournament.

Even bad publicity is good, and Opium holds three of the top ten songs on Spotify and Apple Music this week.

Yes, I checked. I didn’t want to but it had to be done.

And Tiger is making the most of it—appearing everywhere he can to promote the group and himself as the wounded boyfriend.

Hecheated onme.

That seems to be forgotten in his narrative. Yesterday, Coral sent me the video of Tiger’s heartfelt plea for me to forgive him for whatever I think he’s done.

No comment from me, because…really?

Plus, my father gave me stern instructions not to engage with the press while I’m here. It was nice enough of Gunnar to offer me safe haven in Laandia, and amazingly kind of King Magnus to issue a four-week ban on any outside press entering the country.

It’s not the first time I’ve picked the wrong guy. Usually, I jump straight to the next mistake while the reels are still viral, but for some reason, I’m not jumping this time. There’s been a long list of men I’ve dated; men who treat me like a princess in public, and the lowly pea under the mattress in private. Men who want one thing from me—instant fame and to rub against my bank account. Men, who don’t care aboutme.

Because of this, I know I wouldn’t have the faintest idea of what to do with a nice guy.

Silas seems like a nice guy, with his flannels and his scruff and kind eyes.

I focus on the rest of the coffee shop instead of wondering if the beard is usual or just because he’s forgotten to shave. He’s very easy to look at but so is the rest of theplace. I’d say eclectic, really going for the small-town fishing vibe with nets and buoys and pictures of boats. The walls are dark blue and decorated with vintage signs advertising coffee and cream and cans of tuna, alongside framed art prints and canvases, and crayon-coloured pictures.

I like the one with the barista holding a huge to-go cup that’s bigger than his head.

There’s also a fish—it’s animated and the head and tail flop as a song is played.

It’s interesting. It might not be my first choice, but there’s no other choice. There’s no Starbucks, no Cha Cha Matcha, or not even the Canadian favourite, Tim Horton’s. Gunnar told me Laandia refuses to allow franchises in the country.

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