Page 13 of Coffee Break with the Billionaire

There’s not even a McDonalds here.

It’s like one of those little Italian villages that serve dinner out of the back of someone’s house.

It’s not as slow moving though; the line jumps quickly to my turn. It’s not Silas—sad—or the short girl, but a woman with brassy blonde hair from a bad dye job and heavy eyeliner that makes her look about ten years older than I imagine she is.

She also looks even more bored than I am, constantly checking her phone on the counter beside her.

That all changes when I give my name and she does the most dramatic double-take I’ve ever seen, even counting the time I walked around Soho in a bralette. “You’re Fenella Carrington?” she practically shrieks.

“No,” I say automatically, taking a step back.

Already, I imagine phones are out, filming, taking pictures. Telling the world where I am. “No, I’m not.” I usually give a fake name at Starbucks since there aren’t many Fenellas who order pumpkin spice throughout the year. There aren’t many Fenellas, period.

Thanks to my grandmother for my so very unique name.

“You are?” Everything about the woman is wide open—eyes, mouth. Even her nostrils are flaring. Her name tag saysNathalia, and I really wish Nathalia weren’t working today.

“Are you telling me or asking?” I demand.

“I’m…telling.”

“I know my own name, thank you very much.”

She frowns. “You are, aren’t you?” I look over but Silas has disappeared. Not that I looked to him to rescue me but—

Okay, maybe a little rescue. He looks like the rescuing type. “Now you’re asking,” I say coolly. “Can I have my drink?”

Nathalia blinks, mouth still open. She seems a little older than my usual fan, more like one of the conservative Karens who criticize every step of my life. The incorrect use of bronzer and unshaped brows also suggests she doesn’t follow old makeup tutorials. “What did you want again?” she asks. “I was distracted.”

“Pumpkin spice latte, with two pumps and an extra of vanilla, oat milk, unicornfroth.”

Granted, a latte isn’t a simple drink but it’s one of those with a three-inch order attached. But where I stand gives me a perfect vantage point to watch her totally mess up my drink.

Three pumps, so that’s going to be really pumpkin-y.

“Vanilla,” I remind her as she gives a pump of caramel. “And oat milk.”

“You said almond,” Nathalia says as she pours almond milk into the frother jug.

“No, I said oat.”

“Are you allergic?”

I want to say yes. “I don’t like almond milk.”

She holds it under the steamer spout. “But if you’re not allergic, it doesn’t matter. Try it this way, you’ll like it. In fact, you can make thisthedrink of the fall… I’ll give you a drizzle of caramel over the foam—oh, and maybe I’ll add a shot of peppermint. No, lavender.”

“No thank you.” But it doesn’t matter—she adds two vigorous pumps. “I’m not drinking that,” I declare.

“You have to. I made you a custom drink. You have to try and I’ll video—”

She clearly knows nothing about keeping a low profile. “No.”

“What do you mean, no? Do it for Silas.”

Who is this person? She presents me with the cup with a flourish. “Try it. Love it, and I’ll film you.”

Nathalia isn’t going to like what I have to say. But as I’m revving up, she gets called away by the irritated short girl.

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