Page 3 of Coffee Break with the Billionaire

The sprinkle of rain has picked up, adding to the general crappiness of the night. These shoes are not meant for this weather, a surprise for Las Vegas, but neither is what I’m wearing—my Stella McCartney purple velvet flares and brand-new vest, which isn’t really a vest but mesh covered in Swarovski crystals. It sparkles prettily in the headlights, but also moulds to my torso when it’s wet.

Of course I didn’t bring a jacket because that’s what drivers are for, to keep you out of the rain.

More cars are stopping and there are many arms, with phones, hanging out of these cars as Tiger is recognized.

Which makes it worse because no one is recognizing me. I’m famous too. Granted, it’s more for my father’s money, but I’ve been on the cover of forty-six magazines and have over seventeen million followers, so hello—look at me!

That makes me sound vain, and I’m not that self-absorbed. I’m just really mad at Tiger.

Tiger catches up and reaches out a tattoo-covered hand to me. “Babe.”

I jerk away, stepping back into the path of an oncoming car, which swerves around me. There is more shouting and a scream of excitement. Another fan. “Don’t babe me. Three girls? And Luna Birch?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Tiger tries hard to sound innocent but the guilty expression on his face says differently.

“Are you an idiot? I saw thepictures. Luna posted all about you kissing her! What are you thinking?”

“Fenella!”A woman shrieks from across the street. “I love you!”

I smile and wave but turn back to Tiger with a frown.

“I didn’t think we were exclusive.” Tiger holds out his hands with an appealing smile. And heisappealing if you like a gaunt frame covered in tattoos and piercings. His eyes are a strange silver-green, his lips are full—albeit with a double hoop on the bottom one—and the shock of platinum hair suits him.

He’s the lead singer of the band with the most downloaded song on Spotify this month. Tiger isappealing.

At least he was.

I hold up my hand with the three-karat,square-cut pink diamond ring that Tiger presented me with nine days ago. Nine days! “Not exclusive?” I parrot. “What do you think this means?”

I shriek the last part, like a hyper fangirl. But it’s still not enough, so I take off the ring and throw it at him. It bounces off his cheek. And leaves a scratch.

“Jesus!” Tiger slaps a hand on his cheek before scrambling for the ring. It’s so big that it’s not hard to find on the street.

“Babe. Fenella. You’re making a scene,” he pleads.

“Yes, and I’m very good at it.” A group of teens passes us, not even bothering to hide the fact they’re filming this. One of them has a bottle of Pepsi, and I grab it from his hands. He gapes at me as I give the bottle a good shake and spray it all over Tiger.

Now Tiger is the one shrieking as the cold carbonated soda drenches his expensive shirt. “You should write a song about me. Like you promised. Only now it’s going to be about an angry ex-fiancée!”

I push the now half-empty bottle of Pepsi back at the guy with an apology and a hundred-dollar bill I had in my back pocket.

And then I walk away, leaving Tiger in the middle of the street.

Taylor Swift would write the heck out of this song.

Chapter two

Silas

“An extra pump ofpumpkin spice, please, Silas. And ooh, those cinnamon rolls do look good this morning. One of those, too, please.”

I am not exceptionally fond of pumpkin spice.

I don’t like pumpkin spice and I like everything: rain on Sunday mornings, coffee breath and the way tourists leave Canadian pennies in the tip cup.

Just means there’s more to go in the jar at home.

From September 15 to American Thanksgiving, there is a cloud of anticipation every time the door to Coffee for the Sole opens. It’s autumn and customers want to put an extra pump of pumpkin spice into everything—coffee, hot and cold, chai tea, regular tea, and even matcha. That combination should be illegal in the coffee shop world.

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