Page 3 of The Southern Submission

“Fucking Harlowe.” I laugh to myself as I scan the packedcafé for her.

She picked the girliest shit imaginable for whatever she has planned, which I suspect is devious. I don't see Harlowe’s tall stature and supermodel face anywhere as I walk up to the pastry counter and scan the menu on the back wall. Every item is called somethingenchanted, magical, whimsical,or some shit that makes you wonder what they could possibly put in it. Sprinkles and rainbows, most likely. It’ll be a slow death for Harlowe, I decide. Something befitting the lack of normal coffee on the menu. I don’t care if she’s married to my brother or the mother of his children. This is a serious offense.

My pocket vibrates again and I pull out my phone to see a few texts from my brothers.

Zander: RUN. Harlowe’s scheming. This meetup is a trap. She’s going to ambush you.

Hayes: HAHA! I love this for you, Pay. You’re fucked.

Zander: I tried to stall, to give you time to escape. I fucked her into a puddle of submission, but she’s still intent on whatever plan she has to wife you up.

Hayes: This is the group chat, Zand. We don’t want to hear about your sex life.

Zander: It’s inspo, Hater. Pay, you have thirty minutes. Make up an excuse to leave. Save yourself before it’s toolate.

Yeah, no shit.I type out a quick reply as I chuckle quietly. His wife’s a scheming woman intent on seeing my single days end because she’s enjoying matrimonial bliss and thinks me being unattached is an atrocity to the family name. But I’m just as stubborn as she is.

Me: She’s been trying to set me up for two weeks and I’ve managed to evade her attempts. If I can maintain our company image through a mine collapse, having our asses handed to us through public smear campaigns and cyber attacks, I think I’ll hold my own against your wife.

I snap a photo of the gold filigree menu board with the frou-frou drink names and the flowers dripping around it and send it to the chat.

Me: Your wife has horrible taste in cafés. This place sucks.

My phone vibrates a moment later.

Zander: That’s her favorite café. Don't say it sucks or she’ll cut you. Again, RUN.

Hayes: Paige loves their high tea. I refuse to go in. You’re a braver man than me, brother.

I pocket my phone, head to the counter, and smile disarmingly. “Do you make a drink that’s not enchanted? Maybe something befitting an ogre who drinks regular old swampwater or something rather than a pretty princess who wants rainbow sprinkles in their coffee?” I ask the woman in an emerald green dress and—no shit, a sparkly tiara—behind the counter.

She blinks at me and blushes. “Everything on the menu is magical. I can help you pick something if you tell me what you like. To drink, that is,” she says, looking away quickly, flustered by her innocent slipup.

I smile wider and lean toward her, wanting to play with her, but she's already flustered because she finds me attractive and I should go easy on her. “How about a plain iced Americano,” I say to put her out of her misery.

“We have an enchanted Americano. It has cinnamon and nutmeg with a golden cold foam topper.”

I suppress a grimace at her description of the bastardized drink and smile again to keep from showing my bad luck. Harlowe owes me for this. “Why not? I’ll live on the magical side and try something new.”

I hand over my black AMEX as more customers line up behind me, waiting to order their drinks. No surprise, it’s mostly women and girls. I’m one of the only males in the place, and the others are clearly here by force of their partners or daughters.

I give my name before turning away from the counter and discovering my next issue. This café is packed. Groups of women are having tea parties, or taking photos of their aesthetic food and drinks on the tables to post on their socials before they take their first sip or bite. Making pretty drinks and food that customers take photos of and post to their feeds is a great PR move by the café. No wonder Harlowe loves it, being a social media foodie and chef herself.

“Enchanted Americano for Payton.”

I look back at the counter where the barista placed my drink. It’s in a tall glass with a gold-tinted foam at the top sprinkled with cinnamon. I suppress a gag. I take it with trepidation and walk to a table I spotted earlier.

I slide in next to a woman wearing a pink Yankees baseball cap pulled low over her face. Her blonde hair is in a low bun held up by a pen in a way that strikes me as too sexy for how casual it is. It shows off the graceful slope of her neck, looking perfect to stroke a finger along as a reminder for her to relax. She has earbuds in, intently focused, and furiously typing on a laptop. She’s been here for a while, evidenced by the debris of a half-eaten chocolate chip muffin, two glasses—one empty, the other half-full of an iced coffee—and a few crumpled napkins around her computer.

She stands out as the only person working on a computer. This place is obviously a photo op, not used for work, and seeing her with a laptop out on a Saturday while other patrons are here for aesthetic reasons intrigues me. That and it’s the only available spot. Maybe her intense work vibes scared off anyone from taking the table. She doesn't scare me. I work more Saturdays than not myself.

I take a small sip of the Americano and suppress the urge to make a face when I taste the additions that earned it the enchanted moniker. I sigh. It’s the only caffeine I’m getting that won’t come in a teacup or covered in sprinkles. This place is fucking ridiculous. I'll give Harlowe such a hard time when she gets here. I take another sip of the abomination and shudder. It's a travesty to coffee.

A frustrated grunt catches my attention. I look over at the blonde who’s staring in frustration at her laptop, face set in a scowl as the screen displays a page of frozen code instead of whatever she was working on. She taps her fingers on hertrackpad, looking for a way to remove it, but can't get the code to go away. She rubs her face and blows out an angry breath. I watch curiously as she inhales deeply and balls her fists. I can almost hear the silent conversation she has with herself to calm down and approach the situation with patience while she slowly blows out her breath. When her eyes snap open, I know her internal pep talk did nothing to quell the storm of violence she wants to rain down on the misbehaving laptop.

I smile to myself as she quietly starts to lose her shit, smacking the keyboard, clicking on the trackpad, and even hitting the power button, to no avail. The code has frozen her screen, keeping her from her work.

“Come on, you piece of crap,” she mutters, clearly vexed, seeming ready to throw the laptop on the floor at this point. Maybe with the amount of caffeine she’s had, she will.

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