Page 8 of Latte Girl
Cold Cuts places his empty mug on the table nexttome.
“That was a latte. It’s espresso topped with steamed milk and just a bit of foam.” I try not to sound like I’m explaining something to akindergartener.
“Very cute. You must know a lot aboutcoffee.”
I blink. “Yes. I’m abarista.”
He chuckles as if I’ve made a joke and walks away, giving me another one of those stomach churning winks ashedoes.
I narrowly avoid puking in my mouth and then start gathering up dishes. It takes about twenty minutes to get everything packed up in the Catering Mobile. Most of the baked goods weren’t eventouched.
I’m about to wheel my way out when I notice a briefcase lying on the table. I pick it up, intending to drop it off at the reception desk as I leave, but then I see the name engraved on the bronze plate attached to thefront.
JordanKnox.
I look around, half expecting hidden cameras to be documenting some kind of prankTVshow.
I run a finger over the letters and then realize what a creepy fangirl I’m being. Tucking the briefcase under my arm, I march the cart out of the room and walk up to the reception desk. The pinched nose woman behind it glances up from her computer screen but doesn’t sayanything.
“This was left in the boardroom,” I say, placing the briefcase on the edge of the desk. “It has Jordan Knox’s nameonit.”
“Oh. Bring it to the nextfloorup.”
Her eyes flick back to her computerscreen.
If the briefcase had any other name on it, I’d consider reminding her that I don’t work for Knox Security and have a cafe to get back to. The second I saw what was written on the brass plate, though, I knew I was going to do somethingirrational.
Leaving the cart next to the elevator in the hopes that everyone who works here is too rich to bother stealing an espresso machine, I make my way up to the floor above. It opens onto a room pretty much identical to the one below, complete with a reception desk and sour-facedreceptionist.
“I’m supposed to bring this to Jordan Knox,” I tell her, willing her not toquestionme.
“Mmm,” she answers languidly. “His office is just backthere.”
I look towards a line of frosted glassdoors.
“Got it,” I say, and speed-walk my way over before finding the one with his nameonit.
I knock and no one answers. I knock again and then move my ear closer to the door, straining to hear anything on theotherside.
Shit. What if he’s sobbing in there? Then again, I am very skilled in the art ofconsolation...
My corrupt mind has started coming up with a very graphic sympathy-turned-seduction scheme, when I lean too hard against the improperly closed door and itswingsopen.
The office is empty. I step inside and, without thinking about what I’m doing, push the door shutbehindme.
The room is on the smaller side. Besides a few basic pieces of furniture, the only things to indicate it’s in use are a laptop and some files sitting on the desk. I should place the briefcase beside themandgo.
Instead, I step towards the floor to ceiling window that makes up the back wall and look out at 19thStreet. The view from up here isn’t any less depressing than the one from Dark Brown. Maybe there’s a place where money can buy happiness, but around here, it can’t even get you adecentview.
I’m about to set the briefcase down when I notice a paper sticking out of the edge of one of the files. I think what catches my attention are the colours. The room is so monochrome it might as well be a scene out of a black and white film, but the inch of the illustration that I can see is red andorange.
I open the file and find a page covered in variations of the same image. It’s the login screen of what looks to be an app. I flip through the stack of papers and find dozens of designs for things like profile pages, settings screens, and notificationoptions.
Then I hear the sound of the door handle turning and freeze, a proverbial deer in the headlights. Like many a deer that later finds itself mashed into the asphalt, I do something stupid. Instead of staying where I am and coming up with a way to explain myself to whoever it is that’s about to come in, I make a lightning fast decision to duck underthedesk.
Footsteps enter the room and pause at the threshold. For a moment I think it’s a visitor who will go away after finding the office empty. Then they continue and someone sits down in the office chair, inches away from my hunched over body. I immediately regret every action that has led up to this moment of my life, includingbeingborn.
I hear Jordan—it must be Jordan— let out a few deep sighs, and I pray to any deity who may be listening that he’ll get up andleave.
