Dammit.
With a herculean effort, I sit back and shift the gear to drive. We drive in silence, air thick with tension. She sits upright, hands clutching the hem of her apron. Even from the corner of my eye, she looks so stiff, like her entire body is primed to flee the moment I touch her.
God, this little girl.
“You can relax, angel. I don’t bite,” I smirk. Well at least, not yet. If she wants me to, who am I to say no?
She releases a harsh breath and chuckles softly. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I don’t know anything about you except your first name and coffee preference. For the record, I don’t normally drop everything to go with someone. I have more self-preservation than that.”
“Good to know.”
“So…can you at least put my mind at ease and let me know something about yourself?”
Smiling, I shift to neutral at the stop light and lean my back against the window to fully stare at her. She smells of coffee beans, hair sticking to her forehead, and I’ve never seen a more beautiful sight. “Shoot. What do you want to know?”
“Who are you and what do you do?”
“Asking the hard questions, I see.”
She bursts out laughing, and out of nowhere, my chest cracks open at the sound. Everything fades in the background. I only see her. I only hear her. The weight I’ve been carrying for these past few months suddenly feels lighter, almost nonexistent.
Beep!
Emily jumps in her seat and glares at the driver behind us as if he can even see her. This little girl is fiery. I like that. I like everything about her. Jesus Christ. I’m forty fucking years old and acting like a lovesick schoolboy!
I shift to drive and turn right, just a couple of blocks to my building. “To answer your question, it’s Ethan Erickson. I’m a–”
“THE ETHAN ERICKSON?!”
“No need to shout, baby girl. I can hear you just fine.”
But she doesn’t listen. She whips around, jaw hanging open, eyes bulging from its sockets. “The one TIME Magazine called “Billionaire Recluse”? That Ethan Erickson?”
I wince.
I forgot about all those media coverage. My family needed someone as the face of our company, and who’s the better fit for the job than the actual guy who runs it? I don’t know why the press loves me. They barely manage to take photos of me, and when one makes it online, my overpaid PR team will make sure to scrub them off the internet.
“I’m not a recluse. I just don’t like people that much.”
“Right,” she shakes her head and continues to eye me suspiciously.
We’re already here. I park in my designated spot in the basement. It’s eerily quiet this time of day since most of the employees are busy finishing the day’s work. The security guard on duty sees me and tips his hat. When he sees I’m with someone, he quickly looks the other way and pretends he didn’t just see anyone.
We’re halfway to the elevator when Emily realizes she’s still wearing her apron and cap. She rushes back to the car and throws them on the seat before running back toward me. With my hand on the small of her back, I lead her to the elevator and press 1.
It only takes a few seconds before the door opens and we’re greeted by a sight that makes her gasp.
It’s everything her old cafe tried to be. The exposed brick walls, concrete floor, and weathered steel accents form the backdrop. Pendant lights hang from the ceiling. The interior designer did a great job with the earthy colors and worn textures, including the reclaimed wood, mismatched metal stools, vintage signs, salvaged metal fixtures, and repurposed wooden crates. Cozy nooks in the corner with vintage coffee tables and leather armchairs.
By the entrance and behind the counter are blackboards to display the menu. It’s still empty, obviously. But everything’s more or less complete. I have to message Dante and send him a bonus. That boy delivered.
“This is where I’ll work?” Emily says, her voice breaking slightly.
You own this, but I don’t tell her that. She’ll find out soon enough. I don’t want to overwhelm her further. The papers are already drawn up. Everything this cafe earns goes straight to her bank account.
“Yes. Do you like it?”
“Do I–”