Page 116 of Hate to Love You
“Abigail?” Trevor asks, turning toward me, and unknowingly pulling me from my memory. “Are you okay?”
It takes me a few seconds to remember what we were just discussing.
Stairs.
And the fact that Trevor’s comment is almost certainly related to whatever abuse he’s sustained at the hands of Jacques who continues to shoot venomous glances over at us.
“That’s happened to me before too,” I say quietly, glaring at Jacques. “Hopefully your stairs get some swift karma.”
Luckily for Trevor, karma’s my middle name.
His eyes meet mine in the mirror again, a look of recognition reflects back at me. It’s interesting when someone realizes what I actually mean by that. Most people look at me differently, but Trevor looks at me with understanding.
With a nod, I step out of the car.
“Wait,” I ask, turning back to face him. “How do you take your coffee?”
“Oh, Miss Wayne, I can’t,” he insists firmly, shaking his head.
This just makes me grin.
Nodding, I walk into the busy coffee shop, sighing only when I see that the line is nearly out the door.
Luckily, because the owner Chloe knows me, and knows who I work for, she immediately looks up from her tattered smutty alien romance and jumps to her feet, waving me over to a separate register.
“Miss Wayne,” she says politely. “Mr. Antonov’s usual?”
I smile.
“Actually no, Chloe,” I say, pulling out Roman’s black credit card. “I believe Mr. Antonov is in the middle of a strict colon cleanse at the moment. Doctor’s orders.”
Her eyes widen.
“Oh…I see,” she says, blinking profusely. “Well, what would you like?”
“Two ham and cheese paninis, one small espresso,” I say, rubbing my chin as I glance up at the menu. “And a double caramel Frappuccino, with whipped cream, and extra drizzle.”
“Coming right up!”
She bounces away to start my order, and I move off to the side, inhaling the comforting scent of freshly brewed coffee, glancing up at Roast’s famous “bean-pipe” roasting system.
Unlike anywhere else in the world, this coffee shop puts their roasting process on display for their customers to see.
Thick plexiglass tubes stand tall like the pipes of a church organ, reaching all the way to the ceiling. Custom-built heaters slowly orbit around the length of the pipe, keeping the raw beans inside rotating and cooking until they have reached the ideal state of roasting. They are then filtered down into the grinding machine behind the registers.
When a customer orders a coffee, the barista selects the size and grind, and the machine dispenses the exact amount of freshly roasted beans. It’s then perfectly ground to the customers specifications, making for the most individualized cup of coffee in all of New York City.
No wonder Roman likes this place. It’s almost fancier than he is.
As I stand there waiting, the beans above me reach their cooking time, and suddenly a loud beeping echoes through the café, signaling that they are ready to be moved.
But it is that beeping, steady and monotonous, that suddenly thrusts me back into my memories…
Beep… beep… beep…
Everything feels heavy, my arms, my legs, my chest as if I’ve been buried alive.
But I am alive…right?