The autumn leaves pirouetted past the frosted window of "Bean There, Done That" café, their amber hues catching the glow of Edison bulbs hanging from exposed copper pipes. Clara Bennett adjusted her oversized owl-shaped apron, her cinnamon curls escaping the hairnet in artistic rebellion. The espresso machine hissed like an offended cat as she wiped down the marble countertop for the ninth time that morning.
"Order up!" The barista's call coincided with the jingle of brass door chimes. A gust of wind carried in a man who moved like a thundercloud - all tailored charcoal suit and stormy intensity. Clara's polishing rag froze mid-swipe as he unfolded a newspaper with the crisp precision of a swordsman unsheathing steel.
"Double ristretto, 67°C, no saucer." His voice held the warmth of a Swiss bank vault.
Clara's knuckles whitened around the portafilter. "Coming right up, Mr. Fahrenheit." The sarcasm slipped out before her brain filter engaged. His steel-gray eyes lifted slowly, tracing her name tag with deliberate scrutiny.
"Miss... Bennet." He stressed the final T like a punctuation mark. "I prefer precision to pantomime."
The café's usual symphony of clinking cups and indie folk music seemed to hold its breath. Clara's cheeks burned hotter than the milk steamer as she fumbled with the grinder. Through her peripheral vision, she catalogued his details - the single silver streak in jet-black hair, the way his left thumb absently stroked a faded leather watch strap, the faint citrus-bergamot scent cutting through coffee aromas.
The catastrophe happened in slow motion. Her elbow caught the caramel syrup bottle. The viscous liquid arched through the air like amber honeyed lightning, splattering across his open financial times. For a heartbeat, the world stopped - syrup droplets suspended mid-air, his parted lips framing an unspoken oath, Clara's mortified gasp echoing off the brick walls.
Then chaos resumed.
"Sweet baby baristas!" Clara lunged with a stack of napkins, succeeding only in knocking over his water glass. Ice cubes skittered across the table into his lap. The man stood abruptly, transforming into a human Rorschach test - dark suit patterned with caramel splashes and water stains.
His jaw worked silently. Clara noticed with absurd clarity how his Adam's apple bobbed when swallowing rage. "Do you," he enunciated through clenched teeth, "always conduct caffeinated warfare?"
The elderly regulars at the corner table began placing bets in whispered Russian. A barista stifled laughter into a milk pitcher. Clara's survival instincts kicked in - she grabbed a dessert plate. "Free tiramisu? We call it 'Oops-Amisu'?"
His left eyebrow arched higher than the Eiffel Tower. "Your damage control needs..." He plucked an ice cube from his collar with fastidious fingers. "...refrigeration."
Clara's nervous laugh came out as a snort. "At least the stains match your personality - dark and bitter?" She clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes widening to saucer proportions.
Something dangerous flickered in his gaze. He leaned across the ruined newspaper, bringing them nose-to-nose. Clara could count the flecks of sapphire in his stormcloud irises. "Careful, Miss Bennet," he murmured, voice like velvet wrapped barbed wire. "I always return fire."
The door chimes jangled his exit. Clara slumped against the counter, clutching her racing heart. Only later, when clearing his abandoned table, would she find the embossed business card weighted down by three espresso-stained sugar cubes:
**Alexander Frost**
CEO, Frost Holdings
[Contact Information]
P.S. Your latte art resembles a constipated duck.