Ava Collins darted through the rain, dodging puddles and the stares of umbrella-wielding pedestrians. Her soaked shoes slapped the pavement as she reached Maison Grise, the upscale café that barely paid enough to keep her lights on. She slipped inside, dripping and breathless.
Clarissa, her manager, raised an eyebrow. "Again?"
Ava gave a sheepish smile. "Subway delays."
"Clock in. And try not to scare the customers."
Ava tied her curls into a bun and slipped behind the counter. The morning crowd buzzed with energy, their designer suits and manicures a stark contrast to Ava's thrift-store uniform.
The bell above the door chimed.
He walked in.
Tall. Tailored. Icy-eyed.
Ava blinked. He didn't belong here—he belonged in a boardroom, not a coffee shop.
"Americano. Black. To go,"
he said without looking at the menu.
She prepared the order, aware of his gaze.
"Do you like working here?" he asked.
"It's honest work."
"It's barely work."
"Rude."
He smirked, dropped a hundred in the tip jar.
"It's not even a fraction of what you deserve."
Then he left.