by J. J. Bella
“Another stalker, eh?” Sarah said, scoffing. She began to prep her own toast, cheese on one, peanut butter on the other, as Brittany collected her textbooks and prepared to sneak her homework in the corner, out of sight of Ian.
“They’re all the same,” Brittany said, flipping to chapter nine. “Eager. Always with one start-up or another. Always from the ‘Bay Area’ or whatever, trying to make a life on the east coast. It’s disgusting, the fact that all their stories are the same. Like, they’re carbon copies of one another, down to the glasses.”
“Someone’s dark today,” Sarah said, giggling.
“Whatever,” Brittany sighed, beginning to take notes about the various components of interior design. Her pen scrawled over the page, trying to force as much knowledge into her brain as possible. But all she could think, at the end of the day, were the words: “Soy milk or regular? Flat white or latte? Did you want that toasted?” She was poisoned.
“What do we have here?” Ian boomed behind her, causing her to leap into the air. “I don’t think we’ll get anywhere with the lunch rush when you’re studying like this,” he said.
“Sorry, Ian,” Brittany sighed, stabbing the textbook closed. “I’ll start prepping.”
“Homework isn’t for my time,” Ian continued, swiping his hand across his bald head. “All of us, here today—me, you, Sarah—we’ve devoted ourselves to artisanal coffee and all its loveliness. The beans are special, and should create a nourishing experience for our customers. Do you understand? When people come into Blue Line Coffee, they expect the best. And if we don’t have bread prepped—“ He trailed off, his eyebrows dancing atop his forehead.
“I get it, Ian,” Brittany said, heading toward the refrigerator, where she retrieved a large, shiny bowl filled with flour-coated bread dough.
“We’re getting a new shipment today. From Florida,” Ian continued, suddenly on one of his drawn-out coffee talks. He rubbed his palms together, looking like a child. “I tell you, the minute you sniff these beans, you’ll get whiffs of orange, of chocolate. I know the customers are going to notice a difference, as well.”
As if, Brittany thought. As far as she could tell, black coffee tasted like black coffee, unless you put some kind of milk in it. Then, it tasted like coffee with milk in it. Simple. Easy. Far less complex than, say, design school, which she needed to spend quite a bit more time on if she was really going to pass.
As she began to knead the dough, to the side of the register, Brittany snuck a glance toward Sarah, who appeared to be leaning over something with intense concentration. Ian returned back to his computer in back, muttering about orange beans, and Brittany pulled up on her toes, seeing the magazine between Sarah and the pile of muffins she was meant to be pricing.
“Ah-hah!” Brittany exhaled, through her breath.
Sarah gave her a dark look. “Come look at this,” she murmured, her eyes dancing. “Seriously. You won’t believe some of these.”
Brittany eased in beside her, careful not to flash the flour onto the magazine. The magazine was featuring some of the hottest and richest bachelors of New York City, with CEOs, artists, filmmakers, and engineers, all of them filled with swagger, their eyes seeming to penetrate through the page.
“I hope that Carter guy never ends up on one of these pages,” Brittany joked.
“They’re all so impossibly hot,” Sarah breathed. “Like this one. Garret Brighton. He founded his own business that makes it easier for restaurants to donate food that people give back. I mean, he’s literally saving lives.”
“But you mostly like him because he’s hot. Am I right?” Brittany asked, giggling.
“Of course.”
With another flip of the page, Sarah revealed a man named Paul Le Montaigne. Brittany felt her jaw drop. He was the most handsome man she’d ever seen, with fair skin, dark, almost black hair, and French features, making him look both refined, with a gruff, American-looking hipster beard.
“Wow,” Brittany finally said. She rushed her fingers forward, making sure that Sarah didn’t leave the page too soon. As she read about him, the bell jangled at the door, alerting them of a customer. Neither woman looked up.
“Paul Le Montaigne is from of one of the wealthiest families in New York City. He’s a playboy, once married, who belongs to the family of Le Montaigne Software—a software firm based in Paris. Wow,” Sarah read, shaking her head.
“You said Paul Le Montaigne?” The middle-aged woman at the register eyed them. Drawing her maroon-colored nail across the counter, she looked close to giggling. “A dish, isn’t he? And you know, I’ve heard he’s just moved to the area. To one of the high rises. So who knows? You might even see him around. Oh, and while I have your attention, could I get a flat white and a scone? Then you can go back to ogling one of the most handsome men alive. Thanks!”
Brittany and Sarah snapped the magazine closed and raced toward the espresso machine. The woman had brought a wave of coffee-seekers with her, forcing them to forget about the New York bachelors, about design school, about everything but their aching feet and the smell of coffee. It was just another day.
Chapter Two
Paul Le Montagne laid back in his king-sized, white-sheeted bed, watching the slim, still-naked model ease herself from his bedroom and into the side bathroom, where she cranked up the shower. Giving him a sneaky smile, she began to wash herself, in his full view, bringing her hands across her large breasts, her tight waist, her firm thighs.
She was gorgeous. And yet, in that moment of early-morning confusion, Paul wasn’t entirely sure if he remembered her name. Was it Courtney? Maria? Lillian? All of these names bounced around in his mind, reminding him of all the other forms who’d slept beside him in the previous few years. He hadn’t bothered to keep a record. He hadn’t bothered to consider the idea of falling for them. He slept with them only a few times, then tossed them out—ensuring that love wasn’t a part of the equation. Usually, his reputation preceded him.
They knew what they were getting into.
As the model continued to cleanse herself, Paul reached into his side table, drawing out his phone and checking emails, growing bored. With a thrust of her hand, the model stopped the rushing water, drew a towel from the side hook and wrapped it around her body. Taking long, gazelle-like strides, she eased toward Paul, sitting at the edge of his bed as she dressed herself, tousling her hair in the towel. Her back gleamed in the soft, May light from the early morning.
“I had a good time last night,” she offered him, her voice tart and too-bright, making Paul’s ears ring.
“Mmm,” Paul murmured, slipping through his emails with a move of his thumb.
“When will I see you again?” she asked, buttoning the last of her dress buttons, just over the crest of her cleavage. Her face, cleansed of makeup, looked perfectly ordinary now—in complete contrast from the one on the recent sports’ magazine cover. Although, he knew, they were one and the same.
“I have quite a few trips back to Paris lined up,” Paul affirmed, knocking his phone to the side.
“Sure. And when will you be back?” she tried again.
Paul shrugged slightly, his strong, thick muscles pumping up to his ears. “Not sure I can answer that without talking to my secretary first. You want me to call her?”
The model rolled her eyes, giving him a wry smile. “I see,” she murmured, knocking her head toward the door. “I’ll just let myself out, then, shall I?”
Paul’s shark-like white teeth crept into a smile. “That would be wonderful, Cynthia. Thank you.”
“It’s Denise.”
The woman’s heels clattered across the penthouse floor, toward the elevator, where she disappeared from his sight forever. The moment the elevator doors clipped closed, Paul had already forgotten her: the curvature of his thighs, the way she’d cried out when they’d made love against the windowsill. All of it was distant, ghost-memories.
Finally, he was alone.
His phone be
gan to blare, then. The vibration shook through his legs and across the mattress. Reaching toward it, he felt his nostrils flare at the appearance of that villainous name: Elena. His ex-wife.
The affair had been brief. Seven years ago, now, when they’d met eyes at a gala event in Paris—in the seventh arrondissement, in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. She’d worn a shimmering, silver gown, which fluttered at her feet; her breasts had crested above the beading, and her eyes had been secretive, dark, as if she could tell him the story of his future. He’d whispered into her ear as he’d walked past, telling her that everyone else in the entire gala event couldn’t hold a candle to her. He’d slipped a card into her thin fingers, telling her “Room 808. The penthouse. You can’t miss it.”
For the next six months, Elena and Paul hadn’t existed without the other: always with Paul’s strong, rippling muscles wrapped around her thin frame. They’d vacationed on yachts and flown to South America and spent an entire three weeks in a French chateau, sipping champagne deep into the night. When she’d informed him she was pregnant, he’d been overjoyed, delivering over 100 bouquets of roses to her modeling shoot, and then asking her to elope with him, “to make things official.”
For some reason, he’d always chosen the “romantic” route with Elena. The stuff he’d seen in the movies. As if theirs was a fictional love, one that could last forever. Ha.
Their marriage hadn’t even lasted past their baby’s first birthday. 24 years old and divorced, Paul had grown bitter and resentful, throwing himself entirely into his career and into raising his child, Lea, who he doted upon. Elena had grown wicked with each passing year, no longer holding any resemblance to that stunning vision at the gala, and ensnaring him in her grasp—ensuring he paid more than enough for her to raise their child, and for her luxurious lifestyle. The champagne and roses hadn’t stopped. They’d just stopped coming directly from Paul, out of love.
“What is it,” Paul boomed into the phone, feeling a sense of foreboding.
“Ah, what a remarkable greeting,” Elena said. He could feel her eyes rolling, even across the city. “It’s always a pleasure, Paul. Really it is.”
Paul sighed, leaning his face into his hands. After a long pause, he softened his voice, trying to work with her. “I’m sorry. All right. What do you need, Elena?”
“Well, namely, your check hasn’t yet arrived for the month,” Elena said, her voice still tart.
“That’s ridiculous. I sent you the amount a week ago,” Paul boomed.
“That was only half. Don’t you remember, I need a bit more this summer? Lea’s been enrolled in something of a musical summer camp, and they expect parents to payloads. And you know I don’t have that kind of money lying around, the way you do.”
“You would if you didn’t live in a penthouse on the Upper West Side,” Paul said, his face growing hot.
“So you want your daughter to grow up in squalor, is that it?”
“Jesus, Elena. If you could just write me an email asking for money, instead of calling, like I keep asking you to.” It was as if she took pleasure from their conversations, continually goading him until his heart hammered in his chest. It took him hours to calm.
“It’s better to have contact. My therapist says so,” Elena responded.
“Well, what does your therapist say about me not being about to see Lea, huh? Because I’ve been delivering all the money you’ve been asking for over the past months, but I haven’t seen her. That’s ridiculous, Elena. When we first started this arrangement…”
“I can’t discuss this now. Not without the lawyers,” Elena said, tossing his comments away like trash. “But on to another thing. I’ll be at my mother’s all net week while mom’s on vacation.”
“Wonderful. Really great to know where my daughter’s going to be, even if I can’t see her. Thanks.” His words were icy, unguarded, now. He couldn’t hold himself back.
“You should have thought about that before you went along with what’s-her-name while we were still married,” she boomed, nailing another rusty nail into the coffin of their relationship. It was long-buried, but she continued to bring this conversation to the surface, pointing at the mold and railing it against him.
“So you’re going to do this, huh?” Paul asked, incredulous. “Because you know I could just as easily bring up the truth, without all the fiction you’ve formed in your pretty little head, Elena. You know as well as I do that I didn’t pick up with Gretchen until after I’d moved out. And that I caught you with your personal trainer when Lea was sleeping in the next room!”
“That’s preposterous. You saw nothing,” Elena blurted.
“I saw your breasts, moments before you pushed them back in your sports bra. I mean, after all these years, Elena, how can you still refute the truth? That you were cheating on me far before I was ever cheating on you. If you could even call what I was doing cheating, since we were properly separated at that point.”
Elena began to sniffle into the phone, showing some semblance of actress skills, which she’d used in exactly three commercials since Paul had known her. Two of them had been for window cleaner.
“Jesus, and now this. When I know, almost for a fact, that you’re sleeping around with Jack,” Paul continued, tossing from his mattress and standing, feet wide apart on the hardwood floor, his toes digging deep. “Listen. Don’t call me again unless you want to discuss me seeing my daughter again. Need I remind you that she’s half mine?”
“I’m not sleeping with Jack—“ Elena protested.
But Paul had already hung up the phone, smashing it against his mattress and watching it bounce against the soft, cloud-like comforter. His blood hammered against his eardrums. Slipping his long, thick fingers through his jet-black hair, he began to mumble in French. “Merde. Elle est une personne terrible…”
Tossing himself into the shower, he began to prepare for his meeting later, at the New York Le Montagne headquarters in Manhattan, far from his gorgeous nook in Williamsburg. He dressed in an immaculate suit, slipping gel across his hair and assessing himself in the mirror, trying not to think back to that fateful day: when he’d discovered his lovely wife, in the arms of another man.
Not since that day had he allowed himself to feel anything like love.
Tossing from the high-rise apartment, he blinked into the bright light of this day in early May, and then darted down the road, passing start-up assholes in horn-rimmed glasses, speaking enthusiastically about their five-year plans and their musician girlfriends. In that moment, he realized he needed a cup of coffee more than he ever had in his life.
Chapter Three
The lunch rush was winding down. Brittany found herself carrying several coffee mugs, tilting in all different directions. They clattered together ominously, making her cling to them tightly, anxious they would blast to the ground. Sarah snuck up behind her, making a roaring noise, trying to frighten her.
“Don’t you even dare,” Brittany said, her eyes flashing. “If Ian catches me breaking another mug around here, I’ll be fired.”
“You’re right. What if some of the shards get into his perfect, artisanal beans?” Sarah joked, collecting half of the pile from Brittany’s quivering hands.
Ian had sped off to make a delivery, leaving the girls alone at Blue Line—sharp-tongued and ready to talk shit about their most inconvenient coffee shop gig. As Sarah began to scrub at the coffee stains, Brittany whipped around to begin refilling the window with baked goods—muffins, scones, all things she hadn’t allowed herself in the months since she’d begun working there. “I gained five pounds when I first started,” Sarah had told her, her voice low and anxious. “Just be careful. Many baristas have fallen off the wagon of their best-laid diet plans.” To this, Brittany had laughed wildly.
“I just want to finish up these dishes so we can get back to the important work of ogling those assholes in that magazine,” Sarah called to her, chuckling. “Forget design school. Do you think we could major in r
ich businessmen?”
“Ha,” Brittany laughed. “I don’t know how I’ll pay my bills with that.”
As she arranged the muffins: raisin, then craisin, then chocolate chip, she heard the jangling of the bell at the door. With a sigh, she turned toward it, ready to take on another group of wide-eyed, hungry customers, coming to whoosh her into another rush.
But when she glanced up, she found herself gazing into the gorgeous, penetrating eyes of the most handsome man she’d ever seen in her life. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark eyebrows that seemed to have a life of their own. His features were sharp, vaguely European, and his suit was immaculate, showing the grandness of his wealth. Stuttering, Brittany greeted him.
“He—hello,” she said to him, tossing toward the register. “Welcome to Blue Line.”
She continued to gaze into his eyes, sensing an electric spark gravitate up and down her spine. He was a good deal older than her, perhaps 30, and seemed to evoke an air of grandeur and know-how. Noticing her anxiousness, a smile stretched across his face.
“Hi there,” he said, his voice deep, gravelly. “Looks like the place just emptied out.” He gestured back, toward the side tables, still filled with leftover plates and forks and crumpled napkins.
“We had quite a rush,” Brittany whispered, knowing she sounded foolish.
“Good. I have you all to myself,” he said.
Brittany felt her heart begin to beat rapidly, rabbit-like, against her ribcage.
“I’d love a latte,” he continued. “If you can spare the time.”
“Of—of course,” Brittany stuttered again, almost leaping toward the espresso machine and beginning to brew the beans. Continually, she glanced up at him, as he sorted his bills in his massive, leather wallet. His nails were smooth, clean, connected to the firmest, largest hands she’d seen in her life—hands that could control you, when they wrapped around your waist.
