The morning rush at Maple Brew Café was always a battlefield, but today it felt like the universe had declared war on Amara specifically.
The hiss of the espresso machine filled the air, mingling with the sweet, earthy scent of roasted beans. Customers pressed impatiently against the counter, waving credit cards and tapping their feet.
The line stretched out the door and wrapped around the corner of the busy street.
Amara wove through the tables with a tray balanced precariously in her hands. Her apron strings had come loose, her ponytail sagged against her neck, and she was balancing two cappuccinos, a caramel latte, and her fragile patience.
"Don't trip, don't trip, don't trip," she muttered under her breath, weaving past a chair that jutted out at the wrong angle.
Her foot caught.
The world slowed down in cruel, cinematic detail. The tray tilted forward, the cappuccinos slid, and the caramel latte leapt from the edge like a kamikaze pilot determined to take someone down with it.
Splat!.
A hot wave of caramel-scented disaster splashed against a pristine white shirt. Papers scattered across the polished café floor, dark liquid bleeding into them like ink stains on snow.
The café fell silent. Conversations died, spoons clinked to a halt. Even the espresso machine hissed quieter, as though it too feared what came next.
The victim straightened slowly, like a man lifting from a nightmare. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a black suit so sharply tailored it could cut glass. The ruined papers dangled from his hand, dripping coffee.
He raised his head, and Amara's stomach dropped.
She knew that face. Everyone in the city did.
Leon Carter.
Owner of Carter Holdings. The man whose name was whispered in boardrooms and whose net worth could probably buy the café ten times over. His photo graced business magazines with headlines like The Untouchable Tycoon and Cold as Steel:
Leon Carter's Rise to Power.
And Amara had just baptized him in caramel latte.
He looked down at the stains spreading across his shirt, then at the papers wilting in his hand. His jaw flexed once, twice, before he spoke in a voice low enough to hush the entire café.
"Do you," he said slowly, lifting the soggy mess, "have the faintest idea how much this paper is worth?"
Amara blinked. Her hands trembled as she grabbed napkins from a nearby table. "I—I'm so sorry! Please, let me—"
She lunged forward, dabbing at his chest.
Big mistake.
Leon caught her wrist mid-motion. His grip was firm, cool, and commanding. "Don't."
Amara froze. The air between them tightened, buzzing like static. His eyes—gray, sharp, merciless—met hers, and she forgot how to breathe.
For a second, she thought he might actually breathe fire.
"It's just coffee," she blurted, her voice a squeak of defiance that surprised even herself.
The corner of his mouth twitched—not in amusement, but disbelief. "Just coffee?" His voice was dangerously calm. "That just coffee cost me three million dollars in negotiations."
The crowd gasped. A barista in the corner muttered, "Three… million?" Someone else whispered, "She's dead."
Amara's mouth opened and closed. She stared at the dripping papers, then back at him. "Three… what? Oh." She winced. "Well… sorry?"
The word fell flat, pitiful against the weight of his glare.
Leon stepped closer, towering over her. The heat of the spilled coffee had cooled, but his presence was scorching. "Sorry," he repeated softly, "won't be enough."
Amara felt her heart thump in her throat. She forced herself to lift her chin, meeting his icy stare. "Look, I said I'm sorry. It was an accident. You can't put a price tag on—on spilled coffee!"
"Three million," Leon corrected, eyes narrowing.
Her cheeks burned. "Fine. Three million. Do you want me to… what? Sell my soul? Because all I've got is student debt and an expired bus pass."
Someone in the back snorted. The silence broke, ripples of muffled laughter spreading through the café. Leon's glare swept the crowd, silencing them instantly. He returned his attention to Amara, studying her with an intensity that made her knees weak.
He shouldn't have been handsome—not with that storm cloud aura—but he was. Strong jaw, neatly styled dark hair, eyes like a frozen river. If statues could glower, they'd look like him.
Amara swallowed hard, clutching the empty tray to her chest like a shield. "Okay," she said, voice shaky but determined. "I'll… I'll pay you back. Somehow."
Leon's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. More like a promise of trouble. "I'll hold you to that."
Before she could respond, he dropped the ruined papers into the trash bin with surgical precision and walked out the door, the bell above it jingling cheerfully in contrast to the storm he left behind.
The café buzzed back to life.
"Oh my God, Amara!" her coworker hissed, rushing over. "Do you have any idea who that was?!"
Amara slumped against the counter, burying her face in her hands.
"Yeah," she groaned. "Leon Carter. And I just dumped three million dollars on his chest."
Her coworker gasped. "Girl, you're either cursed… or about to be really, really entangled."
Amara peeked through her fingers. Somewhere deep inside, despite the humiliation burning her cheeks, a strange spark of curiosity flickered.
Because Leon Carter had looked at her like she was more than a clumsy barista. He'd looked at her like a puzzle he wanted to solve.
And that was never a good sign.
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