Page 7 of My Unhinged Alphas
She stares at it. Then at me. “It’s acceptable.”
Acceptable.
I resist the urge to bow. “Have a wonderful day,” I say, which is barista forplease leave.
She takes the cup and floats away, presumably to complain on Instagram about how her barista ruined her day.
Jess leans over. “Too tan?” she whispers.
“So you heard that, huh?” I say, rolling my eyes.
She wipes down the counter. “Kind of hard not to.”
I smile. “Apparently we’re matching lattes to her aura now.”
Jess snorts.
I wipe down the counter, tuck a loose curl back into my ponytail, and take a sip of my own coffee that has gone lukewarm but still tastes like survival.
This is my life. Foam art. Student loans. Tips that fluctuate based on weather and human decency. I’m good at this job. I can read an order before someone finishes saying it. I can pull a shot that tastes like it means something. I can smile through almost anything.
What I cannot do is afford to quit.
The bell above the door jingles again, and I glance up automatically, ready to say hello.
For just a second—just a flicker—I feel like I’m being watched.
I shake it off.
Sleep deprivation. Too much caffeine. That’s all.
“Welcome to Second Circle,” I call out, already reaching for the next cup. “What can I get started for you?”
* * *
Lunch break at Second Circle Coffee isn’t really a break.
It’s a temporary ceasefire.
We sit on overturned milk crates behind the shop near the delivery door, because the actual tables inside are reserved forpaying customers and people pretending to write novels. The alley smells like roasted beans and hot asphalt. Someone nearby is burning something that definitely isn’t incense.
Jess is cross-legged on the crate across from me, scrolling aggressively through her phone. Mara is leaning against the brick wall, eating fries out of a paper bag like they personally offended her. I’m holding a turkey sandwich that I forgot to toast. My apron is still tied around my waist because I’m too tired to pretend I have a life outside foam.
“This is depressing,” Jess announces.
“What is?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“You.”
I take a bite of the cold sandwich and chew slowly. “I love how supportive you are.”
Jess tilts her phone toward me. “Kindred. It just launched in the city. Everyone’s on it.”
“Everyone” means three influencers and a guy who once yelled at us because his cappuccino foam wasn’t symmetrical.
Mara is scrolling with the intensity of someone conducting espionage. “You are doing this,” she says.
“I am not,” I reply, dipping a fry into ketchup with surgical precision.
