Page 6 of My Unhinged Alphas
The last thing I hear before I lose it again is a laugh from behind a mask.
Chapter 1
Lena
Twelve hours earlier.
The espresso machine at Second Circle Coffee screams like it’s being exorcised. Which feels appropriate. I’m three hours into my shift, two shots deep into my own bloodstream, and one passive-aggressive comment away from committing a felony with oat milk.
“Excuse me,” the woman at the counter says, holding up her cup like it personally offended her. “Lena, right?”
“Yep,” I say, glancing down at my name tag. “That would be me.”
“Lena, listen,” she says, disdain in her voice. “This is not what I ordered.”
I look at the sticker. Quad shot, half-caf, extra-hot, oat milk, one pump vanilla, one pump sugar-free vanilla, light foam, cinnamon but not too much cinnamon.
I blink. “You’re right,” I say pleasantly. “It’s coffee.”
Her lips flatten. “It’s too tan.”
Too. Tan.
I glance at the drink. It looks like every other oat milk latte that has ever existed. “I can remake it,” I say, because rent exists and so does my electricity bill.
“I don’t want it remade,” she replies. “I want it correct.”
Ah. One of those.
Behind me, the grinder roars. My coworker Jess catches my eye and makes a tiny cutting gesture across her throat.
Stay calm. Smile.
“Of course,” I say, already reaching for a fresh cup. “Let’s fix it. Would you like it lighter or darker?”
She considers this like I’ve asked her to solve climate change.
“Just… better.”
Fantastic.
I turn to the machine, tamp the grounds, lock the portafilter in place. The rhythm is automatic now. Grind. Pack. Pull. Steam. Pour. My hands move even when my brain is tired.
Second Circle smells like roasted beans and sugar and ambition. It’s small but trendy. Exposed brick. Mismatched chairs that are probably intentional. A chalkboard menu that changes based on whatever our manager saw on TikTok.
The espresso drips into the cup, dark and steady.
“Name?” I ask, not looking up.
“Chardonnay,” she says.
Of course it is.
I don’t let my face move. “Beautiful,” I reply.
I steam the milk carefully, watching the color shift. A shade paler. A little more foam. I tap the pitcher twice on the counter and pour slow, steady.
When I slide it across the counter, I make eye contact. “How does that look?”
