Page 7 of Pucking My Off-Limits Billionaire Boss
FOUR YEARS LATER
Themorningrushisin full swing at Mocha Memoirs, my little slice of coffee heaven nestled in the heart of Seattle. The espresso machine hisses like a steamy whisper, milk froths into creamy peaks, and the scent of freshly ground coffee beans is almost tangible in the air. I'm in my element, shouting orders to the staff with a grin plastered on my face, the controlled chaos of the morning rush fueling my energy.
"Double shot Americano, on the bar!" I call out, sliding the cup across the counter. My staff moves like a well-oiled machine, a symphony of clinks, clatters, and the buzz of conversation filling the space. I love this—the rush, the hum of activity, the satisfaction of every customer who takes that first, life-affirming sip of coffee.
The bell above the door jingles, a sound that's become my favorite tune, signaling new customers, more energy, another opportunity to share our passion. But today, it brings in two men in suits, their faces as stiff as their starched collars. They scan the room with a seriousness that cuts through the cheerful din.
I excuse myself from the counter, eyebrows raised, my sassy armor firmly in place. "Gentlemen, how can I help you today? Looking for a caffeine fix or something a bit stronger?" I ask, gesturing to the display of baked treats as a joke, but they don't seem in the mood for humor.
"Are you Ms. Lucy Marks, the owner?" the taller one asks, his voice flat.
"That's me, Queen of Caffeine. What can I do for you?" I reply, my smile fixed, though their solemnity has piqued my curiosity and, admittedly, a sliver of concern.
"We're from the City of Seattle," the shorter one starts, and that's when I feel a cold prick of dread. "It appears there's been an oversight regarding your business taxes.
I open my mouth to speak, but before I can get a word out, he starts.
“This might be better discussed in private.”
“Private? Uh, sure.”
I lead him to my lair—the manager's office—where the magic (and mountains of paperwork) happen.
"Please, take a seat, Ms. Marks," he drones on, all business and no play. He motions towards the chair like he's bestowing a royal favor. Honey, it's just a chair, not a throne.
I plop down into my chair, which actuallyisthe throne of my little kingdom, and plant my feet firmly. Time to show this guy he's dealing with a boss lady. "Alright, what’s up?" I say, masking the tornado of worry spinning in my head.
As we hunch over the table, Mr. Short starts, "According to our records, there's been an oversight on the tax payments related to the property. It seems some of the business taxes, including the property taxes, have not been fully covered." He plops a folder of paperwork in front of me, all of it looking very official and a little ominous.
I frown, flipping through the pages, each one a heavier weight added to the pit forming in my stomach. "This doesn't make sense. I hired a good accountant, all of this should have been handled. And my boyfriend who’s a total whiz with numbers gives it all a second look.”
Mr. Tall taps on a line in the document, his finger landing on the figures like a judge's gavel. "Here, you can see the total amount due, including the late fees that have accrued over the past six months."
I scan the numbers, each digit a hammer strike. "Late fees? This has to be a mistake. I've never received any notification until now."
"There seems to have been a mail mix-up," Mr. Short interjects. "The notices were sent to 433 Cedar Ave, #1125 and returned."
I blink, the address triggering a realization. "That's a mailbox I rented at a UPS store. When I incorporated the business, I hadn't found a locale yet." My mind races. Oh, shoot! I probably forgot to pay the monthly fee for the mailbox! And who uses snail mail anymore anyway?
Seeing my confusion, Mr. Short adds, "We've been trying to track you down based on your personal information and records. That's how we got here now."
My frustration mixes with a hint of embarrassment. "So, you're telling me because I neglected a mailbox, I'm now facing this?" I wave at the document, disbelief and annoyance mingling in my tone.
"I'm afraid so," Mr. Tall says, his voice devoid of sympathy. "The city expects these taxes to be paid in full.”
I lean back, the chair creaking under the strain of my tension. A payment plan. The words taste like ash in my mouth. "Give me a few days. I need to talk to my accountant and get to the bottom of this."
Spoiler alert: My accountant isme.
They nod, sliding a business card across the table. "You have two weeks before further action is taken. We suggest you resolve this promptly."
As they stand to leave, my head is spinning, but my resolve is hardening. I've built Mocha Memoirs from the ground up—I'm not about to let it crumble over a small omission.
"Thank you for bringing this to my attention," I say, my voice laced with a determination that belies my inner turmoil. "I'll be in touch."
They leave, and the noise of the cafe rushes back in, but it sounds hollow now.
I try to refocus on the coffee shop, the familiar clatter and chatter suddenly feeling a world away. As I stand, a part-time barista, Emily, approaches me. She's a college student, balancing classes in marketing with her shifts here, always with a notebook in one hand and a latte in the other. She's bright, ambitious, and the kind of employee a boss hopes to keep around.
