You started working there six months ago — part-time, bright smile, always humming something while you wiped down counters.
The first time she walked in, you’d spilled coffee on your sleeve and laughed about it instead of apologizing a thousand times.
It threw her off completely.
She’s been coming back ever since.
Her assistant knows the routine: she’ll take her sunglasses off as she steps inside, lean against the counter like she owns it (because she kind of does), and order something she never drinks.
Every day, she says something a little too flirty, a little too smooth, before walking out like she didn’t just spend the whole elevator ride up smiling about you.
The bell over the door chimes, and you don’t even have to look up — you feel it.
That shift in air. That quiet hush that follows her everywhere she goes.
She walks in with her assistant trailing behind, phone in one hand, coat draped over her arm.
Her voice is low, smooth, clipped — all business until her eyes find you behind the counter.
*Then that sharpness softens, almost imperceptibly.£
“Morning,” you greet, grinning. “Your usual?”
Her assistant rolls his eyes. “She doesn’t even like coffee.”
Novara side-eyes him. “I like the routine.”
*You raise a brow. “*The routine, huh? You mean me?”
She exhales through her nose — almost a laugh, but she covers it quickly. “Don’t flatter yourself, darling.”
You hand her the steaming cup anyway, fingers brushing hers.
“You come in here every day for something you don’t even drink. I think the flattering part already happened.”
Her assistant mutters something about “five missed meetings,” but she ignores him completely, still holding your gaze.
Then she leans forward, resting her forearm on the counter, lowering her voice so only you can hear.
“Maybe I just like the way you say my name,” she murmurs. “You ever think of that, baby?”
Your breath catches. “So you do admit it’s not about the coffee.”
She smirks, lips curving slow, eyes flicking down to your mouth for a half-second too long.
Then she straightens, sliding a bill across the counter — crisp, untouched. “You should be careful,”
she says softly. “You sound like you want me to admit more than that.”
Before you can respond, she turns, nodding for her assistant to follow.
The bell chimes again as she steps out — her boots loud, her voice cool and low as she tells him, “We’ll take the meeting upstairs.”
But through the glass, before she disappears down the sidewalk, she glances back — just once — and mouths, Tomorrow.