Page 5 of Should Our Hearts Catch Fire

The guy’s eyes flick to Ellis again, a slight tilt to his head, like he’s studying a fascinating creature.

Probably never seen a dickbag like you.

The barista licks his lips, causing an unfamiliar, stabbing sensation in Ellis’ chest. “That will be $6.50.” He lets Ellis pay, then calls out, “Hey, Zeke? Could we swap for a bit?”

The other guy—Zeke—pokes his head out from behind the coffee machine. One of his eyebrows slowly arches up and his eyes jump between Ellis and the barista.

“Sure thing. Let me just pour this one.”

“Thanks.” The barista looks at Ellis, giving him a small, startlingly caring smile. “It won’t be long.” With that, he takes Ellis’ cup and goes over to the coffee machine.

Ellis sighs. What are the chances he won’t end up with spit in his coffee? It’s a testament to how desperate for caffeine he is that the thought doesn’t bother him as much as it should.

He heads to the other end of the counter to wait for his order. He slumps slightly against the edge, exhausted now that the anger and frustration have bubbled over and left him burned out. And he still has a whole day of paperwork and meetings ahead of him. Fuck.

Before he can sink into the endless chasm of misery–aka thinking about all the things he has to do–a steaming cup appears in front of him.

“A long black, two extra shots,” the barista says pointedly, nudging the cup towards Ellis.

That was super quick. Given how many people were there before him, Ellis expected to be waiting for quite some time before his coffee was ready. It seems that his rampage chastised the barista enough to prompt him to work faster and, apparently, jump the queue and make his drink first.

Except, when he looks up and their eyes meet, the guy is not looking chastised. His gaze is curious, and there’s a barely-there curve to his lips that makes Ellis want to step back and lean closer at the same time. What the hell is going on with him today?

“Apologies for taking so long. I hope we didn’t make you late for work,” the barista says, expression open and earnest, and totally fucking with Ellis’ head.

He reaches for the cup, holding it in front of him like a shield. “It’s fine,” he grunts, because what else is he supposed to say to that? He’s not going to start oversharing by explaining he’s the great CEO now, and thus doesn’t have a boss, but still has to stick to his schedule because he has responsibilities towards the company and—

The barista pushes a small paper box towards him.

“I didn’t order this,” Ellis says with a frown.

“It’s on the house.”

“I’m not a charity case. I can pay if I want something,” he argues, even as his mouth waters at the scent of sugar and cinnamon.

The barista’s minuscule smile grows into a full-blown grin. He gives Ellis a quick once-over, causing a rush of heat to sweep through him. “I’m aware. It’s just something to make your day a little better.”

Ellis blinks, so out of sorts it’s not even funny. “How’s food going to make my day better?”

“It’s scientifically proven that sugar stimulates the release of endorphins and dopamine,” the barista says, clearly havingan answer for everything. “Non-scientifically, I believe everyone could use a little sweetness in their life.”

Ellis really wants to retort, but the guy’s open, earnest face forbids him to open his mouth. Plus, he can feel his stomach growling, his appetite renewed with vigor now that he has smelled something good. Swallowing his pride, he reaches for the box, ignoring the clenching sensation in his stomach at the guy’s beaming smile.

“Thanks.”

“You’re most welcome,” the barista says. “By the way, I don’t write my number on the cups. Just so you know.” He steps away from the counter, slowly disappearing behind the coffee machine. “See you around.”

Ellis doesn’t bother correcting him on that one—there will be no seeing him again. What a weird guy. Again, not surprising. Gold Coast is full of weirdos.

He leaves the café in a rush, letting out a huge breath when he’s back in the security of his car, no strange, confusing baristas around. Setting the box on the passenger seat, he raises the cup to take a sip. The coffee better be worth the toll this visit has taken on his mental health.

The coffee never makes it to his mouth.

He brings the cup to eye-level, reading the words he wrongly assumed indicated his coffee order.

They do not.

You deserve good things.