Page 1 of The Best Worst Mistake (Off-Limits #2)

Abby

Anyone here could be the cup’s rightful owner , I think, glancing through the swarm of people crowded into Carrie’s coffee shop.

I dab the back of my hand across my lips, trying to get rid of the evidence that I’ve just hijacked someone else’s drink, but a few green speckles circle the lid already — right where my berry-pink lipstick stain has just marked the whole thing as stolen.

Shit .

I sniff the to-go cup. “What was that?” I mutter. And who orders grass-colored, seaweed-flavored muck when macchiatos and lattes are on the menu?

I squint at the cup in my hand. A name scribbled across the middle is illegible except for a rather large D at the start — oh , hello there, old friend.

A sign that I need more of you, perhaps?

I snort to myself, thinking I must ignore the subtle nudge from the universe that I need more capital D in my life (especially if it tastes like that).

I stick the cup back on the counter and step away. Probably should have caught that before stealing a swig and upsetting my taste buds.

“Please tell me this is just a fun prank you’ve pulled and that’s not someone’s actual order?” I ask, pointing to it.

Carrie, the owner of the shop, swipes a bead of sweat from her brow and eyes the pink O wrapped around the mouth hole.

“A far cry from your usual.” She nods toward it. “But maybe that’ll teach you not to swipe other people’s orders.”

“Sorry.” I scrunch my nose. “I’ll Venmo you for that.”

“Don’t be silly,” she says, shooing the offer away with a swipe of her hand. “I’ll just make another for that guy, wherever he went.” She glances around the shop. “A little vanilla or honey usually helps the flavor on those matcha lattes, but we can forgive him for not adding it. He was hot.”

I follow her eyes, looking for the missing owner but no one seems to be rushing to grab it.

“I do feel like I might have just saved some poor health nut from a very unfortunate situation this morning. Death by green froth,” I tell her. “Your new guy must have made that one.”

She nods and gets to work on the next drink, looking happy to have a momentary distraction from the growing line behind the register.

I scan the crowd again, mentally preparing an apology for the moment some healthier-than-average customer makes their way over and points to the lipstick I accidentally left behind on their cup.

“Maybe I’ll buy him a donut to make up for it,” I tell her, over the whirring vibration of the espresso machine to my right.

Carrie snorts and shakes her head.

Ha . Can’t imagine how well that would go over. I’ve been coming to this coffee shop long enough to know that you don’t get between a New Yorker and their morning caffeine if you value your life.

“By the way, is there any caffeine in that?” I ask.

“Not compared to your triple shot,” she says. Damn . I’m going to need the extra caffeine if I’m going to get through the latest merger Brett plopped on my desk over the weekend.

Carrie’s hands fly through routine, making another order, not missing a beat of the careful concocting going on behind the counter.

Steaming milk, pouring espresso over ice, wiping up a spot with the corner of her apron, dunking little silver pitchers under a soapy stream of water.

She once told me that manning the counter here is like a meditation practice since she hardly has to think about what she’s doing anymore.

At least that’s the case most mornings. Today isn’t counting toward her meditation practice from what I can tell.

In fact, the last two weeks have been more stressful than most, ever since her new hire came on board.

“So, you’re saying it has less caffeine than a mocha, tastes like it was made from boiled seaweed, and people still pay money for it?” I push the cup a few inches further away from me, like it might jump back into my hand if I allow it to sit too close.

“It’s supposedly healthy,” she says, cracking a smile. “I think the green color sways people.” Carrie looks unfazed, like she’s heard this assessment of the matcha a few times.

After hearing a small crash, she plants her feet to watch her new hire, who just so happens to be her nephew, which, in most instances, would be amazing, I think. Except, in this case, her nephew also happens to be an imbecile.

“I’ll get to your order in a sec, Abby. As long as I can keep the customers from rioting,” she adds, narrowing her eyes at the people lined up behind the register.

There’s more than one person tapping their foot, but most of them are silently staring toward the front like maybe if they glare hard enough, the queue will start moving faster.

“I wish I could help but I would only make this worse, so, really, no rush,” I tell her, brushing a few crumbs off the counter.

“I’d rather be here than heading into the office anyway.

People-watching in here during rush hour is like watching Bravo TV.

Intense, a bit over the top, full of drama, and yet, oddly satisfying. ”

“Right?” She finally grins, looking around at the New Yorkers lining the walls. “Mornings in this city rarely disappoint. Although, I think I’ve said the word sorry so many times in the last two weeks that half-hearted apologies are the only language I speak now.”

She grabs another cup then writes my name across it, even though I’m standing right here. Probably for the best, considering I just stole someone else’s.

“You could just have him unload boxes in the back. Or tell him the shop burned down later this evening and you regret to inform him that he no longer has a job?” I offer.

She shrugs absentmindedly while he attempts to froth a little pitcher of milk, but the silver wand is screaming in a very not-frothy way. Even with my very limited coffee-making knowledge, I can tell he didn’t shove it down far enough.

“I could. I should ,” she admits. “But he’s family , you know?”

No, I don’t know, I want to tell her. Instead, I nod and say, “Right,” like I know what that type of familial bond feels like.

A bond made with blood instead of broken promises.

One that exists only because you’re supposed to look out for each other.

Like it’s written in the stars, or the laws of nature, or something — a universal connection based solely on shared DNA.

“What does skim mean?” her nephew calls out.

I bite my thumbnail while Carrie’s chest rises and falls. She barks at him to stop making drinks and go handle the cash register since the line is nearly out the door — a risk, for sure, since it’s one more task the kid’s not yet mastered.

I start to ask if putting him behind the register right now is the best idea, but the look in Carrie’s eyes brings my lips to a tight close.

“You’re right, I’m sure he’ll catch on by the end of the day,” I say, nodding enthusiastically. “Maybe make some flash cards for him to study. Start with all the different types of milk.”

Even after a few weeks of Carrie training him around the clock, the kid still looks hopeless — he has finally managed to turn the cash register on but is now struggling to put a guy’s order in.

The customer’s angular, bird-like face is growing increasingly red while her nephew starts relying on his good looks and charm to get him through the complicated order. This only deepens the bird guy’s anger — since there’s nothing cute or charming about a lack of coffee.

Bird Man is now nearly yelling his order in a thick Brooklyn accent, which somehow makes the whole interaction even more intimidating.

Carrie pauses the steam wand she’s dug into a pitcher (correctly, I might add), but her breath picks up speed and she manically chews her bottom lip while she watches the two men.

We simultaneously suck in a breath when her nephew gives up and starts writing the guy’s order on a little pad of paper beside the machine.

I want to cover my eyes.

This kid even writes slowly.

I strangle a smile just as Carrie shoots me the type of expression she might dole out if her dog was suffering from a painfully slow-moving porcupine attack.

Three groans rise up from the growing line behind Bird Man from Brooklyn, whose distinctive features have taken on an aggressively crimson hue.

I steal a glance at my watch, knowing my boss is going to have a conniption fit when he arrives at the office and I’m not sitting at my desk.

My response will be, “Brett, I slept on the iron platform you call a futon in my office again last night, and was up working before sunrise for the twelfth day in a row. So if you could just let this one longer-than-usual caffeine break slide . . .”

“He’s not going to last, is he?” I squeeze the words out the side of my mouth, wishing I had my mocha to sip on while watching the train wreck unfold.

She tosses a little pastry bag at me from the pile of yesterday’s spoils before shuffling toward her nephew. I catch it and find a crisp mini almond croissant inside, which Carrie knows to be my favorite. My stomach rumbles at the smell.

“Godspeed!” I call out watching her approach her nephew who’s started reading a dusty collection of old papers stapled together. Probably the original handbook for the register.

Carrie’s going to eat him for breakfast.

My stomach growls again.

I lean back to watch the drama play out, reaching into the waxy bag, tearing little bits of pastry off before popping them into my mouth, thankful to have something to snack on for the show.

“Mmm,” I groan, ripping off another bite.

“Those any good?” a man’s voice pipes up beside me. I hardly hear him over the noise of the steaming wand the new guy is operating incorrectly, again.

“Very.” I don’t look over. Not when Bird Man is pointing a long, skinny finger at both of them, while Carrie does her best to defuse the situation with a giant smile plastered across her face.

If I didn’t know her so well, I’d think that smile was genuine, but I can tell she’s well past the end of her rope.

I chew slowly, thinking back to my own first job.

I’d accidentally spilled thirty-two ounces of root beer across the lap of some poor dad on my second day waitressing tables at Pizza Hut.

His wife had sat beside him, silently opening and shutting her mouth like a guppy when, without thinking, I’d placed an entire stack of napkins across his wet crotch — just doing my best to be helpful.

I’m pretty sure I’m blushing at the memory of trying to take the stack of napkins back off her husband’s soaking wet lap upon realizing what I’d just done.

She’d smacked my hands away, saying my assistance was no longer needed.

I tuck away the memory.

First jobs are brutal.

“You’ve hired an imbecile!” Bird Man yells, pointing his beak at Carrie.

“New Yorkers, eh?” The same baritone voice beside me barely cuts through the noise of the bustling shop. There’s something about his voice that strikes a familiar chord. “Real passionate bunch.”

“Mmm,” I mumble, tearing off a long strip. It’s covered in sliced almonds and the powdered sugar dusted across the top melts in my mouth.

“I’ll have that right out for you, and it’s on the house ,” Carrie says, announcing those three magical words that every customer loves to hear.

It’s definitely the right move since the customer’s veins have started protruding from both sides of his scrawny neck.

Finally, the guy tips back on his heels, relenting with a tight line for a mouth.

“Alright,” he grumbles. “Make it a big one then.”

“The biggest,” Carrie assures him, her smile growing wider and more unhinged by the moment. “Next!”

Bird Man steps aside and I fight the urge to clap.

“That owner is unshakable,” the persistent guy beside me adds. “I might have decked that guy if I were her.”

“Mmm, K,” I reply, doing my best not to encourage the man by engaging in any small talk.

New Yorkers don’t do polite chit-chat with strangers. Especially at this time of day, and especially if it can be avoided. So whoever is talking to the side of my head right now must be from out of town.

Carrie murmurs something to Bird Man that’s apparently charming enough to make him bust out a genuine, real-deal laugh. Nice touch . Then she comes around the side of the counter a moment later to pat him around the back while handing him the biggest Americano I’ve ever seen.

He slips a ten-dollar bill into the tip jar beside her.

“That’s for you,” he tells her. “Not your dimwit at the register.”

“Sorry ’bout that, Joel,” she says, apologetically.

“See you tomorrow,” he tells her.

She leads him to the door as if she’s ending a dinner party with her closest friend in tow.

I beam at her, throwing out a thumbs-up.

“Is this my matcha order?” the out-of-towner beside me asks. Something in me might be able to place that voice if I got a look at him.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch his hand reaching to grab the drink off the counter — the one I’ve already taken a sip of and nearly spit back into the cup.

Shit .

“I’m sorry, I thought it was mine and already drank—” I start to say, ready to steal it back out of his hands, but when I turn, I’m met with two prominent pec muscles beneath a sturdy black shirt.

I follow the trail of buttons up to a pair of deep-set hazel eyes. I gasp.

My jaw falls open.

I blink up at him.

The man grins, his perfect lips stretching wide like Brad Pitt in his younger years.

A perfect professional cut of wavy, sun-streaked hair falls just above his brows before he brushes it back with a quick pass of his hand, bringing my attention to the very same hazel eyes I’ve stared into a thousand times before — usually from some unnatural angle while he’s making me scream out his name at least once, if not two or three times in a row.