Page 8 of The Cyrano Situation

Chapter Six - Yirgacheffe

Cyril

I 'd spent the past three mornings in a row perfecting my coffee order.

Not because I'm particular about coffee (though I am, admittedly, very particular about coffee), but because I'd discovered Jules is a coffee enthusiast. And if I was going to text with a coffee enthusiast, I needed to at least sound like I knew what I was talking about.

"Single-origin Ethiopian Yirgacheffe, medium roast, pour-over with no room for cream," I told the barista at the café across from Pinnacle Publishing's offices. I'd practiced saying it without stumbling over "Yirgacheffe" at least twenty times in the mirror this morning.

The barista, her name tag read "Aura", raised an eyebrow. "That's new for you. Usually, you get the house blend with exactly one and a half packets of sugar."

I felt my face heat. "I'm expanding my horizons."

"Good for you," she said, writing my order on the cup. "Any particular reason?"

"Just... trying new things." I handed over my card, avoiding eye contact.

"This wouldn't have anything to do with you being on your phone all the time lately, would it?" Aura asked, swiping my card with a knowing smile.

A month ago, I would have died of mortification at being so transparent. Now, I managed a small smile and a shrug. "Maybe."

Progress. Definite progress.

My phone buzzed as I waited for my coffee, and I felt the familiar flutter in my chest when I saw Jules's name on the screen.

Just finished grading 37 papers on Austen's use of free indirect discourse. Kill me now. What's your morning looking like?

I smiled and typed back, barely even analyzing my response:

Better than yours, I think. About to try Ethiopian Yirgacheffe for the first time. I hear the floral notes are transcendent.

I hit send before I could second-guess my use of "transcendent". Was that too pretentious? But I was rewarded with an immediate response:

Oh my god, YES. The bergamot and jasmine notes will change your life. Let me know what you think. I'm invested now.

"Order for Cyril!"

I grabbed my coffee, took a cautious sip, and typed back:

It tastes like someone liquefied a garden. In a good way? I think?

Jules replied with three laughing emojis. I was getting better at interpreting emojis. These ones meant genuine amusement, not mockery. Progress.

The walk to the office felt lighter somehow.

Four weeks ago, I would have been obsessively re-reading my texts with Jules, analyzing every word choice and punctuation mark, and probably would have consulted Hart about three times already this morning.

Now I was... well, not exactly relaxed, but less panicked.

The constant knot in my stomach when thinking about Jules had downgraded from "imminent aneurysm" to "mild discomfort. "

I pushed through the glass doors of Pinnacle, nodding at the security guard.

"Morning, Cyril," he called. "Looking chipper today."

"Good coffee," I replied, holding up my cup.

The elevator was mercifully empty, giving me time to check my posture, straight but not rigid; my tie, perfectly centered; and my expression, neutral but not forbidding. The doors opened on the editorial floor, and I stepped out, immediately scanning the open workspace.

Hart wasn't at his desk yet. Not that I was looking for him. I just... noticed.

"Well, look who's actually smiling before noon," said Marlene, our senior editor, as she passed me in the hallway. "Hart's little matchmaking project must be going well."

I felt my ears burn. "It's not—I mean, we're just—"

"Save it, honey." She patted my arm. "Whatever Hart's doing, it's working. You've been positively glowing lately."

I cleared my throat. "I have a manuscript to review."

Marlene just laughed as I scurried to my office, face flaming.

Was I that obvious? Had the entire office been discussing my... what? My love life? The concept was so foreign I could barely form the thought.

I settled at my desk, booting up my computer and arranging my notepads in precise alignment with the edge of my desk. My phone buzzed again.

What are you reading right now? Work stuff or pleasure?

I smiled at Jules's question. This was comfortable territory.

Currently editing a historical fiction set in 1920s Paris. For pleasure, re-reading Ishiguro's "Remains of the Day" for the fourth time.

The response came quickly:

Remains of the Day!!! That repression! That longing! Those perfectly crafted sentences about nothing and everything! I could teach an entire semester on Stevens's inability to recognize his own emotions.

I grinned, typing back:

The precision of the prose is what gets me. Every word exactly where it should be.

Like you, I bet. Everything in its proper place.

I stared at that text for a long moment. Was that... flirting? It felt like flirting. I was 78% sure it was flirting.

A knock at my door made me jump.

Hart stood in the doorway, holding two coffee cups. His eyes fell on the Yirgacheffe already on my desk.

"Oh," he said. "You already got coffee."

"Yes," I said unnecessarily. "Ethiopian Yirgacheffe. Jules recommended it."

Something flickered across Hart's face—so quickly I almost missed it. Disappointment? Annoyance?

"Jules recommends a lot of things these days," he said, his voice light in a way that somehow felt heavy.

"You don't have to keep bringing me coffee," I said, then immediately regretted how abrupt it sounded. "I mean, it's very kind, but unnecessary."

Hart set one of the cups on the edge of my desk. "House blend with exactly one and a half packets of sugar. Just in case the fancy stuff doesn't work out."

Before I could thank him, he was gone.

I frowned at the second coffee cup, a strange feeling settling in my chest. Had I offended him? Hart was usually so easy to read. He was all broad smiles and expansive gestures. But lately, he seemed... complicated.

My phone buzzed again.

Was thinking about meeting for that coffee sometime? I think our conversations have been going so well and I promise not to judge if you secretly hate single-origin Ethiopian beans. And I don't mean to push you. If you're not ready, that's ok too.

My heart rate immediately accelerated to what felt like medical emergency levels. He was asking me out again. An in-person meet up where Jules would see my actual face and hear my actual voice and witness my actual awkwardness in real time.

I stared at the message, fingers hovering over the keyboard. What would Hart advise? Probably something sensible like "Say yes, you overthinking disaster."

But Hart wasn't here. And I was handling this on my own now. A part of me, a large part, wanted to say yes, but in the end, I panicked.

I'd like that, but my schedule is a bit complicated at the moment. Deadline season at the publishing house is intense.

There. Not a no. But not a terrifying, immediate yes.

Jules replied:

No pressure! The offer stands whenever deadline season calms down. I'm not going anywhere.

I blew out a breath and took a sip of the Yirgacheffe. It really did taste like a garden. The house blend from Hart sat untouched.

By lunchtime, I'd made significant progress on the Paris manuscript and exchanged twelve more texts with Jules, including a deeply nerdy discussion about Oxford commas that made my heart race more than it probably should have.

I was just considering whether to eat the sad desk salad I'd packed or venture out for something more adventurous when Priya from Marketing appeared in my doorway.

"Editorial meeting in ten minutes," she said. "Rebecca wants the whole team there. Something about the fall list."

I nodded, immediately reorganizing my mental schedule for the day. "I'll be there."

"So," Priya leaned against the doorframe, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. "Hart finally did it, huh?"

I blinked at her. "Did what?"

"Got you out of your shell! Everyone's talking about how you're practically a new man these days. Smiling. Making coffee jokes. Texting during meetings." She waggled her eyebrows. "Hart must be quite the matchmaker."

"I don't—it's not—" I sputtered, feeling my face heat for what felt like the hundredth time that day. "Jules and I are just... conversing."

"Mmhmm," Priya nodded, clearly unconvinced. "Well, whatever you call it, it's nice to see you looking happy, Cyril. We were all starting to worry you'd strain something from frowning so intensely all the time."

"I don't frown all the time," I protested weakly, feeling my traitorous lips pull down in said frown.

"You kind of do. Did. Past tense now, I guess." She pushed off from the doorframe. "See you in the meeting. Bring your new sunny disposition!"

I slumped in my chair after she left, mortified. Was the entire office discussing my text exchanges? My "sunny disposition"? The thought was excruciating.

But also... not entirely unpleasant? There was something almost nice about people noticing a change in me. Even if they were wildly exaggerating it. Half my mouth tipped back up.

I gathered my notes for the meeting and headed to the conference room, carefully balancing my laptop, notepad, and the still-untouched house blend coffee from Hart. I should probably throw it away, but something stopped me.

The conference room was already half full when I arrived. I slid into my usual seat—third from the left, perfect sightline to the presentation screen, optimal distance from the air conditioning vent—and arranged my materials in front of me.

Hart walked in a moment later, deep in conversation with Rebecca, our publisher. He glanced around the room, eyes landing on me for a brief second before he took a seat on the opposite side of the table. Odd. He usually sat next to me.