“Oh, hey.” I look over my shoulder as Eliza walks over with her usual disarming smile. “Yeah, late night. It’s whatever. I just have a few more weeks left.”
“Have you had dinner yet?” she asks. Before I can answer, she says, “Let me grab my mail, and then you should come over and try out my new brew.”
“It’s pushing ten o’clock, Eliza. Pretty late for coffee.” My stomach rumbles, though, reminding me I haven’t eaten yet and I have another early morning tomorrow.
“Live dangerously.”
I laugh as my stomach makes the decision for me. Coffee and tasty treats sound more appetizing than another lump of frozen franken-fettucine from my freezer. It’s also a good way to delay the inevitable.
“Okay, fine,” I say.
Eliza pops her mailbox open, retrieves a couple envelopes, and starts pulling me toward her place by the hand. “You have to try the pecan roast. You’ll hit the floor.”
Strong coffee wafts me in the face before she’s even fully opened her door.
But it’s not just coffee. Her place is always this potent blend of sweetness and subtle fruity undertones. Everything good in life condensed into mingling foodie perfumes.
“Do I smell vanilla? Delicious.”
Eliza grins. “Your favorite. I made a vanilla blend too just for you. Have you eaten yet? You never answered.”
No, and I’m about to gnaw my own arm off. I don’t want to say that, though.
“What pairs with coffee?” Eliza asks, wagging her brows like it’s a pop quiz.
“Uh—bagels?”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re a buzzkill, Dakota. Way to ruin my caffeine high.”
I laugh. “I’m not part hummingbird like you, living off sugar. Enlighten me.”
“Scones! I made a nice fresh batch of huge blueberry ones an hour ago. You’ll love them.”
She’s got me there.
It’s impossible not to love living right above a mad coffee scientist who’s always after the perfect cup of joe and the best baked bliss to pair it with.
I kick my shoes off and walk through her small apartment, almost as cramped as mine.
There’s a daybed and a couple chairs in the main room with a small kitchen off to the side. She goes to the kitchen bar and drops her mail on it.
My studio may be another postage stamp apartment, but her kitchen looks drastically different from mine.
Glass beakers, mason jars, canisters of coffee, a bright light, and tiny potted plants make it look more like a proper lab than a kitchen.
“Are those new plants?” I whisper.
I’m almost afraid to ask.
She smiles. “I’m trying to grow a hybrid bean. So far it hasn’t worked out quite right.”
“Dang. So you’ve taken it to the next level? You’re growing your own beans in the Seattle gloom to support your habit?”
“Habits are for drunks. Coffee is life.” She spreads her arms and waves affectionately at the lab-like kitchen. “You’re not looking at a simple hobby. One day, everything I’ve cooked up here will be the backbone of Liza’s Love.”
“When you open Liza’s Love, I promise I’ll read my poetry on open mic night.”
“Every night will be open mic night.” She wags a finger like it’s already written in stone.
“Great. Then I’ll be there every night and you’ll still be feeding me like a hobo who just lost her last poker game.”
Laughing, she heads into the kitchen and pours coffee into three tiny glasses, then piles a plate high with scones. She sets the tiny coffee cups and scones down on the bar separating the kitchen from the living room.
“Tell me your favorite,” she demands.
I take a fortifying gulp of the first one and wrinkle my nose. “Oof. That just tastes like...coffee. Needs a little sweetener.”
She scowls at me.
I hold up my hands defensively and then sip the second one.
“Oh, my, that’s lovely,” I mutter, feeling foamy sweetness dancing on my tongue.
“What do you taste?” She watches me excitedly, her hands clasped in front of her.
“Vanilla. Sweet stuff. A little cream. Almost like...a cake flavor?”
Eliza smiles and nods like an approving teacher.
I clear my mouth with water, then take a pull off the third cup, smacking my lips.
“Hmm. Cinnamon?”
“And pecan.” She nods.
“Interesting mix,” I say, smacking my lips lightly. “The second was my favorite, I think.”
“I’ll pour you a full mug of birthday cake coffee. Cream and sugar?”
“Just cream.”
Eliza opens a cabinet, pulls out a normal-sized mug, and sets to work making my drink to order.
I pick up an oversized blueberry scone from the plate and take a bite.
As always, it’s delicious, and I’m starving. I start stuffing my face like a back-alley raccoon before I even notice.
This entire day has been carb-central, and I’m adding to my thighs.
Worth it.
I’ve also been keeping the mail I brought up with me this whole time. I pull out envelopes and sort through them in more detail, keeping that last one at the end like the poison ivy leaf it is.
The return address is Dickinson, North Dakota.