Dammit, that’s intense. And I spent five years of my life on the black sludge the US Navy calls coffee.
Once my tongue recovers from the initial shock, I’m plunged into this unexpected universe of flavors.
It’s smoky. Powerful. Toasted. Nutty.
Fucking good.
“Tastes like a campfire,” I say slowly.
“A little. It’s something, all right,” Destiny admits. It might be the first time we’ve agreed on anything for a month.
Behind me, Wayne laughs.
“Probably her latest brew. Uh, we’ve offered Eliza a job here several times. Aside from a brief stint last year where she worked a few part-time shifts, she won’t stay on. She spends most of her time experimenting with home-brewed coffee and pastries. She’s special that way. I’m not sure what that one is. She lets me sample them a lot, but I didn’t have time today.”
“What does she do?” I ask, hating that this strange woman has a death grip on my attention, even with her absence.
“I don’t know, actually. She’s always said long shifts would cut into her brewing time.”
I take another stiff drink of black heaven.
Fuck me, this is it.
This is so much like the newness I’ve been looking for.
It slaps me across the face.
I need to know what this is right now.
I need to study it, refine it, and if I’m lucky, package it in a Wired Cup logo. Every shop in our five-state region will want to serve this.
We’ve found Gen Z’s drink. A bold alternative to the sugar licks masquerading as energy drinks for college kids everywhere.
My almost college-aged brat said she only needs one cup to make it through finals week—and I don’t think she was exaggerating much if this stuff is as caffeinated as it tastes.
I look at my team, wondering why I pay these people to stand around and gawk at me.
“Get moving, people. Katelyn, take Destiny to the car, please.”
“What? You’re throwing me out just when its getting interesting?” Dess protests. “Dad, you wouldn’t even know the mule kick drink existed without me! But sure, send me away like a five-year-old while you hash out how to sell this stuff for a bajillion dollars.”
I close my eyes and count to ten, tapping a hand lightly against my thigh.
“Someday, my dear, I hope you have twins and they’re both just like you at this age.”
“Come on, Dessy. Let’s go find you a new phone case online to replace the cracked one,” Katelyn Storm tells her. Nice save from my ever-reliable executive assistant. “I’ve got your dad’s credit card.”
“Well...okay!” Just like that, Destiny happily skips out the door.
Unlike me, Katelyn can speak her language.
I’m aware I have my hands full, but sometimes I think that’s a flimsy excuse. The reality is I have no idea how to handle a teenage girl.
I look at Wayne. “My apologies for that scene—and the other one this morning.”
He shrugs. “Hey, kids come in here every day. It’s nothing. They usually pour the cinnamon and sugar out on the tables for me to clean up whenever they’re not hogging tables and taking selfies. This was entertaining.”
I appreciate his bluntness. At least it was entertaining for someone.
“I’d like to give you a bonus, Wayne,” I tell him.
“Bonus—for what, sir?” He stiffens, fully at attention.
“Consider it a referral fee for bringing this insane, potentially coffee-smart lady to my attention. I just need you to find her and have a conversation that’s a tad more civilized than my shouting match. Can you help with that?”
Wayne laughs. “If I tell her you offered me a bonus, she’ll bite. But I ain’t sure she’ll be happy about it.”
“Make it happen.” With a satisfied nod, I follow my entourage out the door.
In the back of the limo, Destiny taps on her phone, furiously moving both thumbs back and forth like she’s playing an old Gameboy.
I almost hate that I gave it back to her, softie that I am.
“You’d better not be posting anything involving that monster brew. That’s highly privileged corporate information now.”
She looks up and rolls her eyes. They’re a blue shade slightly lighter than mine.
“Dad, secret coffee isn’t nearly cool enough for my people. And after wasting all this time job shadowing you for this stupid essay, I’ve learned a few things.”
“Yeah?” I’m almost afraid to ask. “Enlighten me.”
“You have no PR skills, for one. I really hope you’re leaving that to someone else in marketing or there’s not going to be a company for me to inherit—”
I turn my head so she doesn’t see me laugh.
“Also, you should probably try brewing coffee for snotty rich guys before you freak out on baristas. That guy with the beard was almost pale—”
“Are you sure? Last I checked, you’re a snotty rich guy’s daughter,” I throw back.
More eye-rolling. An impudent huff.
She glances out the window, trying so hard not to look like she’s rattled by her old man getting under her skin.