The evening sun had dipped low, casting a soft orange glow over the streets just beyond our glass windows. I always loved this hour—the golden hour. It bathed Whisk and Blooms in warm light, softening the day’s edges and reminding me why I loved this place so much.

Our café was finally quieting down. That peaceful lull when the last few customers trickled out, leaving only the faint clinks of cups being cleared and hushed laughter echoing as memories of the busy day faded into the background.

From where I stood near the counter, I could see the corner booths, now empty and fresh-looking—plumped cushions, and wiped tables. My girls did well today. The scent of roasted coffee still lingered in the air, dancing with the sugary hint of our pastries.

Those smells always gave me a strange comfort—like we’d bottled up love and served it by the cup.

The pendant lights overhead hummed with their usual golden glow, their soft warmth making the café feel like a home. We always left them on until the very end, even if it signaled to everyone else that we were wrapping up for the day. But not everyone got the message.

There he was. Still seated by the window.

He sat there long past the clatter of chairs and the lights, a man carved from tension. His hair was set back just enough to bare his forehead. A scowl lived naturally on his face, sharpening already sharp lines, giving him the look of a thought held too tightly.

There was something storm-bound about him. His eyes kept circling the room, then dropping to his watch, then lifting again, as though time itself had offended him. His fingers drummed against the table in clipped, impatient beats.

I leaned slightly toward the pastry counter, narrowing my eyes at him, and right then, Myra joined me.

“You go tell him, Sasha. He’s been here since forever, and it’s already closing time. I’ve tried twice. He’s not moving!” Myra whispered urgently, nudging my side with that pleading look she gets when she’s had enough of someone’s nonsense.

I crossed my arms and narrowed my eyes at Myra, keeping my voice low but firm. “Why should I? You’re the one who told him the café was closing earlier. He didn’t leave then, so what makes you think he’ll listen to me?”

Myra's eyes widened, her voice practically a squeak. “Because you're calmer than me! I mean, look at him! He’s been glaring at his watch for the past hour. What if he yells? Or throws something? And then what if I killed him in my own anger?”

I rolled my eyes, brushing a few stray strands of hair from my face. “Oh, please. What’s he gonna throw? That empty coffee cup? Grow a spine, Myra.”

“I have a spine, thank you very much! But that doesn’t mean I’m going anywhere near him. He looks like he bites.” she snapped back, her tone full of that indignant Myra-flare.

I peeked over at the guy again—he still hadn't moved. That same jaw-clenched, barely-holding-it-together expression. With a sigh, I gave in. “Fine. We’ll do rock-paper-scissors.”

But before we could even raise our hands, a voice startled us from behind. “What are you two whispering about?”

We both flinched so hard I nearly sent a tray of cups flying. Myra actually let out a squeak that sounded like a dying kettle.

Turning around, we found Cassie—leaning over us, elbows perched on our shoulders, grinning like a fox who’d just caught two hens in the pantry. Her hair framed her face perfectly, as usual, and those dark eyes of hers twinkled with mischief.

“Cassie! Don’t sneak up on us like that!” I hissed, giving her a swat on the arm that she completely ignored.

She peered past the counter, raising a perfectly arched brow. “What’s going on here?”

“It’s him! He’s been here since evening, and now it’s almost closing time, but he just won’t leave. I told him earlier, but he’s still sitting there like he owns the place,” Myra whispered urgently, trying not to look too obvious as she pointed.

Cassie’s smirk deepened as she crossed her arms. “And let me guess, you two are hiding over here because you’re scared to tell him to leave again?”

“We’re not hiding! We’re just… strategizing,” I said, straightening my spine even though my cheeks flushed in betrayal.

Myra nodded quickly. “Exactly! Strategizing. It’s called teamwork.”

Cassie gave a dramatic sigh and rolled her eyes. “Teamwork my ass. Don’t worry, ladies. I’ve got this. I’ll kick his ass outta here.”

“No! Cassie, don’t make a scene. He looks scary!” I whispered, grabbing her arm before she could strut away.

She shook me off gently, that sassy determination glittering in her gaze. “Scary? Please. I’ve dealt with worse. You two just stand back and watch how it’s done.”

And with that, she rolled up her sleeves like she was about to throw down in a street fight.

Myra looked at me in horror.
I looked back with the same.

Because when Cassie said she was gonna handle something… the whole café usually felt it.

Cassie had just rolled up her sleeves, ready to storm over like she was born to command storms, when the front door creaked open. We all froze like deer caught in the headlights of the mess we just knew was about to happen.

A woman strutted in—no, she paraded in like the floor was her runway and the world was watching. The sound of her stilettos echoed through the café like gunshots—every step a whole event.

She was too much for a cozy place like Whisk and Blooms. A firetruck red dress that hugged her body like a second skin, barely brushing past her thighs. Towering black heels that made my ankles hurt just watching.

Her hair was styled within an inch of its life, glossy waves bouncing with every movement, and her makeup? Flawless—but in that exaggerated, ‘I-woke-up-like-this-but-hired-three-people-to-do-it’ way. Red lips, cat-eye liner so sharp it could cut egos, and a cloud of perfume that hit us like a luxury missile.

And her attitude? Let’s just say it entered the room before she did. Entitlement wrapped in silk, walking like the world owed her a throne and five servants to carry it.

My eyes widened, and I muttered under my breath, “Don’t tell me we have to work again?” Dread crept into my voice like a shadow slipping under the door.

Myra leaned onto the counter dramatically, practically groaning into the granite. “I thought we were done for the day. Why now?”

Cassie, eyes locked on the woman, hissed back, “Yeah, same, but look at her!”

We watched, unmoving, as the mystery woman strutted to the table near the window—the guy’s table—and without a word, slid into the seat across from him like she owned it… and maybe him too.

She leaned in, lips painted blood red, her body language dripping with something that made me roll my eyes instinctively. That seduction act was so overdone it needed seasoning.

“Ugh. We’re definitely not getting out of here on time,” Myra muttered beside me, twisting her mouth like she’d bitten into a lemon.

The man—who already looked like he wanted to punch a wall—did not seem thrilled to see her. His entire posture stiffened, the tension snapping through the air like a drawn bowstring.

“You’re late, Bianca.” His voice came out too sharp for someone in a public place. Cold. Controlled.

Bianca—if that was her name—laughed, the kind you hear before someone stabs you with a designer nail file. “Come on, Ronan. I was busy.” She waved her hand, like his irritation was an annoying little fly she could swat.

His jaw tightened further, his glare cutting into her. “Do you think I was free?” he snarled, the edge in his voice enough to make Myra shrink behind me.

But Bianca clearly hadn’t come for the attitude—just the drama. She looked around our café with a curled lip, clearly unimpressed. “Why did you pick such a cheap place?” she muttered, loud enough for the whole street to hear.

Cheap?

I felt Cassie tense beside me.

Girl, breathe.

The man didn’t even answer. His silence said more than a full-blown argument could. But just when I thought she might settle into that uncomfortable silence… she turned.

To us.

Her eyes locked on the counter, gaze sharp as glass, and she raised her hand like she was summoning lowly minions. “Hey, you. Take our order.” Her voice was all demand, no please, no thank you, just full-on royal decree from the Kingdom of Delusion.

Cassie’s eyes narrowed as she crossed her arms, her irritation bubbling to the surface. “Oh, hell no.” She muttered, about to step forward and give the woman a piece of her mind.

I knew that tone. That storm’s-coming tone. And while part of me wanted to let her loose, maybe just to see that woman’s expression crack a little under Cassie's fire, I reached out fast and grabbed her arm.

“Don’t.” I warned, giving her my patented don’t-test-me look. “We don’t need a scene right now.”

Cassie sighed like I’d just asked her to babysit a toddler for twelve hours straight. But she stayed. Good girl.

I had already fixed my face into one of those polite customer service smiles, and stepped forward toward the table. My shoes tapped softly on the tile as I approached, ignoring Bianca’s judging eyes.

“Good evening. What can I get for you?” I asked sweetly, though my voice was tighter than my last pair of skinny jeans after Thanksgiving.

Bianca didn’t even glance at me. She just waved a hand. “Two coffees. And a pastry. Something sweet.”

I forced a smile that could’ve cracked if she breathed it wrong. “Got it,” I chirped and turned on my heel before my eyeballs could roll all the way into another dimension.

Back in the kitchen, the air was different. Calmer. Cleaner. None of that toxic perfume clouding the atmosphere like it had rights.

Aria was wiping down the counters, as usual. Her movements were methodical—slow, perfect circles. Meanwhile, Anna was in the far corner, mopping, her strokes neat and precise.

There was a faint smell of citrus cleaner hanging around, mixing awkwardly with the last wisps of espresso and vanilla that clung to the air like nostalgia.

I walked in with that sheepish shuffle I hadn’t used since I spilled an entire pitcher of mocha on a police officer’s lap last summer. Not my finest moment. Anyway.

Aria’s head lifted immediately. Girl could sense off vibes like a bloodhound. “What’s wrong?” she asked, one brow arching, her voice had that mix of curiosity and concern.

Anna paused her mopping and turned her gaze toward me, brows tugging together. I could feel the judgment before she even opened her mouth. And I deserved it, I won’t lie.

I sighed like the weight of the world was hanging from that tiny notepad in my hand, lifting it slowly like it was Exhibit A in my trial for Crimes Against Closing Hours.

“We got some last-minute customers,” I said, voice softer than a kitten's mewl, eyes bouncing between Aria and Anna like a guilty toddler about to confess to breaking the cookie jar.

Aria’s eyes shot wide open. If she’d had pearls on, she would’ve clutched them. “What? You couldn’t tell them to leave? It’s closing time!”

I winced and gave her the kind of nervous smile you flash before a dentist pulls out the drill. “Yeah, Cassie was about to, but then another one came in. I thought it would look bad for the café’s reputation to kick them out like that…”

My voice trailed off into a chuckle that was more please don’t kill me than haha so funny.

Meanwhile, Anna leaned the mop against the wall like she was trying real hard not to use it as a weapon. She wiped her hands on her apron and glanced around at our pristine little kitchen—counters gleaming, floors so spotless, and not a crumb in sight.

“Yeah, you’re not completely wrong,” Anna said with that soft, practical voice of hers, but it had a little weariness tucked inside. “But… we just finished cleaning up.”

Aria groaned like she’d just found out her favorite show got canceled. She flung her towel onto the counter with a dramatic flair worthy of an Oscar.

“Exactly! I don’t want to start again. I’m tired!” She stomped her foot like a toddler, her cheeks puffed out in that way they do when she’s about two seconds away from flipping something over.

I bit back a grin, watching them both. Drama queens, both of them—but they’re my girls. My ride-or-die baking squad.

Anna shook her head, but there was a smile tugging at her lips now as she stepped toward the kitchen door. She peeked out slowly, cautiously like a spy about to eavesdrop on an international secret. Then, her eyes locked onto them—and just like that, her whole body stilled. Her expression shifted. Curious. Surprised. A little stunned.

She whipped back toward us like she’d just seen a unicorn tap-dancing on our espresso machine. “Do you even know who they are?” she whispered, voice dropping into that urgent, gossipy register that guaranteed all ears would listen.

I blinked. “What? Who?”

She pointed toward the café, her finger waving around like it was doing interpretive dance. “The guy! That’s Ronan Diaz. He’s a CEO. He’s like, famous!”

Before I could blink a second time, Aria had already glided over to the door, curiosity practically leaking out of her. She leaned out just enough for a peek. I watched her eyes go wide, her body stiffen, then she yanked back like she’d seen a ghost in a three-piece suit.

“Oh my god, you’re right!” she gasped. “That’s Ronan Diaz! He’s not just any CEO; he’s the kind who shows up on Forbes lists!” She turned to Anna, mouth still open. “But… who’s the girl with him?”

“That’s Bianca. She’s a model. I’ve seen her in magazines before,” Anna said, and that calm voice of hers? That was her I'm trying real hard not to care tone.

My brows shot up like they had their own drama to add, “Seriously? That guy?”

Anna nodded, lips pressed tighter. “Yeah. And that girl? She’s no less of a celebrity. But whatever’s going on between them, it’s not our business. Let’s just get this done quickly and hope they leave soon.”

Aria nodded too, though let’s be real—she was dying to peek through that door again. Girl was practically vibrating with curiosity. Still, like the champs they are, both my girls jumped into action.

Anna grabbed a tray with the kind of purpose usually reserved for heist movies, and Aria went into barista-beast-mode, brewing that fresh pot like her life depended on it.

Meanwhile, I gathered my inner goddess, channeled every ounce of patience I’d ever learned, and stepped out of the kitchen with the tray in hand, my polite smile stretched across my face as I approached the table, Bianca was already tapping her nails on the table.

When I placed the tray down, her eyes snapped up at me like I’d just dropped a bug in her designer bag. “You’re late,” she said, all clipped and cold, her voice dripping with attitude.

My polite smile stayed glued right on. “Apologies for the delay,” I replied, smoothly, even though my inner monologue was already mentally flipping her off and tossing her coffee out the window.

And just when I thought maybe I’d have to swallow a second spoonful of sass, Ronan Diaz—Mr. High-and-Mighty Forbes Cover Boy—rolled his eyes so hard I thought they might fall out. “Just take the damn coffee, Bianca,” he snapped.

Bianca pouted, the tantrum-throwing poodle. “Whatever,” she huffed, flicking her wrist like she was swatting away a fly, and grabbing the coffee with all the drama of a Shakespearean queen being handed a poisoned chalice.

I placed the pastry down with a little extra flair—because if I was gonna be dragged into celebrity drama on my off-hours, I might as well give them dinner and a show.

Then I turned, walking away with my head high and my back straighter than a bamboo stick.