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Rule #4: A playboy never texts back.
Poor girl should know that by now.
When I don't reply, she secures some metal thing into the espresso machine, cranking so hard I'm surprised the handle doesn't snap in two. The machine's hum soon masks her voice. "You can't show up unannounced after five years, drop a bomb on me, and then ghost me."
"Woah, woah. I didn't ghost you. I did text back."
Her eyelids fall, as she breathes deep. "Oh, you responded alright. To my walls of text with the letter K."
"I neither confirm nor deny such claims."
She mumbles what I presume to be a string of curses, only for the machine to quiet and confirm my assumptions. Rolling my lips, I bite back a laugh at her obvious restraint. She's like a little volcano on the verge of eruption.
I know I probably sound like an asshole—well, I definitely do, seeing as I am one, more often than not. And if someone were to overhear, I couldn't deny them my real reason for grabbing a cup of coffee at this particular coffee shop. To fuel my amusing habit of terrorizing Juliana.
Well, at least that's what I told myself on the drive over here, instead of needing to make the photo I've been staring at for two days straight a reality.
As she pours my coffee, I take my time giving her a once-over. Just like her Charmr profile, she wears a modest amount of makeup, glasses, and a basic tee beneath a striped apron. A far cry from how she looked at dinner, but no less distracting.
She twists on her heel, aiming for the back wall, and my lips part. Those are new. My gaze falls lower as I appreciate her yoga pants. Tight and gray, they hug her hips and perfect ass, which jiggles with every step. My jaw locks as she stands there, working on something I can't care to look at. By some miracle, I pull myself from my hypnosis, right before she turns back around.
"That'll be seven-fifty." She passes the cup across the counter.
I raise an eyebrow to the perfect white tulip drawn on the surface. "Impressive. That has to be the best coffee art I've seen," I say, and I mean it.
To my surprise, she thanks me with a shy smile, sweeping a loose bang behind her ear. "Cash or card?"
Flipping open my wallet, I offer her a card. Without a glance, she grabs it instinctually, but pauses once she carries its full weight. Her gaze flicks to the card, her arm still outstretched, suspended midair, and when her eyebrows arch upwards, satisfaction pools low in my gut.
Although my family's fortunes are no secret to Juliana, she's been keeping her distance, but a Black Amex is a powerful reminder. You see, when people refer to the status symbol of a black card, they don't mean just any black card, but the black card. The American Express Centurion Card. Exclusive and invite-only, the Black Amex is offered to high-net-worth individuals who meet a certain spending and income threshold. A level which isn't actually specified but my trust fund stipend covers.
A modest two-hundred thousand.
Per month.
So, I'm not all that surprised by Juliana's common reaction to seeing a Black Amex in person. But, for some reason... as I cock my head... it looks good between her fingertips.
Snapping out of her daze, she speeds through the payment process, working the tablet in front of her. I watch her intently as she nibbles her lower lip, until the tablet chimes, finishing the transaction.
"I like the sight of that," I murmur.
Peering up at me through her thick lashes, she taps her glasses into place, drawing attention to the freckles dotted along her nose and cheeks. "Of what?"
"You, swiping my card."
She flinches, her mouth plopping open on a silent exclamation. As her jaw snaps shut, my eyes search her green ones, capturing the shock flashing in them. "U-uhm," she stammers. "Here's your check." She slides the paper across the counter, my card placed on top.
"Thank you, Jules."
Turning quickly, she bee-lines straight to that awful door, which still harbors a lurker behind the window.
"Wait." She halts at the sound of my voice. Eyebrows cinching, I inspect the check, then the counter, finding no jar. "Is there nowhere to tip?"
"... No, there's not." There's a hint of ire in her tone.
No tips? At a coffee shop?
"Well, that's kinda odd. Why the hell not?"
