No Strings Attached(4)

She looked at the ever-growing queue and wondered what was so much better about being there than her usual routine of meandering around the aisles of the organic supermarket in Potts Point and picking out the best-looking produce for dinner—at least her children always had a huge appetite after school.

“Micky, can you fetch us some more cocoa powder from the back, please,” Kristin asked, and Micky snapped to attention, though she had no idea where the cocoa powder, or anything else for that matter, was to be found.





CHAPTER THREE





It was Micky’s third day on the job. She’d successfully made it through the morning rush, working the register, smiling at people, giving them back their correct change if they paid cash, and even having a brief chat with a few regulars she recognized.

She was wiping down a table when Amber walked in.

“Green tea?” Micky asked automatically. Amber didn’t drink coffee, only gallons of tea.

“Yes, and a side of my best friend, please. Where were you yesterday afternoon? I thought you only worked the morning shift?”

Micky shook her head while she put a tea bag into a mug. “I was too exhausted for yoga. I’m not used to this. I’ve only been here two and a half hours today, and my feet are already killing me.”

“You can use that as an excuse once, but not twice. You know I’m all for you having this job, but I don’t want you jeopardizing your practice.” Amber always referred to yoga as a practice.

“And suddenly I have two bosses, whereas a couple of days ago, I had none.” Micky handed Amber her tea.

“Is Kristin leaving you alone in here already?”

“This is the quiet hour. Everyone’s at work. Kristin has gone upstairs for a bit, and Josephine is on the phone with a supplier in the back.”

“How’s your new adventure going?” Amber asked in between blowing on her tea.

“It’s definitely still in the challenging phase.” They both looked at the door as it opened. A woman walked in. Micky’s pulse picked up speed slightly. She’d made plenty of practice-cups of coffee by now, but this would be her first time without supervision, unless the woman ordered tea like Amber—Micky hoped that she would.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Amber said and headed to a table by the window.

“A tall wet capp, please,” the woman said.

“Excuse me?” Did this woman know she was in a coffee shop?

“My regular. A wet cappuccino.” Her blue eyes seemed to look straight through Micky. If she was a regular, couldn’t she see that Micky was new? Or perhaps she was one of those people who never took notice of who served them.

“I’m very sorry. I’m new here, and thus far, no one has explained to me what a wet cappuccino might be.” Wasn’t all coffee wet by definition?

The woman sighed audibly. She’ll roll her eyes at me next. “Wet means a bigger ratio of milk to foam.” She stood there with a massive air of superiority about her.

“So a latte?” Micky asked.

The woman did roll her eyes then. “If I wanted a latte, I would have ordered a latte.” Her tone of voice was nothing like the friendly customers Micky had served throughout the morning. This woman was loud and brash and certainly didn’t have an Australian accent. She sounded American, and acted like it—like she owned the bloody world.

But Micky knew she couldn’t mock the customer. This was a business, and customer satisfaction was key. “That’ll be three dollars ninety-nine, ma’am,” she said. “Coming right up.” Micky couldn’t help giving the woman a defiant stare, in case she thought she didn’t sound utterly ridiculous.

The woman paid cash without saying another word, then walked to the side of the counter, her heels clicking loudly, to wait for her latte—Micky refused to call it a wet cappuccino, even in her head.

Why must people be so unpleasant and have their head stuck so far up their ass, she wondered as she prepared the beverage. But this was one of the challenges that came with her brand new job: dealing with difficult customers. Micky was sure it wouldn’t be her last. And if the woman was indeed a regular, Micky would be making her many more wet cappuccinos to come.

“Hi, Robin.” Josephine sauntered out of the back door.

So she was called Robin. Without looking up from her phone, she mumbled something, reminding Micky of her son’s favorite way of having a conversation with his mother—unwilling to tear his gaze away from his precious iPhone and showing her that he was actually listening to what she was saying. Micky cataloged Robin as an overly pampered expat.

“Here you go.” She handed Robin her drink, their gazes crossing briefly when she did. Robin had an awfully intense stare.