The Richest Man at Table Seven

Luke Anderson returned on Thursday.

Same table and time, with the expression of complete detachment that made everyone else maintain careful distance.

I brought him an Americano before he ordered. Set it down with the handle positioned left, exactly as he preferred.

He glanced at the cup, then at me. His expression remained the same, and he said nothing. Then, he returned to his tablet.

I walked away feeling dismissed and uncertain. Had he noticed the positioning? Did it matter? Was I being too obvious, or not obvious enough?

Tuesday, he came again. I brought the Americano before he could order. Handle left. No comment.

Thursday, the same routine. He still didn't speak.

By the second week, I'd memorized everything: how he took exactly forty-five minutes per visit, how he reviewed documents with the same focused intensity, how he never looked up except to signal for service.

How completely, utterly alone he seemed despite being surrounded by people who recognized his name.

I started timing my movements. Clearing tables near him. Walking past his sight line when restocking. Minor adjustments that put me in his peripheral vision without being obvious.

At least, I thought they weren't obvious.

The third week, something changed.

I approached with his usual order, set it down with the typical precision, and started to turn away.

"What do you want?"

His voice stopped me cold.

I turned back. "Excuse me, sir?"

"You heard me." Luke set down his pen. He looked at me thoroughly for the first time in three weeks. His eyes were gray, sharp, and completely unreadable. "What do you want?"

My pulse kicked. "I don't understand."

"I think you do."

"I'm just doing my job," I said carefully.

"Does your job require you to pay this much attention to certain customers?"

Heat crawled up my neck. "I don't know what you mean."

"Don't you?"

He'd seen through my careful positioning, and he wanted me to acknowledge it. I kept quiet. Luke studied me with assessing intensity, as if I were a problem he was deciding whether to solve or dismiss.

Finally, he gestured to the empty chair across from him. "Sit."

"I'm working."

"Sit." His voice was firm.

I sat.

Luke leaned back slightly, creating distance while maintaining control of the space between us. "How long have you worked here?"

"Five weeks."

"And before that?"

"Why does it matter?"

"It doesn't. I'm making a conversation."

"You don't talk to people here. Jean-Paul said you don't like talking to staff."

His face brightened with a brief smile. "Jean-Paul talks too much."

"He's protective."

"Of you specifically?"

"Of all the servers."

"Interesting."

I shifted in my chair, uncomfortable under his steady gaze.

"I should get back to work."

"In a moment." Luke pulled a business card from his wallet and set it on the table between us. "If you decide what you want, call me. We'll discuss it properly."

I stared at the card. Heavy stock with minimal text: his name and a phone number.

"I already told you. I don't want anything."

"Then you won't call." He returned to his tablet. "But if you change your mind, the offer stands."

I took the card because refusing it felt more revealing than accepting. I stood on unsteady legs and walked back to the counter, feeling his attention track my movement even though he never looked up.

Jean-Paul showed up beside me. "What was that about?"

"He's particular about his coffee."

"He gave you his personal card for being particular about coffee?"

"Apparently."

Jean-Paul looked skeptical but didn't make a fuss.

I finished my shift with Luke Anderson's card in my apron pocket and my carefully constructed plan feeling suddenly, dangerously transparent.

That evening, my mother called.

"Marcus is hosting a dinner party next Saturday. You're expected to attend as his guest."

"I haven't agreed to anything with Marcus."

"You haven't disagreed either. We're running out of patience, Mara. If you won't cooperate, we'll be forced to take more direct action."

"What does that mean?"

"It means your apartment lease comes up for renewal next month. We won't be co-signing."

"You can't do that."

"We can. We are. Unless you start showing Marcus the respect he deserves, you'll be looking for new housing. And good luck finding it without references or a co-signer."

She hung up before I could respond.

I sat in my soon-to-be-former apartment and pulled out Luke Anderson's card. Stared at the phone number, as if it might provide answers to questions I hadn't asked yet.

He'd noticed me and seen through whatever game I thought I was playing. He offered me his direct contact information despite clearly recognizing I had an agenda.

I set the card on my coffee table and didn't call for two days. I needed to think, to calculate, to figure out the right approach that wouldn't reveal how desperate I was.

Thursday, Luke came back.

I brought his Americano without comment. He accepted it without acknowledgment.

The silence felt different now. It was charged like we were both waiting for the other to make the next move.

Halfway through his visit, he spoke without looking up from his tablet.

"You didn't call."

"No."

"Changed your mind?"

"I was never sure what I'd decided in the first place."

That made him look up. "Honest. I appreciate that."

"Is that why you gave me your card? To see if I'd be honest?"

"Partially."

"And the other part?"

"Curiosity. You've been watching me for three weeks. I wanted to see if you'd admit it."

My face blushed. "I wasn't."

"Mara, we can pretend you haven't been positioning yourself in my sight line, memorizing my schedule, calculating approaches. Or we can acknowledge reality and move forward from there."

The directness stole my breath. He was brutally honest without judging me.

"What do you want to move forward to?" I asked carefully.

"I don't know yet. That depends on what you're after."

"Conversation," I said. "To start."

"Just conversation?"

"For now."

Luke studied me longer than I had ever seen him do. Then nodded once, sharp and decisive.

"All right. Sit."

"I'm working."

"After your shift. If you want."

"Okay," I whispered.

"Good." He returned to his tablet. "I'll wait."

I walked away on shaking legs and sweaty palms. Luke Anderson knew I'd been watching him, and instead of dismissing me, he'd invited me to stop pretending.

He was either interested in whatever I was offering or playing a game I didn't understand yet. Either way, I was in too deep to back out now.

After my shift ended, I changed out of my uniform and found Luke still at table seven. The café had emptied to its usual late-afternoon quietness.

He looked up as I approached. Gestured to the chair across from him.

"So," he said. "Let's talk."