Play Me Like You Mean It

West Hollywood – Brew & Bloom

I was five minutes late, two shots of sleep-deprived espresso deep, and exactly one paycheck away from a breakdown.

“Romi,” I muttered, adjusting my apron with one hand and slapping the register with the other, “if one more trust fund gremlin asks me if the oat milk is ‘emotionally sourced,’ I’m throwing myself into the pastry case.”

My best friend and co-worker, Romi, didn’t even look up. She was restocking almond danishes with the speed of someone powered by spite and caffeine.

“Girl, you live in West Hollywood. Emotional trauma is a topping.”

I pressed my forehead against the counter. “God, I hate Mondays. It's just morning and I’m already tired of humanity.”

“Don’t kill anyone until I get back from the fridge,” she said, grabbing the key and disappearing through the swinging door like she’d rehearsed it.

The morning rush came in like a slap. Heels clicking, phones buzzing, designer perfumes announcing themselves before the women wearing them even crossed the threshold.

I was elbow-deep in spoiled entitlement when the bell above the door jingled again.

Three girls walked in, practically carbon copies. Oversized shades, slick ponytails, neon leggings, and voices pitched for TikTok. They didn’t walk so much as glide, like it was a runway and they owned the lighting.

I sighed. “And the influencer zoo has opened.”

I pulled my hair into a messy bun, threw on the fakest smile in my soul’s reserve, and chirped, “Welcome to Brew & Bloom! What can I get started for…”

“No offense,” one of them interrupted, tugging off her glasses, “but can someone who actually knows how to steam almond milk take my order?”

Before I could say something that would have gotten me fired again, Romi reappeared like divine intervention.

“Sure thing, sweetheart,” she said coolly, sliding behind the counter. “That would be me.”

I gave her a grateful side-glance. She threw me one back that said “Mira, girl, you're on thin ice this month.” She wasn’t wrong.

Romi handled their orders with a fake-charming smile and then vanished into the back like she hadn’t just saved a life, mine.

I was halfway through ringing up a trio of yoga clones when the door opened again.

A man walked in, head down, hoodie up, cap pulled low like he owed someone money. Tall, broad, built like trouble on silent mode. He moved with practiced quiet, the kind you don’t learn unless you’re used to slipping in and out of rooms unnoticed.

I glanced at him, then turned back to the register. “Next.”

He stepped forward, still glued to his phone like it was giving him CPR. No eye contact. No greeting. He just stood there.

“Hi,” I said after a beat. “Welcome to Brew & Bloom. What can I get started for you?”

Silence.

I waited.

Still nothing.

I leaned over the counter, my voice sharp. “Are you ordering telepathically, or do I need to read your aura too?”

Still no reaction. Just thumbs tapping, scrolling, and ignoring.

That was it.

“Okay,” I said, full volume now. “Unless that phone’s about to spit out a latte, I suggest you look up, order like a functioning adult, and stop wasting my very limited will to live.”

That got him.

His head lifted.

And damn, he had the kind of face you wouldn’t forget. Tan skin. Stubble lining a sharp jaw. A mouth that looked like it had sinned in private and smirked about it in public.

His eyes, half-shadowed beneath his cap, scanned me with something between curiosity and amusement.

“Americano,” he said, his voice like smoke. “Hot. No room.”

I stared at him. “Wow. It speaks.”

He lowered his phone at last. “Rough morning?”

“Oh, trust me,” I muttered, turning to the machine, “this is my good mood.”

“I like you,” he said with a grin, like I was entertainment. “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”

I scoffed. “Lemme guess, you were Barack Obama’s college roommate? Or maybe Beyoncé’s Pilates instructor? Everyone’s somebody in this town.”

He laughed, the sound rich and reckless, like I’d just punched the ego right out of him.

I poured, steamed, and slammed the cup on the counter. “$4.95. And you’re welcome.”

He dropped two crisp twenties like tipping was a reflex. “Keep the change. Name’s Cade.”

I took the bills like he was trying to buy silence, not coffee. Generous tip. Probably loaded. Still didn’t care.

“Name’s Mira. Now that we’ve bonded, please exit the premises like a respectful adult.”

He laughed again, genuine, delighted. Like he wasn’t used to being dismissed.

Then he took a slow sip of his coffee, eyes still on me as he walked out, backward, like he was pocketing my eye-roll for later.

The bell jingled behind him.

Romi reemerged, arms stacked with oat milk.

“Okay. Did I just walk in on someone giving you the ‘you’d look good ruined’ stare, or was that my imagination?”

I tossed the rag on the counter. “He was rude. Ignored me for a full minute while dry-humping his phone. I called him out. He finally spoke. Good thing he tips like he has something to prove.”

She blinked. “Wait. Hoodie? Cap? Tall?”

“Yup. Gave off I-don’t-wait-in-line energy.”

Romi whipped her head toward the glass, eyes narrowing. Her whole body went still.

“Mira… was that Cade Reeve?”

I frowned. “Who?”

She turned to me like I’d just kicked a puppy. “Mira. Please tell me you didn’t verbally body-slam that man before he left. That was Cade freaking Reeve. NBA highest-paid player in the country. The man has more brand deals than I have functioning brain cells before 10 a.m.”

I blinked. “You’re messing with me.”

“I wish I was. My brothers would weep if they knew I stood ten feet from him and didn’t get a picture.”

I stared at the door. “Okay but how do you even recognize him in a hoodie and cap?”

Romi gave me a look like I’d asked why the sky was blue. “Girl. I have two older brothers and one little brother. I’ve been watching basketball since birth. That man’s face is genetically burned into our family tree.”

I leaned back against the espresso machine, stunned. “Well... oops.”

Romi let out a slow whistle. “Forget oops. He’s either never coming back... or he’s coming back for you.”

I rolled my eyes, but deep down, I was already begging the universe for a no-return policy.

He looked like trouble. The worst kind.

And the part that scared me?

I’d never been smart enough to walk away from it.