Chapter 2 – Extra Shot of Trouble

Celine balanced a tray of croissants like it was made of glass, every step calculated, every breath shallow. She knew the staff had bets on how long it would take her to mess up again today.

One step closer to the pastry display. Two steps. Almost there—

Thunk.

The tray tipped, and a lone croissant escaped, launching itself dramatically onto the counter like a stunt double.

Celine froze, horrified. “No, no, no, stay put—”

She lunged, scooping the pastry before anyone else could see, and whispered, “Five-second rule, don’t betray me now.”

Unfortunately, betrayal came in human form.

“Celine,” her manager sighed as she walked past, arms folded across her chest. “That’s the third casualty today. Are you sure you’ve worked in a café before?”

Celine flashed her brightest, most innocent smile. “Of course! I make a mean instant coffee at home. With hot water and everything.”

Her manager closed her eyes, exhaled through her nose like a tired schoolteacher, and muttered something about new hires before walking away.

Celine let out a breath of relief—until a familiar voice drifted from the corner.

“Worst barista ever strikes again.”

Her head snapped up. And there he was—Liam Reyes, laptop open, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Oh, you think you’re funny?” she shot back, marching over with the captured croissant.

“I don’t think,” he said, looking up at her with those maddeningly calm brown eyes. “I know. Pretty sure that pastry just committed suicide to escape you.”

She dropped the croissant onto his napkin with exaggerated force. “Here. A gift. Enjoy your… counter bread.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re bribing me with floor food?”

“It didn’t touch the floor, thank you very much,” she corrected, hands on hips. “That’s counter bread. Totally different category.”

For a second, he just stared at her. Then, against his will, he laughed. Not a loud laugh, but the kind that softened the sharp edges of his face.

Celine beamed. “See? Excellent customer service. You laughed. My job here is done.”

Hours passed, the steady hum of the café filling the background—espresso machines hissing, mugs clinking, soft indie music playing overhead. Celine wiped down a nearby table, stealing glances at Liam. He was hunched over his laptop, blueprints scattered across the wooden surface, pencil tapping an anxious rhythm. His shoulders were tense, his jaw tight, like the weight of the world was sitting on his back.

She hesitated, then spoke. “Everything okay over there?”

Liam blinked, pulled from his trance. “Huh? Yeah. Just work.”

“Architect stuff?” she guessed.

He frowned slightly. “How’d you know?”

“You’ve got rulers, blueprints, and you mutter like my uncle when measurements don’t line up. Didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure that one out.”

That earned her a ghost of a smile. “Sharp eye, Barista.”

“Sharp everything,” she shot back, then tilted her head. “So, why do you always camp out here? Don’t architects have offices or fancy studios with, I don’t know, big drafting tables?”

Something flickered in his expression—gone before she could name it. “Office is… complicated.”

She sensed a wall there, so she didn’t press. Instead, she leaned in conspiratorially. “Well, lucky for you, this café has top-tier amenities. Free Wi-Fi, decent air-conditioning, and me.”

Liam snorted. “World’s worst barista. Truly, I’m spoiled.”

Celine gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. “Wow. You wound me. One day, I’ll make you the perfect cup of coffee, and you’ll beg for forgiveness.”

“I’ll believe it when I taste it,” he said, amused despite himself.

That evening, when the dinner crowd finally thinned out, Celine found herself alone behind the counter with her sworn enemy: the espresso machine.

“Alright, beast,” she whispered, squaring her shoulders. “It’s just you and me now. No more sputtering. No more surprise geysers. I will conquer you.”

“Talking to appliances again?” Liam’s voice carried across the quiet café.

Celine spun around. “You’re still here? Do you live here or something?”

“Do you?” he countered smoothly, raising an eyebrow.

She pursed her lips. 

“Touché.”

Turning back to the machine, she muttered, “For your information, I’m practicing. Some of us actually care about self-improvement.”

“Oh, is that what you call nearly scalding yourself with steam?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You want coffee or not, Reyes?”

He lifted his hands in surrender. “Fine. Americano. Surprise me.”

Celine inhaled like a soldier going into battle. She measured the beans carefully, tamped them with exaggerated precision, and slid the portafilter into place. The machine rumbled, hissed—but for once, didn’t explode. Hot water streamed perfectly over the espresso. Victory.

She poured it into a cup, set it down with a flourish, and announced, “Behold. The pinnacle of my barista career.”

Liam studied the drink, swirling it slightly. “Well, at least it looks drinkable this time.”

“Try it,” she dared.

He lifted the cup, took a slow sip… then paused. His eyes flicked up to hers.

“Not bad,” he admitted.

Celine’s grin split across her face. “Yes! Redemption! You may now officially respect me as a professional barista.”

“Don’t push your luck,” he said, though the faint smile betrayed him.

The café grew quieter, only a handful of students left murmuring in the corner. Celine leaned on the counter, watching Liam gather his papers.

“You really should go home, you know,” she said softly. “Even architects need sleep.”

“Deadlines don’t care about sleep,” he replied, shoving blueprints into his bag.

“Wow,” she said, tilting her head. “You always this stubborn?”

“You always this nosy?”

She smirked. “Touché, again.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint whir of the machine cooling down. And as he slung his bag over his shoulder, Celine noticed the slump in his posture, the exhaustion etched in the corners of his eyes. Something inside her tightened.

She had come here to play a role, to escape her gilded cage and taste normal life. But Liam Reyes… he was no script she had written. He was real. Complicated. And dangerous, in a way she couldn’t yet name.

As she clocked out that night, walking under the dim streetlights, the realization hit her like a shot of espresso.

She was supposed to be undercover. Invisible. Just another barista in the crowd.

Instead, she was already falling.

Across the street, Liam’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced around, then answered in a low voice.

“You’re behind,” a cold voice crackled through the line. “I don’t like waiting, Reyes.”

Liam’s hand tightened on the phone. “I just need more time.”

“You don’t have time. Deliver what we asked for, or your debts become the least of your problems.”

The line went dead.

Liam stood frozen under the flickering streetlight, his jaw clenched, his heart pounding. When he finally turned, his gaze fell on the café window—where Celine’s reflection lingered, laughing at something the manager said.

A bitter thought crossed his mind.

If only she knew who I really was.