Espresso X Madeleine Novels & Stories

“Cappuccino, latte, black coffee or espresso?” “Oh…Latte, no sugar, crème with some ice.” Elena smiled and she saw Martinez smirking at her. “Any toppings?” Martinez put his two hands into his jean’s pockets. “Brown sugar powder, if there’s any…” Elena stopped and giggled, “Don’t make me sound like a complaint customer! Gosh…” She covered her mouth with her backhand at the time she giggled. Martinez glanced at her and grinned. “One of the nightmares that often show up in your restaurant?”

And lastly, turned on the coffee maker. When the croissants finally emerged from the oven, Alejandro stared at them. They looked nothing like the ones the staff usually prepared for him. Some parts looked pale and some other parts were completely burnt. But it looked edible still. Satisfied enough, he plated the croissant, added a cup of coffee to the tray then carried everything back upstairs. The first thing Elise noticed as she stirred awake was the warmth of the sheets wrapped around her. And the second was the aroma of coffee mixed with the scent of some other thing that smelt burnt.

A taste of home. With a renewed determination, Maddie began to bake. The familiar motions of measuring, mixing, and kneading grounded her, pulling her back from the abyss of despair. She poured her grief, her anger, her fragile hope into the delicate layers of the croissant, each fold a silent prayer for healing.

She snatched it from his hand, holding it close to her chest. Dante raised an eyebrow, surprised at her speed. Instead of trying to take the bread back again, he simply shrugged. "You trust easily, don't you?" Madeleine's eyes flashed with indignation. "I beg to differ," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm simply choosing the lesser evil. And right now, that's you." Dante's expression remained the same but a small, enigmatic smile played on his lips. "Is that so?" he said, his voice low and smooth. "Well, I suppose that's better than being the greater evil.”

Something about her gaze lingered, sharp and probing, before she ordered a flat white and vanished into the morning crowd. She ordered a marocchino—medium, with whipped cream—her manner suggesting she hadn’t time for more than brief civilities. The elderly woman seemed to be hurrying somewhere, her movements clipped yet unhurried. I placed a few sugar cubes on the saucer, separate, as she preferred.

Judging by his reactions, he seemed to enjoy it when penetrated deeply. Unaware of Douglass's lewd thoughts, Mitch bustled about and returned with a plate full of items. "From the right: tiramisu, crème brûlée, biscotti, and craquelin choux." "And?" "Try them and tell me which pairs best with espresso and Americano." "What will you give me if I do?" Douglass raised his eyebrows mischievously with a playful expression. "...Forget it, don't eat them then." "I'm joking. I'll eat."

“Some prick bumped into me, and I dropped the cakes.” “Mother fucker.” She slaps her hand over her mouth. Gutter mouth is genetic. Mikayla opens the box and looks inside. “Fuuuuck.” “I know right.” I sit across from her. “Didn’t even apologize.” Marco brings me an espresso coretto. It’s just coffee with a bit of brandy, though knowing Marco it’s probably brandy with a bit of coffee. I got a liquor license just so we can make these. Who knew it’d be so damn popular for people to have a little something extra in their morning coffee, especially in the winter season. A splash of amoretto in the affogato is also popular on hotter days like today.

He said straightforwardly, looking into the cafe and then at my nearly empty cup and plate. I followed the direction of his gaze. "Do you want to order? I'll look after your place." "Yes, but I'm also curious what you're ordering. Is it good?" Jonas asked back. His gaze looked genuinely curious, so I didn't hesitate to answer. I nodded. "The madeleine is good, but the eclairs and cupcakes on the display are equally appetising." I unconsciously swallowed before continuing with my words. "Oh, yes. I'll have a warm latte."

I immediately added the milk and increased the flame so as to make it come to a boil. While it did, I placed the bread on a dish and put the cups in another. Straining the tea, I put the cups and the dish with the bread and butter on a tray and went to my room. Madeleine smiled in surprise when I asked her to turn around and just said, “Wow” I handed her the cup and held the bread in front of her, “It is not much but I thought it might help you clear your head.” She curled her fingers around the hot cup and took a sniff, “It smells wonderful. When did you learn to make tea?”

she asks. “I have an order to pick up,” Benedict says. “Last name Montgomery.” She consults her tablet and then smiles. “Benedict? I see your order here, give me a second to go grab it.” “What did you order?” I ask, unable to stop asking questions. He just smiles and leads me over to one of the displays. On it is one of those fancy coffee machines that I’ve dreamed about. It does espresso and steams and froths milk, and can handle pods as well as brew big pots. It’s a gorgeous, shiny stainless steel thing, and my eyes are as wide as saucers as I look up at Benedict.