First Chapter Coffee House Novels & Stories

I had not slept because the day had been sixty-three chapters of buildup arriving in a single afternoon and my body had not yet found the mechanism for converting the enormity of it into rest. I was in the kitchen when the knock came. Tea on the counter, coat not yet on, Leo still asleep in the next room with forty-five minutes before the school run, the ordinary morning doing its ordinary thing around the extraordinary fact of yesterday. I opened the door. He held out the coffee first. The same corner place, the same cup, the same quiet offering of a thing that had been remembered from a passing comment in a conversation three weeks ago. He had not known, when he brought the first coffee to

TBC Bounded to a Mobster out on Goodnovel website...go read! Chapter 1 Henley I folded my hands as I leaned on the coffee machine, the mop handle nudged my stomach but I didn't budge. I had long finished mopping and cleaning the top floor. I watched the other table that was filled with blondes girls, ordering and eating like life was just a piece of cake. Well...kids born with silver spoons don't worry about life, it was up to us to worry about life.

Chapter four Going to the Del monte's coffeehouse was his regular morning duty, a place where he goes to escape from the harsh reality of life, funny how a coffeehouse turns into a place of solitude. Today was different, he didn't want to go to the coffeehouse but he kept having this gnawing feeling deep down and then it turned into a sudden craving for cappuccino coffee which was extremely weird considering the fact he didn't like the taste and it not being his regular.

I thought: this is what it looks like. Not the gala. Not the midnight apartment. Not the dark and Prague and it worked. This. Six AM and coffee on my side of the table and work to do and him across from me and Isabelle smiling at her laptop and the city outside the windows doing what it always did. This was what it looked like. I picked up my pen. Went back to work. End of Chapter Fourteen.

“But he did. And he asked for coffee instead of whiskey after.” A strange, ridiculous swell of relief rose in me. Coffee instead of whiskey. Softness where there might have been fire. I clutched the ugly pen like it could keep me steady. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s do the work.” — By nine that night, I was in the corner booth of the café, the one with a view of both door and mirror. The room was the same as last time: gentle light, soft jazz that didn’t believe in itself enough to be intrusive, the hiss of milk, the scent of oranges from a bowl by the register. I ordered a coffee I would let go cold and a glass of water I would finish too fast. The notebook lay open to a blank page that made me f

We slip through into an alley, the cool night air hitting my skin, and I breathe for what feels like the first time in hours. The coffee shop is exactly where Caleb said it would be—two blocks east, a narrow storefront with warm light spilling through the windows and the smell of espresso drifting onto the sidewalk. Sasha drops me off with a kiss on the cheek and a promise to call tomorrow. I push through the door, order something I don't taste, and take a seat at a corner table where I can watch the door. Twenty minutes pass. Then thirty. I'm on my second cup of coffee, my leg bouncing under the table, when the door swings open and Caleb walks in.

Midnight start to walk out of the hall. "Or maybe not." And then she smirk. ************************************************** Weeks past by and Mourge is back in town. She know that Peach is in a peace world. So here is she now. Serving a special coffee. "Welcome to Bittersweet cafè, what is your order?" Mourge politely asks the girl with a glasses. She looks like a nerd for Mourge. But of course. This nerdy girl will not be here for no reason. Once their eyes met. Mourge can see a reflection of herself in the kid's face.

I choose jeans and a T-shirt so as not to show the reddish marks on my skin. Once dressed, I decide to leave the room. Yolanda's house always has the windows and doors closed, which isn't surprising since she lives in the Bronx, but it's uncomfortable. The hallways seem dark. I descend the stairs, scanning the room with my eyes. There's a man with a gun in the doorway, and he's waving at me, like he's not ready for war when I barely open my eyes. However, I answer. This world is crazy. I let myself be guided by the smell of coffee coming out of the kitchen. I immediately miss the whipped cream coffee that only one coffee shop in the whole country can pull off perfectly. But I know that's jus