Pot Calling Kettle Black Novels & Stories

she answered in a now calm voice as she smiled softly, clearly trying to smooth over my obvious iritation. My eyes slowly moved down to stare at the black liquid in my cup as my jaw dropped, how had I not thought about my actions this morning when I made myself a cup of black coffee, I hated coffee. Beau loves black coffee, Kai doesn’t even drink coffee or tea for that matter.

A circle of light in the darkness, and me standing in it. I make tea. The kettle is quiet, designed by people who understood that noise is a form of violence in the early morning. The water heats without screaming. I choose a tea from the drawer — something herbal, without caffeine, chosen for comfort rather than stimulation. The mug is ceramic, handmade, the kind of object that cost too much but was worth it because someone loves the feel of it in their hands.

I follow the faint sound coming from downstairs and find him standing in the kitchen. “What are you doing?” He glances over his shoulder. “Nothing.” I narrow my eyes. “That doesn't look like nothing.” He turns back toward the counter, where a kettle sits steaming beside him. “It's something my mother used to drink.” He switches off the gas beneath the kettle before carefully lifting it. I step closer, curiosity getting the better of me. He pours what looks like ginger tea into a cup before reaching for a jar beside it and adds two generous spoonfuls of honey into it.

She felt her brain is shutting down for good. “We should go to her house then. She must have hidden something or might be everything in there.” Takumi nodded to agree. Kathleen excused herself to check the crews in the kitchen to make sure everything is under control before she leaves. “How about the Ethiopian dark roast?” She asked. “We still have ten more boxes, ma’am,” Jade, one of their baristas, answered. “So, everything’s cool now? Just drop me a message if you still need anything, okay?” “Yes, ma’am!”

Lerah told me. "Okay. I'll be done before you return," I promised, turning around and heading into the toilet to brush. The celery was the last thing Lerah put in the stainless steel pot before covering it with the glass lid. I stood behind her watching as excited bubbles jollied on the surface of the sauce, kicking the lid up with vigour and helping the aromatic steam escape into the air. "This is what I cook for alpha Killian whenever I want to ask him for some money," she giggled.

It's the first thing out her mouth, and on instinct, she's moving to peer over the tall male's shoulder. Even with the spirit-thing shifting to hide what's in the pot, Alina quickly sees the disaster with a startled noise in the back of her throat. Black Tar is a hazy reminiscent of what should be oatmeal (or so she thinks). The brew bubbling and no doubt toxic, when Claec and her both flinch at a disgustingly large bubble that forms—only to pop with a wretched burnt smell. How in the world--.

The water in the kettle was boiling. When it was boiled, there was a bubbling sound, and the white smoke rose. Blake looked down and leaned forward. He picked up the kettle and poured water into the Yixing clay teapot. He poured a cup of tea and handed it to Yan Lin, "Uncle Yan." Yan Lin glanced at the teacup in his hand and did not take it. He said indifferently, "You'd better call me Boss Yan."

“I will have… your strongest potion.” The barista blinked. Geoff stepped in. “Large black coffee. Make it two.” When the cups arrived, Keenan wrapped his hands around his as if it were a chalice of power. He took a sip, then froze, face twisting. “It tastes like bitter earth.” Geoff nearly snorted coffee out his nose. “Yeah, that’s coffee. You get used to it.” Keenan set the cup down with ceremonial care. “Then I will conquer it.” He took another sip, grimacing, then another, jaw tight with determination.

It was black tea I had brewed before we hit the highway. I gripped the flask tightly, leeching every bit of thermal energy from the metal. "Raine, what's in your flask? Give Toby a sip. The meatball is too salty." Pamela's sharp eyes were instantly locked on the thermal flask in my hands. I immediately tightened the cap and looked coldly into the rearview mirror. "It's black tea. It's bitter, so the kid won't like it." "Black tea's great! It warms the body!" Pamela insisted. "Who cares if it's bitter? We'll just mix it with some bottled water. Hand it over."

“I would love a cup of coffee.” “Any specifications?” Damn, Mr Blackwell didn’t say what type of coffee he liked and I can’t exactly send him an email now asking him what kind of coffee he likes. “Black. No sugar.” I played my best card. If he is that grumpy, then he must love black coffee. “Got it.” He replied. “Name?” “Um, Stella.” I found a chair close enough to the counter and sat there while I pulled Mr Blackwell's schedule on my phone.