There are exactly three things I believe with unshakable certainty:
1. Mondays are a government conspiracy.
2. The espresso machine at Bean There, Done That hates me.
3. Spilling coffee on a stranger is the fastest way to ruin your week.
Especially if that stranger looks like a lost K-drama lead trying to find the train station.
"Leila!" my manager hollers from behind the counter, just as my elbow grazes the edge of the tray. My life flashes before my eyes—mostly coffee, awkward small talk, and debt.
The tray tips.
The cup topples.
Gravity does its thing.
And with horrifying slo-mo precision, I watch a venti caramel macchiato baptize a very tall, very confused man in khakis and a button-up shirt that probably cost more than my rent.
He blinks. Once. Twice. Slowly looks down at the sticky mess dripping down his shirt.
I die inside.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" I squeak, lunging forward with a handful of napkins and about two ounces of dignity. "I swear I have never done this before. Except for… last week. But that was iced coffee. It's different."
He lifts his eyes—startlingly grey and way too calm for someone who just got scalded by overpriced sugar water.
"It's fine," he says. "It's… just coffee."
"Just coffee?" I echo, stunned. "You might be the kindest man in this entire city."
He shrugs, accepting the napkins like a reluctant superhero. "Or I've just had a worse morning."
Challenge accepted.
"Well, unless your cat puked in your shoes and then your roommate ate the last Pop-Tart before you could—never mind. You win."
There's a pause. He looks at me, then at the coffee dripping off his sleeve. "Is there a name I can put on the lawsuit?"
I blink.
Then he smirks.
Oh. He jokes. Great. Now I'm flustered and guilty.
"Leila. With an E. But please don't sue me, I'm a minimum wage miracle."
He holds out a hand. "Evan. With a V. And this shirt was on sale, so I'll let you off with a replacement drink and maybe… a working phone."
I look down.
There, half-submerged in the puddle of caramel macchiato, is his phone.
Dead.
So very dead.
My jaw drops. "Oh my god. I'm so sorry. Again. I'll—I'll pay for it. I can sell a kidney. Or learn how to do online tarot readings or—"
"Or," he interrupts, "you can just give me another coffee and let me leave before I'm emotionally scarred."
I blink. "Deal."
As I scramble back behind the counter, I hear my coworker mutter under her breath, "That's the third one this month. You're cursed."
I glance back at Evan. He's trying to mop coffee off his pants with a napkin and a level of patience that should qualify him for sainthood.
Maybe I am cursed.
But if so, he's definitely the best-looking victim yet.
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