The Coffee War
Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Four in the morning. Only the work light over the bar was on in Black Label. Fourteen cups already stood in a row. Ethan poured the fourteenth pour-over, eyes on the angle of the stream, the speed, the point of contact with the bed. He tasted. Eyes closed. A small grimace. He poured it out, reset the grinder, and began the fifteenth.
Liam watched. “You’ve been at this since four in the morning. Fourteen times now. The last five were perfect.”
“Wrong grind. Too coarse. It’s throwing off the last eight seconds of extraction.”
“Looked perfect to me.”
“Your palate’s calibrated by instant noodles.”
Liam was not offended. He watched Ethan the way a man watches someone tightening a screw on himself. “Is this really about the competition?”
The grinder ran. Ethan watched the grounds fall. He did not answer.
“Or about what your opponent said.”
Ethan adjusted the grinder. No answer. The grinder ran again. The last amber drop fell, heavy and perfect, from the V60 into the glass.
The memory cut in.
University, year two. The jasmine and bergamot blend. A matching amber drop fell from the rim of a white porcelain cup onto the hollow of Harper’s throat and slid wet along her collarbone. Ethan’s eyes darkened. He bent and set his mouth to her skin, tongue tracing the bitter line of coffee. Harper arched, a broken sound catching in her throat, hands gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. Control broke. He snatched the cup from her hand and set it down hard. He stepped between her thighs, weight pinning her to the counter edge. His hand drove under her T-shirt, rough fingers gripping bare waist and lifting her onto the cold stone. Their mouths met, wet and deep, tasting of Cerrado bitterness and sweat. His teeth caught her lower lip. Her nails raked the back of his neck. The edge of the counter dug into her thighs as his chest drove against her in a rhythm that stole breath.
Ethan’s eyes were red under the yellow light. The hand holding the V60 carafe shook. His knuckles whitened as if he meant to crush something. He closed his eyes, exhaled a long, shaking breath, and pulled himself back.
“Make yourself useful or go home.”
At the same hour the kitchen of Sunnyside Sip was thick with heat. The roaster had been running since dawn. Harper worked the fifth batch. Sweat dampened her temples. Three scorch marks marked her apron. She no longer noticed them. Ellen stood in the doorway.
“Have you eaten today. Real food, not coffee.”
Harper kept turning the pan. “In a bit.”
“You’ve said ‘in a bit’ since six this morning. It’s eleven now. ‘In a bit’ is turning into ‘never.’”
“After this batch.”
Ellen sat on the step and accepted it. “You’re going to beat him. You know that, right?”
Harper’s hand slowed for a fraction, then steadied.
In the afternoon the bell rang. Harper looked up from the counter. Sophie stepped in. Platinum bob still neat despite the Melbourne wind. Her eyes moved slowly over the wicker chairs, the plants in condensed-milk tins, the chalk menu.
Cute. Cheap to run, too. I’d give it eighteen months.
Harper’s hands closed on the counter.
The memory rose.
University, second year. Sophie sat on the edge of Harper’s bed, arm around her shoulders, voice soft and pained. “He calls you the charity case, Harper. He said the only reason he spends time with you is because he feels sorry for you. I heard him say it myself.” Harper’s eyes had been red. She had believed every word.
Sophie chose a corner table and sat with the ease of someone who owned every room. “Harper! Oh my god! It’s been forever.”
“Sophie.”
“Get me an iced coffee, if you have it. Whatever you think is best.”
Harper made the drink and carried it over. She did not sit. “What brings you to Melbourne.”
Sophie leaned back, warm and unhurried. “Work. I’ve been partnering with the shop across the street, Ethan’s place. I’ve been on his side for a while now, actually, ever since everything fell apart between you two. He needed someone in his corner.”
A calculated pause. “Your place is lovely, by the way. Very… authentic.”
Harper’s fingers tightened on the edge of the counter.
She just called this place amateur. She just didn’t say it that way.
“Thanks. And you’re still close with Ethan, I see.”
“Someone had to help him get back on his feet, after you left. He was in a bad place for a long time, Harper. I don’t think you know how bad.”
Harper’s jaw hardened once. “I didn’t leave. We lost touch. Those are two different things.”
A few minutes later Sophie stood, bag on her shoulder, heading for the door. Ellen stepped out from behind the counter and paused for a beat between Sophie and the place where Harper stood. Sophie glanced at her, gave a short polite smile, and stepped around.
At the door she turned. “It was so good seeing you, Harper. Truly.”
Her hand closed around Harper’s wrist as she said it, holding a beat longer than a friendly touch. Her fingers tightened enough to whiten the skin. Harper pulled free the moment Sophie let go. Sophie walked out, unhurried. Harper looked down at her wrist and rubbed the place that had been held.
That night Sophie stood alone in the back office of Black Label. She entered the four-digit code of the safe without hesitation. The door opened on business documents, insurance papers, a red folder. At the back lay a yellowed envelope. Ethan’s young handwriting read Harper.
Sophie picked it up with both hands and looked at it for a long time.
Still intact. Good.
She set it back, closed the safe, and re-entered the code.
She sat at the desk and opened her laptop. A new email. Recipient: Landlord, Hosier Lane. Her fingers typed the first lines. The cursor hovered over SEND. She did not click. Her face, lit by the blue of the screen, held no expression.