Chapter 2 - The Unavoidable Encounter
The following week was a marathon of stress,
exams,
and double shifts that left me feeling like a hollow shell.
I was working the closing shift at the café on a rainy Tuesday,
wiping down the counters with a damp rag while the scent of roasted beans hung heavy in the air.
The rain drummed against the large front window,
blurring the city lights into streaks of neon.
I was alone in the shop,
the last customer having left twenty minutes ago,
and I was looking forward to the twenty-minute walk home just to feel the rain on my face.
Suddenly,
the bell above the door chimed,
and a gust of cold air followed.
I didn't look up immediately,
my voice sounding robotic as I spoke.
“We’re closing in five minutes,”
I said,
scrubbing a stubborn coffee stain on the marble.
“I think I can make my order in four,”
a familiar voice replied.
I froze,
my heart doing a violent somersault in my chest.
I looked up,
and there he was,
standing by the door like a vision from another life.
Noah Priestley wasn't wearing a suit this time;
instead,
he wore a dark cashmere overcoat over a simple black sweater.
His hair was damp from the rain,
clinging to his forehead in those calculated,
messy waves.
He looked even more handsome in the dim light of the café,
his dark eyes fixed on me with that same look of curiosity.
“You,”
I whispered,
my grip tightening on the rag.
“Me,”
he said,
walking toward the counter with a grace that felt out of place among the plastic chairs and crumbs.
“I was in the neighborhood,”
he lied,
and we both knew it.
Men like him didn't just find themselves in this part of the city at 10:00 p.m. on a Tuesday.
“You’re stalking me,”
I said,
trying to sound annoyed,
but failing to hide the breathlessness in my voice.
“I prefer the term ‘checking in’,”
he countered,
leaning his elbows on the counter.
“You look even more tired than you did in my car.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,”
I snapped,
turning away to grab a clean cup.
“What do you want,
Noah?”
“A black coffee,”
he said,
“and five minutes of your time.”
I poured the coffee,
my hands shaking slightly as I handed it to him.
He didn't look at the drink;
he looked at me.
“I did some research,”
he started,
and I felt a surge of defensive anger.
“I don’t like being researched.”
“I’m sure you don’t,”
he said,
ignoring my protest.
“But I found out you’re the top of your class in the pre-med program.”
“I also found out you’re working forty hours a week on top of a full course load.”
“It’s a miracle you haven't collapsed yet.”
“I’m fine,”
I said,
my voice rising.
“I’m doing what I have to do.”
“You’re wasting your potential by exhausting your brain on caffeine and manual labor,”
he said,
his voice dropping to a serious tone.
“I have a proposal for you.”
I leaned back,
crossing my arms.
“I told you,
I don’t want charity.”
“It’s not charity,”
he repeated,
the same phrase he had used in the car.
“My foundation is looking for a research assistant for a new medical tech project.”
“It pays three times what you make here,”
“it counts as academic credit,”
“and the hours are flexible.”
I stared at him,
my mind racing.
It sounded like a dream,
the kind of opportunity that only happened in movies.
“Why me?”
I asked.
“Because I like people who can fall asleep in a stranger’s car and still have the nerve to tell them off,”
he said,
the amusement returning to his eyes.
“And because your transcripts are the best I’ve ever seen.”
I wanted to say no,
to maintain my pride and my independence.
But I thought about the peeling linoleum in my apartment,
the rattle of my radiator,
and the way my eyes burned every single morning.
“I’ll think about it,”
I said,
trying to sound non-committal.
“Don’t think too long,”
he said,
setting his coffee cup down on the counter.
“The offer expires when you graduate,”
“and at the rate you’re going,”
“you might not make it that far.”
He turned and walked toward the door,
stopping just before he stepped out into the rain.
“Call the number on the card,”
he said,
without looking back.
“The real number.”
He vanished into the night,
leaving me alone with the scent of his cologne and the hum of the refrigerator.
I looked at the coffee cup he had left behind.
Underneath it was a hundred-dollar bill,
tucked neatly so it wouldn't get wet.
I felt a rush of anger at the gesture,
at the ease with which he could throw money around.
But then I realized,
for the first time in months,
I didn't have to worry about how I was going to pay for my textbooks.
I picked up the bill,
folded it,
and put it in my pocket.
I locked the door of the café,
stepped out into the rain,
May you like
and for the first time,
I didn't feel like I was walking home alone.
