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The background was filled with muffled noises, such as adults chattering, children cackling, a few toddlers weeping and the irritating sound of the coffee machine that was placed on the baristas counter, which happened to be right beside my table.
I took a small sip of my hot Americano, before I noticed a little boy in a stroller by the end of a table filled with adults, glaring at me as if he'd never seen a lady wearing a suit before. Children these days.
Don't get me wrong, as much as I adore cafés, they're sometimes a bit too noisy for my liking--but what do I expect from a public area on a weekend? Of course it would be absolutely packed.
I glanced at my Rolex, patiently waiting as I slowly tapped my slingback kitten heels on the wooden floor, which appeared to be recently waxed. I then turned my attention to the café entrance, when I finally spotted her exiting a black vehicle as her driver held the door open. I watched her intently, while she walked into the busy café wearing a red dress, an enormous red hat and her signature Louboutins.
"You're late." I say, glaring at her eyes that are covered by her sunglasses. "You said to meet up at 11."
"It is 11. And if I am late, then at least I'm fashionably late." her British accent is noticeable in her speech as, she pulls out a chair on the other side of the table, shrugging one of her shoulders while displaying a soft grin on her face. This woman irritates me more than words can describe.
"I ordered you a black coffee already."
"Good. Do you know why I asked to meet up with you?" she rests her head on her hand, looking at me closely.
"What other than a job of course, taking that you'd never call me just to chat." I reply.
"Black coffee for.. LaFloor?" abarista says in the distance. I chuckle, smiling widely as she stood up.
"They said your name wrong, again." I stated, laughing softly, as LaFleur looked at me with a stare that can instantly silence a crowd.
"No shit, Sherlock." she stood up from her seat arrogantly, walking towards the counter, located at the other side of the room.
After taking a moment to compose myself—a rarity for me—I glanced at her bag on the seat, likely containing my next client's file, just as she returned to the table with a coffee cup, the misspelled name on the side a subtle indication of the baristas hurriedness; setting down the drink, she produced the file I had been eyeing, laying it on the table as she adjusted her attire, her demeanor shifting back to the matter at hand, presenting the details of a covert assignment. "Target named Henry Caldwell, born in England, lives in Barcelona, a 43-year-old businessman operating a factory in a small southwestern Spanish town near the Portuguese border, known for his dubious financial practices that have left the local populace in dire straits. He already caused multiple deaths by stealing healthcare funds of locals with disabilities or sickness'."
