Red Eye

Cake in a Cup

Cake in a Cup:   Double cream, double sugar.  Also called a Double Double.

Fletcher ran his hands along the edges of the lid edge, pushing it down and securing it over the cardboard cup emblazoned with the Books and Booze logo. He’s removed his apron, hung it on a peg by the door into the back rooms. The café is fairly filled up, the lunch hour traffic taking the opportunity to have a taste of a good brew before they had to get back to the grind.

“I didn’t know you drank milk tea,” says Wes, hip checking Fletcher aside as he takes the shots waiting on the tray and pouring them into the waiting travel mug. He’s got a smirk on his face like he knows everyone’s secrets.

“I don’t. Shut up. Lunch break.” He waves the cardboard cup around, as if staving off Wes’ questions, before picking up the first coffee he’d brewed up and escaping from behind the counter through the hip height swing doors onto the café floor.

Wes only laughs as Fletcher beats a hasty retreat, hip checking the door open as he leaves the café. In the space of half a minute he’s outside the auction house door, shouldering it open with all the confidence a dirt poor archer with delusions of grandeur can muster.

The front room is decorated in beiges and browns, all soft cream fabric and dark mahogany surfaces. The coffee table set in front of the plush couch is worth more than all of his possessions combined, he’s sure. Kennet, the receptionist, is the only person in the front room of the elegant building.

When he looks up to see Fletcher striding further into the room, he does little but roll his eyes and gesture to the wide double doors that serve as Rumi’s office. Fletcher knows this from his previous brief foray into the building. “Go ahead, she’s free. Not that I think her being busy would stop you.”

“I have manners,” says Fletcher, depositing one of the cardboard cups on Kennet’s desk.

“And methods,” says Kennet, even as he picks up the mocha with a double espresso shot and takes a dainty sip. Fletcher has him in his pocket, bribed into complacency with superior coffee and delicious baked goods.

Fletcher ignores it, backing into the office, keeping his eyes on Kennet enjoying his hot beverage, before turning to face the inside of Rumi’s office. It’s even more extravagant than the entry room – Fletcher makes a mental note to not touch anything.

Rumi’s watching him, sitting behind that massive mahogany desk – the supports are carved like lions, claws serving as the feet. She’s wearing a turquoise dress, business-like yet elegant, a pair of light reading glasses perched on her nose, golden chain attached to them looping around her neck. It’s incredibly intimidating. Her eyebrows is arched up, a silent question.

He holds up the cardboard cup to ward off any questions, crossing the distance between the door and her desk with a cocky smile. “A little bird told me you wouldn’t be able to go for your lunch coffee run.” He holds the steaming cup out towards her, smile turning tentative the longer he’s forced to hover it in front of her.

She accepts it, after a moment, smiling slightly – fondly, even. She takes a sip of it, sighing in relief. Fletcher’s tentative smile grows more confident, more sincere than cocky, honestly happy to have been of help, stopping short of wagging his non-existent tail.

He cocks a hip against the solid wood of the desk, eyes sweeping over the room, the antique artefacts displayed tastefully, showing any potential patron the quality of items usually on display and auctioned off by the business.

“Fancy digs,” he says, reaching out to place the tip of his index finger on the tip of a block of crystal shaped like a pyramid. The light shining in through the tall windows hits it at an angle that makes it cast a colourful shadow on the dark wood.

“I do enjoy surrounding myself with priceless artefacts,” says Rumi, rising from her seat, crossing the wooden floor to the windows, sipping from her cup. The steady click of her heels against the old wood brings his gaze down to her feet, admiring the shoes that match her dress perfectly. He manages to identify them as Louboutin only thanks to the distinctive red-lacquered soles the brand is known for.

It’s a niggling feeling, standing there in his worn skinny jeans and ancient Doc Martens, and a leather jacket that’s seen better days, hands calloused from drawing a bowstring all his life, looking scruffy compared to the well-to-do business lady. He shakes it off.

“I’ll let you get back to work, gorgeous,” he throws out there, pushing off the desk and crossing over the plush rug between it and the door.

“Leaving already, Achean?” she calls, heels clicking again as she’s crossing back across the room towards him.

He stops with his hand on the handle, looks at her, back at the door, shrugging. “Figuring you couldn’t come over for a reason, can’t well enough distract you, can I?”

“Perhaps a distraction is what I need,” she says, hand settling very suddenly on the centre of his back, fingers splaying over the buttery soft leather of his jacket.

Fletcher clamps down on the knee-jerk reaction he’d normally resort to – innuendo or some smart remark – instead settling for looking at her face, somewhat suspicious. Like he’s being set up for some elaborate joke.

She merely smiles, sly and secretive, hand sliding down from his back to thread around his arm. “Don’t be so suddenly shy now,” she says as she pushes the door open, his hand slipping off the handle as she takes charge. “Take me for a walk.”

“Okay,” is all he gets out, as she marches him past Kennet at the desk and hustles him out the door, somehow bossing him around without saying a single word. Her heels click against the cobblestone, Fletcher feeling dazed as they turn down the street and pass by the wide windows of Books and Booze. He carefully does not look in to see who happens to be watching.