Heiress in Distress

•Chapter 5•

•Word Count: 1,548

-Present Day-

Couldn't have thought of a better suited character to have owned this place, I muse, only now noticing the light, yet elegant feminine touch to both the interior and the exterior of the Café.

Even the name reflects a hint of pristine femininity.
"Royaume de la Caféine" or
"Caffeine Kingdom"

Only a classy woman would go for royalty.

Still mesmerised, I miss the very last words Joe throws over her shoulder as she walks away to retrieve some fresh pastries off the display case.
I was told to prepare an Iced Caramel Macchiato. In a mason jar.

Now that is a genuine coffee enthusiast.

Halfway into pouring the milk over the vanilla syrup, there's a sharp tap to my shoulder that not only startles me but also nearly has me splashing milk everywhere.

Irritated, I turn to meet the well-mannered subject, not quite surprised at the icy stare belonging to my high-toned colleague, Bijou.

"Take this to Julien" She instructs, acting rather superiorly for our co-working statures, shoving a platter of croissants in my direction.
I have to remind myself that I'm not to stoop low, barely curbing my anger at the apparent insolence.

Refusing to give her what she wants -an unlady-like quarrel- I accept the platter wordlessly, and go to leave the kitchen.

"Finish the Iced Caramel Macchiato I've started, will you?" I tell her in a somewhat courtly tone compared to her own, hoping to have her learn some manners, before walking out of the kitchen and into the Café's main site.

I'm not sure what I was expecting but what I've just walked into, is certainly nothing anticipated.

When I saw those men strolling in like they own the place, I presumed disrespectful personas, brought about by their wealth.
Yet, I'm looking at civilised businessmen, all sitting around a single huge table -must've been two tables assembled together- discussing apparently clandestine matters.

None of them acknowledges the women standing scattered across the room, awaiting orders, not a single head turns when the girls go to refill cups or pour some water.

How long I've stood there before the realisation dawns upon me that I have no idea who Julien is, I can't tell.

Panicked, I glance at each of the girls to ask for help, but they all seem to be preoccupied.
From the corner of my eyes, I catch a red streak.
When I turn in that direction, I'm met with the same shock of red hair belonging to none other than the very prosperous owner of this place.

As per usual, Juniper's face has a warm smile forever affixed to it, I notice, as she stares at me. If she finds my loitering bothersome, she doesn't show it; instead, she points with her nose in the direction of a man with dirty blonde hair, sitting directly across from her.

Comprehension only lags for a second before it hits my mind, and I realise she's in fact pointing at Julien.
With a grateful smile, I walk over and place the luscious croissants in front of the man, who murmurs a soft "Merci" distractedly.

Then, I make the imbecile mistake of stealing a look at the faces of every man sitting around the table, faltering when my eyes fall on the occupant of the head of the table.

Had I been myself and not some woman in a daze just by looking at a man, I would've shaken my head and been on my way. But no.
I remain glued to my spot, supposedly infatuated, I'm afraid.

What I notice first, is a tousled finesse of chocolate hair combed to the back, with a single rebellious strand swearing off the crowd and deciding to dangle neatly over his forehead.