During the drive, I listened to audios of some of his documentaries, and I had to give it to Marissa; he was kind of captivating as a journalist. I liked the way he asked his questions; blunt, straight to the point and straddling the line of being intrusive but never actually crossing it.
I also did a little snooping on him and I never thought there would be someone with a reputation almost as bad as mine until I looked him up but for some reason, the general public seemed to love him despite his reputation of being an ass.
He also sounded very young and that was a bonus because it was hard to see well established people in this field who are not way older than I am.
I got to Angel’s Café and waited a full minute before I got out of the car.
The coffee shop was located right in the middle of the street and has a rustic theme, with wooden beams and panels forming the exterior walls and a large glass window frontage. Pots filled with various colorful flowers were scattered all over the outside in beautiful chaos.
The bell above the door chimed as I pulled it open.
The interior was divided into two sections, with the coffee shop on the right where you could find a range of espresso machines and grinders, while on the left was the bake shop where a display of freshly baked pastries and sandwiches sat.
There were several tables and chairs made of dark, polished wood with a vase of fresh flowers on each one.
I looked around the quiet café, only two tables were occupied by a single person and I knew without a doubt that Mr. Cowe had to be at the table by the far end of the shop.
The first table had a man who looks to be in his late forties, and from what I heard, Mr. Cowe would be in his early thirties or late twenties like me.
I walked over to the table at the far end. The man there had curly light brown hair that he kept neatly trimmed. He wore a plain blue button up with black slacks.
He didn’t look up as I approached, his eyes glued to his phone screen.
“You must be Mr. Cowe,” I began, “I apologize for being late.”
He looked up just as I placed my bag on the table and I had to smother down a curse.
“You have got to be kidding me.” I muttered under my breath as I found myself staring into a pair of familiar striking grey eyes.
Recognition overtook his features as he took me in slowly. I exhaled deeply and took a seat opposite the same man who spilled his drink on me twice in one day.
“If I didn’t know any better, I would say you were stalking me.” I began as I leaned back into my chair, “pro tip, that’s not exactly the best way to approach a potential work partner.”
“I assure you that I never had any intentions of stalking you whatsoever,” he spoke slowly, almost as if he was bored, “I just happened to bump into you. New York is a small place; it was bound to happen one way or another. How about we start over on a clean slate? Probably one that is devoid of coffee and beer stains.”
The corner of my lips twitched but I smothered down my smile, “Coffee and beer stains are really hard to get out though.”
“Well then, we may just have to build on top of it.” He concluded with an outstretched hand.
I looked at it for probably a second too long before deciding to take it. His palms were rough, almost as if he had spent a lot of time doing manual labor.
He let go after a second and sat up straight, “My name is Nathan Cowe; I am the owner of Cowe Media and I reached out to your secretary yesterday to make known my interest in pursuing a documentary-”
“I know everything I need to know about your business Mr. Cowe,” I interrupted him, “What I need to know is why I should do the documentary with you.”
“I just might be the only person who would be able or willing to stand your attitude.”
I raised a brow at his words, “Insulting a person isn’t the best way to start a work partnership. I think you missed a class in Business Relationship 101.”
“It’s not an insult if it is something that you have admitted times without number on national television.” He said simply and I realized reluctantly, that he was right.
“Touché; but that doesn’t mean that I want towork with you.”
He ignored my statement just as a waiter brought in one steaming mug of coffee and one mug of hot chocolate.
“I took the liberty of ordering,” he told me and while I knew it wasn’t anything special, I was impressed, “Your favorite drink is hot chocolate, isn’t it?”
“Thank you,” I said after a second of being speechless.
