Either way, I’ve thrown myself into work.
Meeting after meeting. Saying goodbye to one of my in-house agents. Interviewing people to take their place. Training two new interns. Readingmanuscripts. Taking an extra look at the slush piles, just in case something was missed.
I do it all—wear every hat when it comes to my business.
It’s been non-stop chaos, and I’ve barely had time to breathe, let alone do anything else. Minimal time to reallythinkabout anything else.
Thank God for Cecilia, and my personal chef, Theo. If it weren’t for the two of them, I probably wouldn’t even remember to eat—although having Cecilia pack me lunch is a little childish, I’m grateful nonetheless.
But today I need a break, if only for an hour or two. There’s a gap in between meetings, giving me the perfect excuse to slip away unnoticed, hail a cab, and have a little time to myself. I’ve been dying to try the new coffee shop connected to Haven Market on the other side of the park.
Switching out of my heels and into a pair of flats, I neatly place them in the small closet of my office and grab my favorite cream peacoat, shrugging it on over my polka-dot button-up shirt. There’s been a chill in the air, the weather acting strange, despite it being the middle of summer.
Not wanting to bother with my purse, I put my wallet into the inside pocket of my coat.
It takes only a minute to hail a cab before I’m tucked safely in the backseat, letting the driver know where to take me. Traffic is light for an afternoon in Manhattan, and it only takes fifteen minutes before I’mback out of the car after paying and thanking the man for the ride.
Haven Market is bustling with people as I step through the automatic door. Taylor Swift plays over the speakers, clashing with the clatter of patrons shopping for groceries or their mid-day meal. To my left, I see the open alcove that leads into Revival, their new coffee shop.
The scent of espresso wafts around me as I approach, following a group of young men into the coffee shop. As I take my place in line behind them, and unfortunately, about six other people, I strain my eyes to look at the menu from afar, but it's just a littletoofar for me to make out most of the drinks.
Sighing, I resolve to wait until I’m closer, when one of the men in front of me hands me a chic paper menu.
“Thanks,” I tell him, taking it from his hands. Then, he reaches to hand the person behind me one too.
My fingers run down the front of the menu, appreciating the small detailing of the embossed foiling. I’m impressed, and I haven’t even tried the coffee yet.
The line moves slowly, but eventually, I reach the counter.
“Hi,” the barista greets. “What can I get for you?”
Looking up at the menu board behind his head, I skim the options again, still not entirely sure what I want. “I can’t decide! What do you recommend?”
Behind me, I hear a groan, but I pretend like I don’t. I’m grateful for the patience of the barista, unlike those in line behind me.
“My personal favorite is the honey oat milk latte, but if you’re not a huge fan of oat milk, I’d recommend trying the hazelnut cappuccino.”
My lips purse as I find those options on the board and quickly read the descriptions. “Let’s go for your favorite,” I tell him with a smile. “The honey oat milk latte.”
Hopefully, it won’t disappoint.
“Great choice,” he says as we complete the transaction.
While I wait, I look at the eclectic artwork hanging on the wall, curious who the artist is.
The drink smells like heaven when I grab it from the pickup counter, the light notes of sweet honey, espresso, and oat milk steaming from the small opening on the lid. Bringing it to my lips, I take the smallest of sips. Flavors explode on my tongue, along with a searing heat.
Wrapping my hands around the cup, I leave and begin my trek back to work. It’ll take about thirty minutes on foot, cutting through Central Park, and I have a little more than an hour before I need to be back in the office to prepare for my next meeting with the design team.
Stepping outside, I turn to head down 97th Street, which will give me a straight path through the park. As I walk, I remove the lid from my coffee and blow on it, hoping to cool it down a little faster so I can enjoy it.
Steam floats into the air as I begin to lift my cup, and just as I do, I’m nearly knocked to the ground as asolid mass slams into me. My hot coffee immediately flies, spilling down my front, and tears sting my eyes from the searing heat that soaks through my clothes.
“Ow, ow,” I chant, pulling my wet shirt away from my body as coffee drips from my skin, between my cleavage and down my stomach.
“My apologies, I didn’t see you—you. What are you doing here, Vincenza?”
Still slightly bent forward, softly shaking the liquid from my shirt, my eyes snap upward at the sound ofhisvoice.
