Page 1 of Queen of Ruin

PROLOGUE

FOUR YEARS EARLIER

Evangeline

“What can I get you?” I ask from behind the counter, simultaneously grabbing a muffin and placing it on a plate while I wait for the customer to answer.

Rubbing my hands on my apron, I barely look up to register who I’m speaking with, and when I do, I notice an older man with dark, wavy hair, and eyes a color I can’t discern. He’s wearing a suit, not something I see often in here. A line starts to form behind him, and I remember the other drinks I need to get started on.

Pressing the grounds, I flip on the espresso machine while grabbing a cup for another drink.

“Just a black coffee.” The man shrugs.

“Taking it easy on me,” I jest, raising my eyebrows, because otherwise why would he have been taking his time to order if it was just going to be a black coffee?

“You look busy,” he observes, handing me his card.

“Tap it here.” I point to the card reader.

He laughs, embarrassed, taking the card back and touching it to the reader. “I can never get used to these things.”

“It’s okay, there are a lot of things I can’t seem to get a handle on either,” I mention before starting on the backlog of drinks. I grab a paper cup, pour black coffee into it for him, snap on the top, and hand it to him at the end of the counter.

“Thanks.” He grabs hold of it and puts a twenty-dollar bill in the tip jar which I’m not shy about accepting as I nod appreciatively at him.

I sort through the rest of the drinks and glance at my open book on the counter, trying to get in a few extra minutes of studying before I have to leave for class.

“Where’s Natalie?” my manager, Michelle, asks.

“I don’t know.” I’m done covering for Natalie because there are only so many excuses I can make, and if she thinks I’m sharing the tips with her, she’s crazy.

Michelle huffs and then picks up taking orders at the register while I finish the rest of the drinks. The morning rush dissipates just in time for me to leave. Checking the clock, I realize I only have fifteen minutes to get to class. I rush out the door, juggling my drink, when I smack right into someone, coffee spilling over my books as they crash to the pavement.

“Jesus, I’m sorry.” The man kneels to help me with my things and I notice his shiny dress shoes, and the hem of neatly pressed trousers splattered with coffee.

“No, it’s my fault.” I look up at him to make sure the rest of his expensive-looking suit isn’t tarnished. I push a few papers into my bag and shake my hair out of my face.

We both stand, and I notice he’s holding my book, looking at it with an interesting expression. “Collective works of Ralph Waldo Emerson,” he observes.

I realize he’s the man who just ordered a black coffee. Taking the book from him, I toss my now empty cup of coffee in the nearby trash.

“Yeah,” I laugh. “It’s so boring.”

“You think Emerson is boring?” He sounds appalled.

“I mean, half the time I have no idea what he’s trying to say.” I stuff the book back in my bag and hoist it over my shoulder.

“Emerson is a fascinating historical figure! I mean, he was compared to Nietzsche, and supported the Transcendental movement with the likes of Walt Whitman. Boring, no, no, no. You cannot think he’s boring,” he exclaims, and I now realize his eyes are a complicated color, and they light up while he talks about Emerson, trying to convince me to like the man, not just his poetry.

“Are you a professor?” It would be just like me to put my foot in my mouth and end up having him as a teacher next semester. He looks to be the right age, maybe somewhere in his mid to late forties.

“No,” he laughs. “I’m giving a lecture to the student senate, and hopefully they don’t mind if I throw in a little Emerson.”

“What does Emerson have to do with politics?”

“Everything,” he declares, and his smile is so inviting, so genuine, that I’m eager to understand more.

“I wish I had time to ask you to explain that to me, since I’m about to take a test on Emerson, but I don’t have time,” I apologize.

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