Page 1 of Unexpected Bratva Baby

1

Phoebe

The morning sun streams through the windows of Cafecito Dreams while I tie my apron around my waist. The aroma of freshly ground coffee beans fills the air, mingling with the sweet scent of pastries.

I glance at the clock. Six forty-five a.m. Fifteen minutes until we open. I start the first batch of coffee. While working, my mind wanders to my dream of a cozy Scottish cultural shop filled with tartan, shortbread, and the soothing sounds of bagpipes.

The bell above the door chimes, snapping me back to reality. My boss, Juanita, bustles in, her silver-streaked hair pulled into its customary tight bun. “Phoebe, why isn’t the pastry case filled yet?” She frowns, scanning the empty display.

“Good morning to you too, Juanita,” I say, forcing a smile. “I was just about to do that.”

“No excuses. Get to it. The morning rush will be here soon.”

I bite my tongue and nod, hurrying to the kitchen. While arranging croissants and muffins on trays, I imagine myself surrounded by Scottish memorabilia instead of Cuban pastries. I like what I do here, but it doesn’t quite scratch the itch I’ve always had.

The first customers trickle in as the clock strikes seven. I plaster on my best smile, greeting the bleary-eyed office workers and joggers stopping in for their morning fix.

“Large latte, extra shot, please,” says a suited man more into his phone than to me, barely glancing my way.

I nod even though he’s not looking and get to work. The espresso machine hisses and steams while I craft his drink. “Here you go, sir. Have a great day.”

He grunts, grabs the cup, and rushes out. I sigh, turning to the next customer.

As the morning progresses, the café fills with the hum of conversation and clinking cups. I move on autopilot, taking orders, making drinks, and wiping down tables. During a rare lull, I slouch against the counter, my mind drifting once again to my Scottish dream. I picture myself in a kilt, explaining the significance of clan tartans to eager tourists.

“Phoebe?” Juanita’s sharp voice cuts through my daydream. “Stop lounging around. There’s always something to clean. Remember, if you have time to lean, you have time to clean.”

I straighten up, grabbing a rag. “Sorry, Juanita. I was just taking a quick breather.”

She narrows her eyes. “This isn’t a rest home. If you can’t handle the pace, maybe you’re not cut out for this job.”

The words sting, but I swallow my retort. I need this job to save up for my shop. “It won’t happen again,” I say, focusing on scrubbing an already spotless counter.

As she walks away, she mutters in Spanish. I catch enough to know she’s complaining about lazy millennials. I roll my eyes when her back is turned. For one thing, I’m Gen Z.

The door chimes again, and a group of college students spills in, laughing and chattering. I paste on my smile once more and approach their table.

“Welcome to Cafecito Dreams. What can I get for you today?”

One of the girls, her curly hair dyed a vibrant purple, grins up at me. “Oh, my gosh, you have the faintest trace of an adorable accent. Are you British?”

“Scottish.” My smile becomes genuine. “That is, my parents are. I was born here, but I’ve got Scottish blood running through my veins.”

“That’s so cool.” She beams. “I’ve always wanted to visit Scotland. The castles, the highlands, and the dudes in kilts...” She and her friends laugh. “Do they really not wear underwear under those?”

I shrug. “I think it depends on the er, dude,” I say diplomatically. “You should visit when you have a chance. I’ve been a few times, and there’s nowhere else like it. The history, the culture?—”

“Phoebe.” Juanita’s voice cuts through our conversation. “Stop chatting and take their order. We have other customers waiting.”

My cheeks flush when I turn back to the group. “I’m sorry about that. What would you like?”

As I jot down their complicated coffee orders, half-caf soy lattes and caramel macchiatos with extra whip, I feel a pang of resentment.

The rest of the morning passes in a blur of orders and cleanup. By the time my shift ends at two p.m., my feet ache and my hair is falling out of its ponytail. I hang up my apron and grab my bag, ready to escape.

As I head for the door, Juanita calls out. “Phoebe, wait a moment.”

I pause, suppressing a sigh. “Yes, Juanita?”

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