Page 99 of Click of Fate

She breezes into my office with four iced lattes in one hand and a bakery box balanced in the other. “Happy three months, boss babe.”

“I am not your boss.”

“Mmhm. No, but your vibes are right.” She grins, setting the box down on my desk with a flourish. “And I figured the best way to celebrate was caffeine and sugar—heavy on both.”

Cassie bursts in next, holding a tiny balloon bouquet and a sparkly card. “You didn’t think we were going to let your three-month anniversary pass without a little flair, did you?”

Layla trails behind, her heels clicking across the hardwood, looking entirely too pleased with herself. “Tiny party, big moment. You earned this.”

I sit back in my chair, suddenly overwhelmed in the best way. “You all really didn’t have to.”

“But we wanted to,” Layla says, setting down a hibiscus-scented candle shejust happenedto have. “You’re ours now.”

The four of us gather around the little table in the corner of my office, an old coffee table I thrifted and painted myself, sharing pastries and updates from the last wild wedding shoot. The one with the parrot ring bearer. Yes, parrot. He flew off during the vows and pooped on the groom’s aunt.

Hazel wipes laughter tears from her eyes. “I swear, this is why I won’t bake wedding cakes. If a couple insists on releasing doves and parrots in the same ceremony, I’m charging extra.”

Cassie groans. “We are having legal draft a bird poop liability waiver.”

“I’ll photograph the clause,” I chime in. “Artfully.”

The laughter dies down just long enough for Layla to give Hazel a speculative look. “Speaking of love birds… you are still coming to that mixer Ruth’s hosting, right?”

Hazel looks like she wants to melt into her chair. “I haven’t dated in over a year.”

“So? You’ve got those pretty new highlights, and your chocolate chip muffins have magical powers. You’re halfway to goddess status.”

Hazel snorts. “Fine. I’ll go. But only if there’s wine. And no parrots.”

Cassie raises her coffee cup. “Deal.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” I say, giving Hazel a mock-stern look, “are you ever going to tell us about the tall mystery man who keeps ordering Americanos and flirting with you at the counter?”

Hazel stiffens. “He’s not flirting.”

Layla perks up. “Wait, what? Who’s this?”

Hazel waves her off, cheeks tinged with pink. “He’s just… a regular.”

Cassie leans forward, eyes sparkling. “Does he have a name?”

“I’m sure he does,” Hazel mutters. “But I didn’t ask. I’m too busy trying not to spill hot coffee all over myself.”

“He comes in once or twice a month,” I say, pretending to scroll through mental files. “Tall, kind eyes, glasses, and a voice that could sell overpriced wine over the phone. Hazel turns ten shades of flustered every time.”

“I do not.”

Cassie and Layla, in perfect unison, say: “You do.”

Hazel groans, sinking into her chair. “I’m never baking for you people again.”

Layla grins. “Too late. You’re already on the mixer invite list.”

Hazel throws her napkin. “I hate all of you.”

We all laugh, loud and easy, the kind of sound that lingers like the smell of fresh coffee and sugar in the air.

I sit back, watching them, warmth blooming under my ribs. These women are more than coworkers. They’re my best friends. My anchors. My daily dose of chaos and calm.

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