Page 1 of Spiced Chais and Secret Spies
CHAPTER 1
PUMPKIN SPICE AND EVERYTHING DAISY
OLLIE
Whenmy alarm goes off,I’mlying in bed on my back, and beforeIcan even open my eyes, a paw lands on my forehead.It’smy cat,Roi, of course, like it is every morning.Ilike to think that she really wants to be the one to wake me up in the morning but respects me enough to wait for my alarm, and not that she’s preparing for her inevitable world domination, starting with my forehead.
Shekeeps her paw there asIblindly reach for my phone to silence the alarm.Itisn’t untilIlook at her and say, “Goodmorning,Roi,” that she removes her paw.Iused to think that she had an impressive internal clock and just knew when to get out of her bed that’s on the floor near mine and jump up onto my bed to do her morning forehead lockdown, but no.Irandomly woke up forty minutes early once, and she was already on mybed, sitting up next to me, staring at my face like she was calculating how many more mornings it would take to fully control me.
Iturn my attention toRoi.I’vealways wanted a cat like her, soIgot her three years ago as a reward to myself whenIfinished college.Inamed herRoi, like the accounting acronym “ReturnonInvestment,” because she was expensive, andIhopedIwas making a good choice.
Forthe record: she’s been an excellent choice.Isay to her, “Hi,Roi!” often because it makes me chuckle to feel likeI’msaying “Highreturn on investment.”Hey, no one said accountants aren’t dorks.Orthat we aren’t funny.
Ipet her for a bit, making sure to rub right at her jaw line and under her chin since that’s her favorite.Clearly, she already does control me.Ipet her until myGetout of bedalarm sounds five minutes later.ThenIhop out of bed andRoipromptly curls up right whereIwas laying.It’slikely the real reason behind her putting a paw on my forehead is her way of saying, “Leavenow.Thiswarm spot is mine for the next twenty-five minutes.”
Itake my phone with me into the bathroom soIcan listen to my favorite daily news briefing podcast, not becauseIneed alarms or even a clock.Atomicclocks could set their time based on me.Itake two minutes to go to the bathroom, four to shave, two to brush my teeth, nine to shower, two to towel off, andIemergefrom the bathroom exactly nineteen minutes later.Idress and comb my hair and glance down at my watch—it’s exactly twenty-five minutes sinceIgot out of bed.Thereis nothing like the feeling of being perfectly in sync with your schedule.
Roiknows it, too, because she stands, takes two steps with her front legs, stretches out, and then hops down and waits for me by the door asImake my bed.Afterwe both eat breakfast andIclean up,Ispend a few minutes withRoi, practicing the tricks she’s learned.Imake a “hoop” with my arms, and she jumps through it a few times, we give each other high-fives, andIthink again about how cats are the ultimate pets.Youcan teach them anything.Theymay not always agree to do it on command, but they could if they wanted to.
Iglance around my apartment.Thisone-bedroom place has always been the perfect-size forRoiand me.Sowhy has it been feeling lately like someone is missing?
Iturn my attention back toRoi. “Okay,I’vegot to head to work.Remember: no darting through the plants and across the counter, okay?WhenIget home,I’lltake you for a walk.”Forthe most part,Roilikes her schedule as predictable asIdo.WhenIcheck my cat cam at my 10:30 a.m. break, she’s always snoozing on the floor in the square of morning sun shining in.WhenIcheck during my lunch hour just before 1:00, she’ssitting on the window sill, looking out at traffic and people walking past.
Butat 3:00, all bets are off.Shegoes crazy and chases imaginary bugs, leaps across furniture like she’s demonstrating her parkour abilities, attacks her own tail in an epic battle, or does something completely random like playing hide-and-seek with herself.
Ipull into a parking spot at work, get out of my car, and tuck my laptop under my arm, thenIwalk a block past the historical theater that they’re in the middle of renovating to theCoffeeLoft, andIgo inside.I’vebeen coming here sinceIstarted working atPacioli&BlackwellAccountingthree years ago.Ibecame a fan of the place even beforeDaisystarted working here.NowI’ma bit more of a fan.
TheCoffeeLoftbuilding is inside the historic train station, which makes me love the place even more.Ithas the original brick walls and a large, arched window at the front.There’splenty of natural light, high ceilings with exposed wooden beams, and soft, hanging lights.Thelong barista counter is a polished dark wood that looks like it might’ve been around since this building was first made.
Theshelves behind the counter have coffee beans, teas, and pastries, and in the middle, the roundCoffeeLoftlogo perfectly mirrors the size and shape of the giant clock on the wall behind me that’s leftover from its train station days.Thereare antique station memorabilia,like old train tickets, vintage suitcases, and original bench seating along the walls.Itall gives it a cool vibe.
Awoman namedNorais taking orders andDaisyis filling them.Threepeople are in front of me today, soIget a good chance to watchDaisyat work.Sheis beautiful.She’salways smiling and chatting with every customer.Theworld could’ve ended, and we all got in line today to get our apocalyptic coffees, andIbet she’d still be smiling.
Ican tell she’s the spontaneous type by her hair alone.It’schestnut-colored and looks like it’s naturally curly.Shealways has it pulled into a bun on top, but not a neat bun—she kind of has curls going everywhere like she doesn’t care whether everything is perfect or not.Iadmire that about her.IwishIcould be more like that, actually.Ilike my consistency, butIoften feel as if it hinders me.LikeifIcould find a way to be a bit more spontaneous, life would be fuller.Ijust don’t know how to do that.
ThenIstart to imagine how much fuller my life would be withDaisyin it.I’mimagining that life so much thatIdon’t notice when the person in front of me has finished ordering and moved to the side until the person behind me taps me on the shoulder.Ihurry and step forward and tellNora, “Onemedium chai latte, please.”
Norapicks up one of the to-go cups and writes my name on it, sets it to the side forDaisyto fill, and thenrings me up.Ipay, add a dollar to the tip jar, scoot down the counter a bit, and wait.Assoon asDaisyhands coffee to the person who had been in front of me in line, she picks up my cup and draws a smiley face in theOofOllie, like she always does, whether she’s the one who takes my order or the one who prepares it.
Thenshe meets my eyes and asks, “Whatdo you think about making it a pumpkin-spiced chai today?”
“Pumpkinspiced?”Iparrot.Thisis not my normal.I’venever had it before andIdon’t even know if it would taste good.
I’mfumbling for an answer whenDaisysays, “Ithink you’ll like it.”
So,Inod.Daisy’sthe expert here.Maybeshe has some kind of barista sense that tells her what customers would like.IfDaisythinksI’lllike it, thenItrust her.
AsDaisyworks at making my drink behind the machine, she glances over at me and says, “Wow.Don’tyou look nice today.Doyou have an interview?Ora meeting with a client or something?”
Ilook down at my light blue short-sleeved button-down and gray slacks.Therange of colors and variety in my outfits for work is small, so this isn’t much different from every other dayIcome in here. “No.ButIwas thinking about applying…Ilook nice?”
“Well,Imean you always look nice.Butyes—you have an extra spiffiness about you today.”
Aspiffiness?Andshe thinksIalways look nice?Istand a little taller.
Daisyhands me my latte. “Ihope you enjoy it!”
Itake the to-go cup and my laptop and head to my favorite table that has a view of the counter thatDaisyworks behind.Usually,Ibring a book to read whileI’mdrinking my chai latte.IfIknow it’s going to be a particularly busy day,Imight get a jump start on emails before going to work.ButDaisythinkingImight be going to an interview has made me ready to look at the pros and cons listImade for the position at my firmI’mthinking of applying for.Rightnow,I’min theGeneralAccountingdepartment butIhave my eye on a job in theRiskManagementdepartment.
