Page 30 of Finding Jack
EMILY: You mean my eighth-floor not-even-corner-office?
JACK: Fine, how do you take your coffee in your glorified cubicle?
EMILY: Venti, black.
JACK: I’ll be honest, I wouldn’t have guessed that.
EMILY: Was I supposed to say something frou-frou because I’m a woman?
JACK: No. Because straight coffee is gross.
EMILY: You’re right. It’s gross. I actually like a latte.
JACK: Hang on…
Five minutes later a picture popped up. It was a coffee cup bristling with enough tropical drink umbrellas to supply a sorority house. It was funny, but I’d expected something a little more for the time it had taken him.
EMILY: I thought maybe Transcendent Seagull was going to make an appearance.
JACK: That’s ridiculous. Seagulls don’t drink coffee.
EMILY: Are you sure? Because they eat Cheetos. I see them do it every time I’m at the beach.
JACK: Transcendent Seagull isn’t a Cheeto eater. That’s offensive.
EMILY: I love Cheetos.
JACK: That’s fine for you. You’re not Transcendent Seagull.
EMILY: What does he eat?
JACK: Prophecies and karma. But you have a latte now. Are you happy?
EMILY: Yes. I’m amazed you knew exactly how frou-frou I like it.
JACK: You seemed like a fifty-three umbrella kind of person. I know these things.
EMILY: Clearly. I’m going to go enjoy this latte. Have a good day.
JACK: Later.
I saved the coffee mug picture. I didn’t think too hard about why, and I definitely didn’t think too hard about why I made it my phone’s wallpaper. Then I turned my phone off completely and set to work reading the latest email chain dealing with a bug in our newest software, determined to put Jack out of mind until work was done.
Which would have worked if my assistant Hailey hadn’t poked her head in through my door fifteen minutes later, a stress pucker wrinkling her forehead. “You know you can ask me to go get you coffee, right?”
“I know.”
“Then why…” She stepped out of the way and a guy carrying a to-go cup printed with the logo of a nearby café walked in. “I would fetch it just because I like you. Now you’re going to have to tip him.”
“The tip was already taken care of,” the delivery guy said. “You’re Emily?”
“Yes. I didn’t order any coffee though.”
He shrugged. “All I know is that someone said to bring a latte here. I’m sorry I’m late, but I had to track down a couple of things.” He set the latte on my desk and then reached into his delivery basket to pull out a bright yellow drink umbrella and a small bag of Cheetos. “I’m supposed to tell you it’s from—”
“Let me guess. Jack?”
“No, some guy named T. Seagull. Have a good day.” He tucked the umbrella into the lid and left with a polite nod.
