Coffee, Chaos, and a Cold CEO
The morning started the same way it always did — with disaster.
Clara Evans stood in line at the café, clutching her nearly empty wallet and praying her old debit card wouldn't betray her again. She'd already dropped her toast, stepped on it, and spilled milk on her only clean shirt. If the universe was keeping score, it was definitely winning.
"Next!" the barista called.
Clara stepped forward, ordering the cheapest coffee on the menu. Behind her stood a man who looked like he'd walked straight out of a luxury magazine — crisp suit, perfect tie, eyes like polished ice. He didn't smile. Of course he didn't. Men like that didn't smile at women like her.
The card machine beeped. Declined.
Clara's stomach dropped. "Oh, come on, not today," she muttered, jabbing the buttons again.
The man behind her sighed. "Some of us have meetings, you know."
She spun around, glaring. "And some of us are having a rough day, Mr. Impatient."
He arched a brow, cool and detached. "Then perhaps plan your rough days somewhere other than a public queue."
Her jaw fell open. "Excuse me—?"
Before she could finish, the barista spoke up. "Miss, are you paying or—?"
"I'll pay," the man said flatly, sliding his card with mechanical efficiency. "It's faster this way."
Clara blinked. "Wait—what? You don't have to—"
"It's fine," he interrupted, bored, as though she were an inconvenience on his schedule.
"You know," she said, crossing her arms, "most people say you're welcome when someone thanks them."
He didn't even look at her. "You didn't thank me."
"I was about to!"
"Then you're welcome," he said simply, and walked away with his black coffee — no cream, no sugar, just pure attitude.
Clara stared after him, torn between gratitude and homicide. "Unbelievable," she muttered. "Who raised you? A robot?"
---
Two hours later, she discovered fate wasn't finished mocking her.
Her best friend Mia had begged her to drop off a file at some fancy corporate office downtown. "Ten minutes tops," Mia had promised.
Clara stepped into the glass doors of Blackwood Global, instantly feeling underdressed. Marble floors. Security guards. People in suits that probably cost more than her rent.
She approached the receptionist. "Hi! I'm just here to deliver a file for—"
"Ms. Evans," the woman interrupted smoothly, "Mr. Blackwood will see you now."
Clara blinked. "Who?"
"Mr. Ethan Blackwood," the receptionist said with a professional smile. "Top floor."
The name hit her like a cold splash of water. Wait. Ethan… Blackwood?
Moments later, the elevator doors opened — and there he was. The same man from the café. Same suit. Same frostbitten stare.
"Oh no," she whispered.
Ethan's gaze met hers. For a fraction of a second, he looked mildly surprised. Then his expression iced over again.
"You," he said simply.
"Me," Clara said weakly, holding out the file. "Delivery service. Please don't fire me from… whatever this is."
He studied her for a long moment before turning away. "Come in."
Clara followed, muttering under her breath, "Next time I help a friend, I'm charging danger pay."
"I heard that," he said without looking back.
"Good," she shot back. "Maybe you'll tip better next time."
For the first time, something almost human flickered in his eyes — a ghost of amusement. It vanished as quickly as it appeared.
As the door closed behind her, Clara had no idea that this cold, impossible man was about to turn her entire life upside down.